Why I Had Kids So Late in the First Place by Pamela Francis

I became a first-time mom at the ripe old age of 35. Yes, I scoffed at the “Down’s Syndrome” and “High Risk Pregnancy” admonitions — twice — to become a mom at age 35 and again seven years later at 42. Admittedly I was downright defiant about my ability to carry to term. I was a strong, healthy, positive-minded individual pretty used to getting whatever I wanted in life for the most part, and besides, I “reasoned”, I’m Black; We can have kids with our tubes tied behind our backs. (cue the inappropriate laughter).

So I did what I’ve done quite a bit of in my lifetime: I defied admonition. Not the doctors’ or the statistical mumbo jumbo. Sure, I defied those too. And gave birth, naturally, two times, to a couple of handsome, ten-fingered, ten-toed, chromosomally correct little powerhouses of intelligence, charm and wit. No negative repercussions to report there, thankfully. But I mainly defied the admonitions of the matriarchs in my life.  How could I not?

“Don’t have kids,” they instructed forcefully. “You’ll ruin your life…,” they drummed into me. And that one favorite line my paternal grandmother used to crow… the one that echoes through my mind thirty years later… “Get you a whole SHOPPING BAG full of condoms!” I can literally recall being on the pill at aged 16.

The women who were footing a lot of the bill for my education, and who had very high hopes of me one day becoming someone they could brag incessantly about, wanted to make it very clear that becoming a mom was a loser’s game. With their “good jobs”, their Friday paychecks and their Paramus, New Jersey shopping sprees, neither my mom nor my two grandmothers hardly ever gave any indication that becoming mothers had been smart or joyful decision-making. So I spent a good part of my young ladyhood staying out of “the family way”, and actually convinced myself I wanted neither marriage nor children.  Under their tutelage I taught myself to hate the idea of both.

Flash forward to Cali, circa 1997.

My fairy god-sister, a young twenty-something nanny-to-the-studio-executives I met in Hollywood during my early thirties, gave me my first bout of deprogramming when she told me that she knew what a lot of our mothers had warned us about becoming moms, and that they were wrong.

“They were?!”  (that was me, in shock and disbelief.)

I was enthralled that someone younger than me by a good seven years was dropping some serious science and letting me off the “never have children” hook without any facts to back it up other than the gentle conviction of her words. But like the keys to the jailhouse, her words set me free, and I allowed myself to entertain the thought… the dream… of becoming a mom.

In February of 2002 I found out I was pregnant. I had one of the most delightful pregnancy experiences a woman could ask for, and that fall, in October of 2002, at aged 35, this writer, filmmaker, international traveler and career party-girl became the mother of Malachi Douglas (author, The Question: A Survivors Guide for Tweens and Teens. Clay Jars Publishing. 2013).

And, apparently, I was just getting started.

Tags: #latermoms, #liesmymothertoldme, orwasit