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Photo taken at my baby shower in Ajax, Ontario, Canada, in April 2025. Photo courtesy of Siobhan Dixon.

Full transparency: As I attempt to type these words, I’m simultaneously pushing back my keyboard because my 8-month-old daughter is on my lap breastfeeding—well, sort of. She’s also flailing her arms all over, reaching for anything and everything in or out of her sight.

Months seven to eight have easily been my favorite so far—the culmination of so many game-changing milestones. From saying “Da-da” to sitting and crawling to holding her bottle from start to finish of a feeding, sometimes with one hand. She’s eating more actual “food” (mostly purees), so that she’s much less dependent on that expensive-ass (albeit, life-saving!) formula and my breast milk.

Combined with her sleeping through the night, I’ve finally regained some level of sanity and flexibility, which has been completely absent from my life since she was born, especially during the early months when she was solely breastfed. Now, I have the luxury of breastfeeding not only for her literal survival but also for comfort or to put her to sleep, which is what I’m trying to do while I write.

RELATED CONTENT: 10 Black Women Who Gave Birth After 40, Proving It’s Never Too Late

But my daughter suffers from severe FOMO (fear of missing out), and always has. So, she’s doing what my sister dubbed “the Stevie Wonder,” swinging her head back and forth, trying her damndest to fight the sleep while also rigorously rubbing her spellbinding almond-shaped slanted eyes, which I have no shame in bragging that she got from me! She looks up at me as if she’s asking for my blessing to fall asleep. As a sign of reassurance, I kiss her forehead and hold her tight. Now she’s wrapped around me like a baby koala bear, the touch of her fingers like silk filled with love.

I’m trying to type as lightly and with as little motion as possible so that I don’t wake her up. Now she’s “slaughing” a portmanteau my 10-year-old goddaughter came up with for when she smiles in her sleep, which she does often and shows off her one dimple on her left cheek. Yeah, she got that from her Mama, too! She’s my “dimple twin,” just one of a never-ending list of nicknames starting with “kickie monster” to “Betapac booty” to “smiley bear.” She’s a happy baby. Very happy. Always has been. Sweet. Loving. Beautiful. Smart. Healthy. Perfect.

I have never felt as purposeful as I do being her mother. So, if having my daughter and becoming a first-time mom after 40 makes me “geriatric,” I’ll be that forever and a day.

Photo taken at the hospital on our day of discharge, May 11, 2025, Mother’s’ Day. Photo courtesy of Siobhan Dixon.

The post ‘Geriatric’ Or Not, I’m A Muva — Pregnancy Over Age 40 Is On The Rise & Has Never Looked Better [Op-Ed] appeared first on MadameNoire.

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