Family This article is more than 8 years oldI had two children 15 years apart
This article is more than 8 years oldLouise Lee was 27 when her son was born, 42 when her daughter came along. What’s it like to have such a big gap between them?It’s 5am. One of my kids is waking up, the other’s just rolling in. Lyra wants to watch CBeebies and to run noisy laps of the living room in her wellies. Callum, on the other hand, wants unequivocal silence until mid-afternoon. And so the balancing act begins. I had my children at very different points in my life. The first time I was 27. The second, 42.
Like many women, I had the worst birth ever. After what felt like 300 hours of labour, my son, Callum, came into the world. By the time he arrived, I had gone right off the idea of motherhood. All I saw was a tiny replica of his father, from toenails to earlobes. His daddy cried, his nana cried, the midwife cried. And I thought, wow, I don’t love you exactly, but I will fight to the death to ensure you’re safe for the whole of infinity. Just as soon as they have stitched my perineum and I’ve slept for a month.
I didn’t tell anyone for years that I didn’t feel love for my baby immediately. Being shell-shocked by motherhood was not very PC. I did OK – first-time mothers always do much better than they realise at the time and the love I grew for him was fierce. Though were I to sum up my overriding feeling from the moment of his birth, it has been fear: that he might not ever be properly happy. I mean, happy inside. That possibility consumed me a bit.
Callum was six when we told him we were getting a divorce. He couldn’t articulate how he felt, so used every sinew in his face to show us what we’d done to him. There followed 10 years of me trying to make it up to him, wanting him to be happy inside. All the while I was learning to be a single-mum – what a shitty label. Those of us lumbered with it can vouch that the connotations sit heavy. If I had to wear that tabard, I’d wear it kookily, I decided. Being a private eye would give me an edge.
So I gave up teaching, did an online course in private investigation and set up a PI company. In retrospect it was a ridiculous thing to do. I found I could plan work around Callum and – now and then – the money was excellent.
Callum got bigger. I watched Oprah. She said the biggest gifts you can give a child are structure and love – I believed her to the letter. Of course I was emotionally there for Cal – too much. Too full of life tips, too worried for his mental equilibrium, too aware of the day we ripped his life apart. Then puberty hit – for both of us, it felt. When we clashed, it was loudly. And though I’ll never tell him, he always won, able to destroy me with a look.
Then came Lyra.
Her birth lasted about 400 hours. This baby looked a bit like me, but mostly like Callum – his nostrils, pout, facial expressions and air. I loved her very quickly because of that. The moment he met his sister remains the most poignant of my life. He summed it up for us both. Sitting beside me on the hospital bed, holding her so gently and comfortably that I was taken aback.
“I don’t even know her,” he told me. “But I love her.”
The best thing ever: he looked kind of happy inside.
The Bride of Chucky and Donnie Darko, we call them. Lyra’s repertoire of manipulation includes snippy looks, regurgitation and hyperventilation. Callum, when not sleeping, likes to be outraged in monotone. He also requires regular updates on the contents of the fridge – once inside the house, his limbs fail him entirely. No worries, Lyra makes up for his post-pubescent sloth, trekking proactively behind me all day. “What u doin’? What u doin’? What u doin’? Lyra do it. Lyra do it. Lyra do it.”
Lyra needs answers. Callum needs food. But never have I been at my wit’s end with having children who are almost a generation apart. They balance each other out. The dynamic between them is mesmerising.
Is being an older mum more difficult? Not on your nelly. I have the mental energy to spare – when you’re younger you have to spend a bit of time learning to love yourself, learning to be a mother and a partner; that takes up headspace. At 44 I feel well placed to deal with a toddler’s tantrums – and a young man’s ones too. I’m even better placed to deal with being bear-hugged by my 6ft-tall son and ankle-hugged by my little girl at the same time. That, let me tell you, is a treat.
The Last Honeytrap by Louise Lee is published by Headline, £7.99. To order a copy for £5.99, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846.
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