I am 46 years old.
I'm reminded of that every morning when I look in the mirror and seem to see a new grey hair blazing defiantly at me from what is still - for the moment - mostly brunette, or a new wrinkle when I hold my face 'just so' in the harsh morning light. (Understandably I think, I tend to keep the holding of my face 'just so' to a minimum).
46 is not old. There are still many things on my personal bucket list* that I fully intend to achieve, some of them, I hope, sooner rather than later.
I want to finish the novel I'm writing. (I've reached 55K words, so it's no longer a distant dream but an achievable one, I think). I want to find an agent to help me publish said novel (yes, still a distant dream, but I can always hope). I want to climb dormant volcanoes in Indonesia, and walk in the Himalayas. I want to speak Russian at least a little better than I do today. I want to walk the Cotswold Way. I want to learn to play the piano.
I want to go back to work in paid employment outside the home (not impossible, although it will be considerably easier to achieve back in the UK). I want to eat sushi in Japan, and visit the red heart of Australia. (I also want not to see any venomous creatures in that red heart...) I want to go back with my husband to the hilltop in Kenya where we watched the sun set on Kilimanjaro during our honeymoon, and take our sons with us to experience the magnificence of Africa. I want to finally get around to stretching the enormous dot painting we bought during our visit to Sydney 5 years ago over a frame and see it installed in splendour on the white walls of our flat in London. And of course, I would quite like to lose half a stone.
All of these things are - one way or another - achievable. Being 46 does not preclude any of them.
But what 46 does preclude, in my mind at any rate, is having another baby.
We have two amazing sons; our family is complete. Adding to it is unthinkable; logistically, emotionally, physically. I don't yearn with a passion for a third child; I do not want to go back into the mist and fog of those early baby days.
But every now and again, I have to admit that the thought that I will never cradle another baby - of my own - in my arms again makes me quite sad.
There's not much that I would say I am now too old to do, but having another baby fits right into that category.
It's not over 'till it's over. But that? It's over.
*With thanks to 'Talk about York' who got me thinking about bucket lists this morning
I'm reminded of that every morning when I look in the mirror and seem to see a new grey hair blazing defiantly at me from what is still - for the moment - mostly brunette, or a new wrinkle when I hold my face 'just so' in the harsh morning light. (Understandably I think, I tend to keep the holding of my face 'just so' to a minimum).
46 is not old. There are still many things on my personal bucket list* that I fully intend to achieve, some of them, I hope, sooner rather than later.
I want to finish the novel I'm writing. (I've reached 55K words, so it's no longer a distant dream but an achievable one, I think). I want to find an agent to help me publish said novel (yes, still a distant dream, but I can always hope). I want to climb dormant volcanoes in Indonesia, and walk in the Himalayas. I want to speak Russian at least a little better than I do today. I want to walk the Cotswold Way. I want to learn to play the piano.
I want to go back to work in paid employment outside the home (not impossible, although it will be considerably easier to achieve back in the UK). I want to eat sushi in Japan, and visit the red heart of Australia. (I also want not to see any venomous creatures in that red heart...) I want to go back with my husband to the hilltop in Kenya where we watched the sun set on Kilimanjaro during our honeymoon, and take our sons with us to experience the magnificence of Africa. I want to finally get around to stretching the enormous dot painting we bought during our visit to Sydney 5 years ago over a frame and see it installed in splendour on the white walls of our flat in London. And of course, I would quite like to lose half a stone.
All of these things are - one way or another - achievable. Being 46 does not preclude any of them.
But what 46 does preclude, in my mind at any rate, is having another baby.
We have two amazing sons; our family is complete. Adding to it is unthinkable; logistically, emotionally, physically. I don't yearn with a passion for a third child; I do not want to go back into the mist and fog of those early baby days.
But every now and again, I have to admit that the thought that I will never cradle another baby - of my own - in my arms again makes me quite sad.
There's not much that I would say I am now too old to do, but having another baby fits right into that category.
It's not over 'till it's over. But that? It's over.
*With thanks to 'Talk about York' who got me thinking about bucket lists this morning
