I had parent imposter syndrome when I first got pregnant at 47, but being an older parent is right for me.
Courtesy Heather Grossmann
"Wear sensible shoes when you're carrying frozen sperm." Excellent advice given to me after I tripped on the first go-around, thanks to some un-sensibly heeled boots. I nearly sent the precious vial clutched in my sweaty palm flying into the bowels of Grand Central as I tottered toward my first attempt at getting knocked up solo.
That was eight years ago and followed an egg-freezing debacle that made it blindingly clear my path to parenthood would be circuitous, at best. To wit: Directly beneath the extremely subpar results of my fertility tests, the doctor's notes read, "!@#$" — assumedly a stand-in for an expletive and, as it turned out, a very accurate foreshadowing of what was to come.
Now, at 47, I am eight months pregnant and nearly downright blissful. The getting here, though, was a challenge — not just the scaling-Everest-like efforts it took to achieve a successful pregnancy, but, when it finally happened, contending with what felt like parental imposter syndrome.
Human nature being as it is, once I was pregnant and the fear of a future without a child receded, it was soon replaced with another anxiety: I was about to be the oldest mom on the playground, and playgrounds are notoriously rough-and-tumble territory.
My unease at becoming an older parent manifested in efforts to hide my growing belly and my age — wearing the baggiest outfits and sharing my birthdate under my breath at ultrasound appointments. I fought a constant need to justify myself, wishing I had a T-shirt that succinctly explained the how and why of my pregnancy. I ruminated over whether showing up pregnant and single to my Catholic high school's 30-year reunion would be more or less shocking than had I shown up pregnant at graduation.
But after my sixth month of pregnancy, something changed. I was done with the shame. Feeling the kicks and head butts of my growing baby reminded me that I was in the middle of something wondrous, sublime. And I recognized that the people closest to me felt only joy about my choices.
The truth is, I was not ready to be a parent even a handful of years earlier, not physically, professionally, or even geographically. It was this long journey that prepared me for parenthood.
When I started down this path, I found the uncertainty of it profoundly disturbing. Everyone rhapsodizes about the calming, healing nature of the ocean, but I find its boundlessness and unknowability overwhelming and disquieting. Give me a river, the water safely contained between two banks; the deep-rooted trees on the not-so-far shore; the solid mountains rising in the distance. Entering the 'TTC stage' — a ubiquitous acronym in the fertility community for Trying to Conceive — felt like submerging myself in a roiling sea with no safe harbor.
But, having no other terra firm left to tread in my quest for a child, I dove in. Through one unsuccessful intrauterine insemination after another, I maintained a semi-sanguine attitude. All the while, I worried that I might lose my way in those murky waters, that I would become bitter about having landed in this position. I was vigilant in monitoring my psyche for signs of that darkness.
Many months passed. I moved on to IVF. The ongoing stream of hormone shots, blood tests, and scans became just another chore to check off the to-do list.
At this point, I was 41. Somehow, I had kept my head above water. Work was engaging, and I had a robust social life. Eventually, after yet another failed attempt at IVF, my doctor told me it was time to talk about using an egg donor. I was on board — my desire was to love and nurture a child, not create a genetic mini-me — but this approach required another big pivot, including taking out a sizable chunk of my 401(k), something I was lucky to be in a position to do. I was weary and needed a break.
Time passed — my father died, and I made major professional moves and one literal move across the country. Life got in the way, and knowing that I would be moving ahead with an egg donor took the pressure off my already-busted biological clock.
Last summer, following two surgeries (one nearly killed me) for uterine fibroids, I was finally ready to go. I had found both an egg and sperm donor that I was very excited about (the ultra-odd, dating app-like experience of that is a story for another time), embryos were made, and the procedure to knock me up was set for September.
In what I found to be an utterly shocking turn of events, the embryo implanted on the first try. This month, I will finally become a mom.
The truth is, there was no other path to parenthood for me. My journey forged me into someone who will be a better and happier mom than I would have been had I taken a different route. It gave me confidence in my ability to navigate the tumultuous, uncertain waters of parenthood without drowning. I know now that if I do get dragged under occasionally, I will bob right back up and find the shore, and the joy, again.
