“Are you their grandmother?”
When I was a child, this question never failed to make me shrink with discomfort and confusion. It wasn’t malicious, but it pierced through my youthful pride nonetheless. My mother had been forty years old when she chose to adopt my twin sister and me—a decision that filled our lives with love and opportunity, even if it invited occasional misunderstandings. She wore her hair naturally grey and kept it cropped close to her head, a look that exuded quiet confidence but also lent itself, unfortunately, to the assumption that she was older than other mothers. The people who asked such a question were often well-meaning, yet to a self‑conscious little girl, it felt like a judgment on our family’s difference.
Many would assume that such early experiences would have inspired me to start my own family at a younger age, determined to evade any comments about age or appearances. Yet life rarely follows such predictable logic. I had ambitions that reached far beyond the borders of my Texas hometown. The call of the stage and the dream of telling stories drew me to New York City, where I enrolled in a theater program that promised to forge both craft and character. While there, I found myself performing in a truly dreadful adaptation of Shakespeare—an experience memorable only because it introduced me to David, an impossibly charming British tennis coach who made even the city’s grayest days seem romantic. Our friendship ripened quickly into love, and in time, together we ventured westward to Hollywood, chasing our creative aspirations. My career as a screenwriter and novelist began to bloom, and his coaching drew devoted students. Nine years into our relationship, we married, and soon afterward I became pregnant at thirty‑three—what I then considered the perfect, balanced age to begin motherhood.
The joy was short‑lived. I suffered a miscarriage that left me grieving and unsure. A year passed without another pregnancy. Eventually, David and I sought answers from a fertility specialist, only to find that medicine could offer no clear explanation—my infertility was deemed “unexplained.” At thirty‑six, with resolve that bordered on defiance, I began in vitro fertilization. The process was grueling: a web of appointments, injections, waiting periods, and statistics. We endured another loss and then faced the isolation of the COVID pandemic, which added further emotional weight. Eventually, we resolved that we would try only one final round of IVF before reconsidering our path to parenthood. That single embryo became our miracle—three heartbeats where we had expected one. Identical triplets. When the girls arrived, I was forty‑one, David forty‑nine. The thrill of meeting our daughters was matched only by the dawning realization that our journey into parenthood would be more demanding than we had ever imagined. I had once worried about having enough energy for one child; suddenly I was mother to three.
We cherish our daughters with an intensity that eclipses every hardship, yet becoming older parents brings both privileges and challenges that are often overlooked. One advantage is that we had already lived our youth to its fullest measure. Our twenties and thirties were a tapestry of dinners at exquisite restaurants, late‑night adventures in vibrant cities, and spontaneous trips abroad. We built careers, cultivated friendships, and spent freely on experiences rather than responsibilities. I am profoundly grateful for that season of freedom—it allowed us to gather memories and emotional resilience that sustain us now in the messier chapter of family life. Today, our world looks remarkably different. Both of us work harder than ever to provide for a household that has quite literally tripled in size. Weekends revolve around errands to Costco, playground excursions, and an endless rotation of children’s birthday parties. Yet, we are content. Because we have already tasted life’s wilder freedoms, we no longer long for them; instead, we find fulfillment in being fully present with our children, embracing even the exhausting, unglamorous moments.
Age has also gifted us with patience—a quality honed through years of personal and professional trials. By the time the triplets came into our lives, David and I had weathered creative disappointments, financial uncertainty, and the heartbreak of losing our parents. Those experiences sculpted us into individuals who could stay calm through the chaos. When our premature infants required near-constant care, or when a meltdown erupted because a banana was peeled the “wrong” way, we approached those crises with a steadiness younger versions of ourselves might have lacked. It’s not that parenting three toddlers is easy; it isn’t. But challenges that might once have felt overwhelming now seem survivable, even fleeting. On the toughest days, we remind each other to laugh—to remember that one day we’ll miss even the chaos that currently consumes us.
Before children, I used to think I understood fatigue. I’d spend my days writing television scripts and my nights drafting novels, often convincing myself that my discipline would translate naturally into robust parenting stamina. I conveniently forgot, however, that those long creative hours were punctuated by luxurious naps and full nights of ten hours’ sleep. David, too, was blissfully naïve. “As long as I get ten or eleven hours a night, I’ll be fine,” he once declared. We still laugh about that—though our laughter is now a bit weary, four years into nearly unbroken sleep deprivation. Our daughters wake before dawn, their energy boundless, their curiosity relentless. We may no longer possess the endurance of our twenty‑something selves, nor the glowing sleep scores that once came effortlessly, but we more than compensate with enthusiasm. There is an indescribable joy in watching our girls discover the world, and that joy fuels us through exhaustion.
Still, our “village” is a small one. The saying goes that it takes a village to raise a child, and in our case, that truth has revealed itself daily. Both of our parents have passed away, and the few family members who remain either live far away or work full‑time, leaving us largely on our own. We have built a network of compassionate, skilled nannies and babysitters—a chosen village for our chosen family. Although we sometimes wish for a wider circle of support, we remain grateful for the path we took. Waiting to have children allowed us to build the careers, stability, and emotional maturity necessary to appreciate this life fully.
In the end, there is no flawless schedule for starting a family. Whether you become a parent at twenty‑one or forty‑one, you are rarely, if ever, completely ready. When our daughters arrived, I still felt uncertain, overwhelmed, even unqualified. But parenthood, I’ve learned, is less about preparedness and more about surrender—about accepting that the unexpected will always rewrite your plans. For us, that unexpected gift came as three identical little girls who changed everything. Our story, once punctuated by loss and waiting, has now become an ongoing lesson in endurance, patience, and boundless love.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/older-parents-40s-triplets-multiples-benefits-drawbacks-2025-11
