The Tamesis
I’m a single mother, what doctors and insurance companies gleefully call “advanced maternal age,” which makes me sound like an appliance whose warranty has expired. The truth is, I’m a 42-year-old woman with a toddler who, contrary to all cultural expectations, is having a truly wonderful time.
There is a special joy in being an older single mother* that goes largely undiscussed. Women are sold to the extremes of single motherhood: burned-out martyrs, cautionary tales, or amoral welfare queens—the latter of which has historically been weaponized against black single mothers in particular. As a group, single moms should be ashamed and embarrassed. But what I felt was something completely different: joy.
Before giving birth to my daughter, I had lived in several cities several times. I was married (briefly). I’ve been to therapy. I have a career, a passport, a mortgage. When I became an unwed mother at age 39, I took complete control of my life.
When I was first pregnant, my then-boyfriend and I had a long conversation about how I don’t want to be a single mother. The unanimous expectation was that he and I would get engaged after our kids were born and everyone was settled and healthy. I am afraid of being a mother without a husband. I don’t think I can do it alone. I don’t want to be shamed.
However, a few months after our daughter was born, it became apparent that the engagement was not happening. Even in my postpartum haze—which included getting laid off shortly after returning from maternity leave—I was convinced that I didn’t want my daughter to grow up with her mom’s romantic attachment to her dad. Single mothers are a better parenting choice. So, just before my 40th birthday, I was officially an unemployed single mom with an infant.
Of course, there were stress, fear, and sadness in those early days. But within a few weeks, my focus shifted from grieving my fantasy family to the scaffolding network of reliable relationships I had spent forty years building—a solid structure of grandparents, adult siblings with their own children, lifelong friends, former coworkers, neighbors, and other mothers. Someone I trust.
From that point on, my own motherhood began to feel less like misfortune and more like creative control. I can enjoy parenting without having to negotiate my identity, time, and happiness in a relationship. In my home, when I’m with my daughter, the atmosphere is…calm. It’s really peaceful. Decades of taking care of myself have taught me how to create systems that I know work. This house reflects my and my girls’ thresholds—to chaos, noise, emotion, excitement, fun. During the day, there was no low-level tension in the country. I set the tone.
Of course, the work of raising children is ongoing. I worry about money and the future, but so do my partner’s parents. Daycare pickup times and fees are non-negotiable. But it feels different when the labor and responsibility is entirely mine. I don’t keep score. I don’t question whether I’m doing enough. I’m just doing it. And I like do it.
I love knowing that if my daughter needs something, I will have a solution. I loved preparing meals on Sunday afternoons while she sat on the toddler tower to help. I love taking her to the beach, biking, and listening to stories. I loved hearing her observations and unfiltered thoughts. Before she turned two, we visited friends in Italy and the entire international trip was a breeze, even navigating the Rome airport alone with a toddler without a stroller. Every stage she goes through is my favorite stage. I’m not sure I’ll be a capable single mother in my late 20s or early 30s. But at 42 years old, I am calm and composed. I don’t get stuck in when my daughter has a meltdown. Her emotions don’t trigger my emotions. Decades and past mistakes have taught me to regulate my own feelings so that I can help her process hers.
