Home > Blogs > Maybe No Baby Blog - Katherine Baldwin > Forty three and a half … but who’s counting?

Forty three and a half … but who’s counting?

Wow, 6,900 of you have read this.
MaybeNoBaby-sqThe other day, I was wandering back from my local park where I’d been for a stroll and a sit in the September sun. As I walked past the crowded bus stop, I found myself counting, tapping my fingers against my leg.

April, May, June, July, August, September … that’s six months … October, November, December, January, February, March … that’s another six.

So, I thought as a wave of panic hit me, I’m 43 and a half – half a year away from 44.

Since when did I start counting my age in halves again? I remember doing it at 11, 12 and perhaps even 13 but was this really appropriate behaviour for a 40-something grown-up?

But it seems some of us return to a practice that we abandoned in our playground years when we know our time is running out to be biological mums.

Don’t get me wrong – I haven’t been suffering from severe baby angst all summer or since my last post (I apologise for my absence – a sprained right wrist has made typing very hard). In fact, this year I think I’ve done a pretty good job of letting go.

There was something about turning 43 in March that actually reduced my anxiety about my future. Perhaps as an outcome becomes less likely and even further beyond our control, we worry less about it. It becomes easier to surrender to ‘what will be will be’.

Since when did I start counting my age in halves again? I remember doing it at 11, 12 and perhaps even 13 but was this really appropriate behaviour for a 40-something grown-up?

It also became clear to me that what I was looking for was a great relationship first and foremost and after that, well, let’s see.

But dating and a reunion with an ex, as well as an apparent invasion of newborns and pregnant women in my particular area of North London, has set those mental cogs in motion again.

What I’ve realised, though, is that I can’t work this one out in my head and that counting the months until 44 isn’t going to help. Unless I want to withdraw my savings, take myself to Harley Street and shop for donor sperm today, which I’m sure I don’t, there’s not much else I can do.

Yes, I can be open to meeting people. Yes, I can make sure I’m doing all the things I love. And yes, I can date. But this motherhood conundrum (will I? Won’t I? Do I want to? Would I cope?) is far too complex to work out in my head.

So, as I sit in the café in my local park, looking out at an army of toddlers and prams, I’m going to try and put a stop to all the mental chatter and get on with the business of enjoying the September sun.

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