Being an "AMA" (Part 2)

My husband read part one and asked, "What's 'AMA?'"
Don't worry, I'm getting there.
I was at my second OB/GYN appointment, and I was feeling a little self-conscious about my lack of baby belly (I know, the only time in my life I'll ever feel too skinny). The nurse called my name, and I walked quickly across the floor under the judgy gaze of a room full of preggos. After the dreaded weigh-in ("Would it be OK if I took off my pants, too? Purely for accuracy, of course.") we went to the exam room where I was told to undress from the waist down. I was asked all the usual doctor questions, and then suddenly the conversation turned.
"You're 34 years old?" asked my gorgeous, thin, 20-something nurse.
"Yes."
"First pregnancy?" She smiled at me, eyebrows raised.
"Yes..."
Scribble scribble scribble.
"What does that mean?" I asked tentatively.
"It puts you in the AMA range, no big deal." More smiles. More scribbles.
Now, let me tell you something about me. Most people here would ask "What is 'AMA?'" But I'm not most people. I'm stubborn and proud, and I was embarassed that I'd lived 34 years on this Earth and never knew what 'AMA' was. I smiled politely through the rest of the interview and waited patiently for the doctor to arrive so as to inquire after my new "no big deal" condition.
That's a lie. I wasn't waiting patiently. I was freaking out. I mean, I was sitting there on the table with my naked ass hanging out the back of a paper sheet, waiting to find out what the hell was wrong with me.
Doctor D whisked into the room like a lawyer with a stethescope, all business with a smile and a brisk handshake. She had a tendency to answer questions before I could ask them (still does), which can sometimes be a little irritating. On this day it was welcome.
"So you're 34," she says, smiling. "That's OK. Actually that's great." Scribble scbibble.
"But the nurse said..."
"You're wondering about 'AMA?' It stands for "advanced maternal age," but don't worry about it. You're young, you're healthy, and you made it over the first hurdle--you got pregnant!" She laughed a little. "There are some complications that are associated with pregnancies after 35, but..."
Again, let me tell you something about me. Although the next few minutes were spent listening to my Doc reassure me that the baby would be great, that women are having babies later in life, blah blah, all I heard was, "You're OLD. You're going to be an old mom, and you're going to have an old lady baby (I don't even know what that means)." Meanwhile, she was readying something that looked like a very long, skinny sex toy and outfitting it in what appeared to be a long, skinny condom. Now, I had told my husband not to worry about coming with me to this appointment--I was 9 weeks pregnant, it's not like we'd see anything yet, right? Yeah, I was starting to regret that decision.
"Are you ready to see the baby?"
"Wait, what?"
Before I knew what hit me, she had probed me (eww). The sex toy thing is actually called a transducer, used to perform a transvaginal ultrasound. And suddenly I was sobbing. With almost no warning I was gazing at a little TV screen, watching my tiny blueberry wiggle those tiny arm nubs at me, and I got to hear that tiny blueberry's heartbeat.
Yeah, I had a heart growing inside me.
I walked out of that office feeling like I had a winning lottery ticket in my pocket. I smiled a new smile, I looked at my body in a new light. This body which I'd battled with my whole life, this body that I'd never really respected or admired, was making a tiny human. From scratch. And it didn't matter how the hell old I was, I was actually SOMEBODY'S MOM.
A MOM.
It still blows my mind.
I'm here to tell you that being a "mature mom" is pretty great (not that I have experienced the alternative, which I'm sure is great for some people). But the real truth is, until that night in the bathroom when that second line snuck up on me, I wasn't ready to be a mom. I wanted to stay up all night drinking whiskey and sleep away my hangover all day. I wanted to have long, sultry wine dinners and whisk away to weekend destinations. I wanted to curse like a sailor in the company of ladies and set a bad example for children.
But that's all over now, at least for a few years.
Those glorious ideals have been replaced with Sunday dinners at my bestie's house with the kids and the parents and the grandparents, Blue's Clues playing in the background while we talk about breast feeding and spit-up and the fascinating rainbow of baby poop colors. A walk in the park is something I actually enjoy now, and I'm honestly looking forward to taking my baby to the apple orchard for hay rides and cider. And that's OK. Actually, it's great. Being a little older means most of my friends are moms, too, and being moms together is one more thing to strengthen our relationships--in a few cases, it's actually rejuvinated a few of my friendships. Being in my thirties means I have the confidence to follow my instincts about parenthood; I'm able to sift through the advice I'm given and pick and choose what feels right for us. I will never look at my baby and regret the things I wish I'd done "before." "Before" was basic training, the courtship before the marriage. I'll never look back longingly (for too long, anyway) because I worked hard to get to the "after." The "after" is the first time your baby locks eyes with you, and you really understand that you're in this together, you're a team. The "after" is your baby's first smile, the most beautiful thing you could ever imagine.
It's hard, it's rewarding, it's magical. And for the first time in my life I believe in miracles.