The official site of the book Better Late Than Never Baby - Becoming a Mother Later in Life, written by Serena Kirby.

If you're over age 35 and about to become a mother - this is the book for you.


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Eyes of a Child

It is hard to believe that it’s a year since I became a mother… and boy how life has changed.

Multi-skilling is now the order of the day – every day – and I’m learning (quickly) that I need to be an entertainer, a nurse, a mediator, a child psychologist, a law enforcement officer and a chef – and that’s just in the morning. And, of course, I still need to be a wife, a friend, a domestic goddess and a hostess and do all these things with broken sleep and not a minute to myself.

Strange, don’t you think, that being a good mum is the most important job a woman will ever do and that you enter motherhood without any training. Then again, what degree or course could ever prepare you for the task you are about to undertake. It’s a life-long lesson in mothering and it stretches from the cradle to the grave.

If you think I’m complaining – you’re wrong. I absolutely love being a mum and recommend it to anyone who has not yet become one. But there are times when I wonder where the me that was has gone. I know all the books recommend you take time out for yourself to just sit and put your feet up while the baby sleeps. Although it sounds like good advice, it’s somewhat unrealistic as there’s rarely a moment to spare.

But when I do feel overwhelmed – as I’m sure most new mums do – and the baby is grizzling for my attention, I find it’s the simplest of things that gets me back on track and again in love with my lot. I put down the mop, turn off the stove, leave the clothes in the washing machine and put on the music that’s now become – what I’d have to call – my anthem.

And I sing…
“If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands,” clap, clap.
(I think most of you know how it goes…)

The sight of my little boy smiling, bobbing up and down to the beat and clapping his chubby hands together puts everything in perspective. As simple as nursery rhymes are, they have helped me rediscover my love of music, of rhythm and rhyme, of gentle beats and melodic sounds. (And the Wiggles have taught me that monochrome skivvies and a kid-catchy formula can earn you millions.)

I’ve learnt too that dance can soothe the restlessness within me and bring my focus back to the here and now – especially when I trip over a high chair while twirling and twist (an ankle) and shout (in pain) when I step on a toy car. But I now can bang saucepans together – deliberately – and delight in the din and gain as much enjoyment from listening to songs about tea-pots and farm animals as I do from my favourite rock album.

But not only do I hear things differently, I now see things that I didn’t before. I can follow my son’s eyes (and fingers) to a speck of dirt on the floor and, while it reminds me that I need to vacuum, it also shows me the tiny details of life I often overlook.

As he touches a flower – I see petals and color. As he picks up a stick – I see bark and texture. Of course, when he picks up a sharp object, I see danger and First Aid.

I now understand that it’s easier and more fun to paint yourself than sheets of blank paper and that sucking black textas produces a licorice-like grin. I even know that eating the smallest amount of beetroot can turn a whole nappy crimson.

I suppose you could say I’ve come to realise that, even though I may have lost the me that was, I’ve found the me that existed before I became what I am. It’s the small me; the me that used to see the world through the eyes of a child.

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