"Why I will tell my kids to have children while they’re young."

I announced to my workmates this morning that I’d tell my kids to have children while they are young. You should have heard the storm of conversation that single comment sparked.

But I have good reasons. And they’re worth everyone considering.

My grandma, my mum and I all got married later in life than most of our peers. Nanny at 30, Mum at 26, me at 34.

We Gow/Macdonald women waited for big, lovely love. Nanny kept her freedom as long as she could, at a time when many women married while still teenagers. There was little money and no contraception, and she had years to ride her beloved horses, chase emus and keep ‘gentlemen callers’ at bay. I love to think of her in a white lace dress buttoned up to the chin, refusing suitors who proposed and waiting for my beautiful Pa.

But I hardly remember Pa, because he died when I was young.

During the 1950s, as her friends started settling down, my mum hitchhiked around Europe in cool ski pants, big glasses and a jaunty headscarf. She too refused a couple of marriage offers. She returned home in her mid-20s, met dad and they had one kid when she was 27, two kids in her 30s and one child, heaven forbid, at nearly 40. It’s common these days, but it was rare in the 1970s.

My dad was a little younger (go Mum) but I don’t remember his dad much at all. That Pa also died when I was young.

I admit I wasn’t beating blokes off with a stick in my 20s like my mum and Nan. I also didn’t want to settle down or settle for less until I’d seen the world, done my dream job and learnt a lot about life and love.

But I don’t want my son and daughter to follow in the footsteps of their parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.

Instead, if they do meet a lovely boy and girl (or girl and boy), and they feel love and trust, I’ll tell them to get down and get breeding. Fast.

I don’t want this to sound like a hassle. Women are told enough that their eggs are dying, while men seem oblivious to the fact that their sperm can wither. I’m not hassling.

I’m sharing a sober reflection with my kids on what my ageing parents never got to do.

The average age of Australian mothers is rising and sometimes that worries me. At the beginning of the decade, first-time mums were on average 27.5 years old. Now they are 28. To me, that sounds perfect. But that’s the average. And it means a lot of people are waiting until much later.

I celebrate all the parents who have children at any age – every kid is a blessing. But I wonder if they too will have the same chat I will have with my children. Do as I say kids, not as I have done. Because being an older parent is not a problem. What’s a problem is that the ageing compounds with every generation that waits.

My dad and mum loved looking after my older sister’s kids, but by the time my kids were born they were simply not up to it.

My dad loved sport and music, but he never got to see my daughter play netball or my son play the drums. My mother and mother-in-law have been too unwell this year to attend events at my daughter’s new high school. I never met my father-in-law because he died before I fell in love with his son.

If my kids wait until they are in their mid-30s to have their children, I will be in my 70s and too old to carry those kids on my back, have them for sleepovers and take them camping. I might not see them take to the stage, let alone start in high school. I want to be the groovy granny, not the unwell burden they have to kiss on Sunday visits.

I know this is selfish.

Of course I’d rather my kid’s wait than have kids before they are ready and happy and certain. But I will warn them that life is never perfect, partners are never perfect and there’s a lot to be said for having kids when you are young, vibrant, energetic and can count on your parents and in-laws for help.

I’m sure they’ll ignore me and do what they want. But I’ll say it anyway.

As long as I’m still around to do so.

This post was first published on Debrief Daily. 

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