Aside from the very presence of my children, few miracles of nature give me greater happiness than witnessing the stereotypes of later life motherhood joyfully crushed beneath the boot-heel of reality by the a tender simplicity of an empirical truth.
It is like finding a blushing rose in the blackened fields of nuclear ruin. A chronological conundrum. A permanent paradox. Fate’s humorous twist.
When they label us “older” mothers, immediately the image of a rheumy-eyed and bespectacled granny—doddering precariously on her twin hip replacements, with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel—is conjured in the minds of the general public.
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