Life begins at 40 plus 10.

Part one. What a fool I was to believe that my life would begin at 40. Don‘t believe the hype. Women in their forties are in the thick of it…but salvation is just around the corner…

I was talking to a woman I met recently. I am no good at placing people’s ages and she was so beautiful I kind of got lost in that. When the conversation got round to age, she told me that she was 42. I felt myself go to offer her commiserations.

Forties for women are a slog and if you are a brave soldier battling through then I hope my words help you feel less alone. If you are in your fifties and beyond you might recognise yourself and your own forties. And if you are younger than 40, thoughts and prayers for the fight ahead young soldiers, thoughts and prayers.

The ‘life begins at 40’ lie was constructed at a time when women were married and reproducing in their early 20s whilst buying a 3-bed house with the equivalent of a pocketful of loose change. By their forties, their children were flying the nest, the mortgage nearly paid off with a nice full salary pension and oodles of retirement time to look forward to.

Fast forward to the forties of the average woman of today. I had my first daughter at the age of 31 and second at 36 meaning I started my 40s with a 5-year-old and 9-year-old. Two daughter’s adolescences to look forward to? Hardly felt like the start of my life.

We bought our first house when I was 30 (I say ‘bought’, we still only ‘own’ less than half of it). My children’s children will still be paying off this mortgage and certainly my 40s were not the time to take the foot off the financial pedal. Retirement was, and still is, unthinkable.

Yet there I was, 40 years old and waiting for my life to begin spurred on by a flurry magazine articles about feeling ‘fit and fabulous’ in your forties. Hard to feel ‘fit and fabulous’ in my forties, turbo charge my career and make a dent in my mortgage, whilst at the same time struggling to:

• wash endless school uniforms and P.E kits

• drop off at dance classes/orthodontic appointments/mates houses/parties/babysitting jobs

• be around for the pickups re. above

• prep home economics ingredient lists (always at the last minute)

• wipe away tears

• expand quadratic equations (I gave up at that one and paid for a tutor, which saved on some of the tears)

• fund constant purchases at Hollister, Urban Outfitters and the like (so ridiculously expensive)

• travel 200 miles to attend parent’s medical appointments only to discover they have got the dates wrong

• argue the toss with a 12 year old GP who refuses to see your father in person

• listen to your husbands constant trial and tribulations at work, whilst simultaneously resisting the urge to scream ‘get a bloody grip, no-one is dying!’

• appease a manager who is younger than the bra you are wearing but has done an online course on time management and is lecturing you about ‘using every hour of the day constructively’

My body also refused to play ball. I swear I woke up the day after my 40^th birthday and every joint in my body began to ache. I have never been on the slimmer end of the scales – both my genes and my jeans are not skinny, but my weight had at least stayed constant until I hit the magic 4.0. As I ploughed into my forties my waist disappeared, virtually overnight. My bra cup size went into letters that were closer to the end of the alphabet than the beginning. I ate less but gained more weight, allowing every doctor consultation since to start with the words ‘it would help to lose weight’ (which I kid you not a doctor once told me when I went about an eye complaint!)

My menstrual cycle got a flat tyre. Longer, heavier periods, sometimes no periods at all. My hair became thinner, my skin drier, my memory became, what’s the word? Oh, its ok, it will come back to me in a minute. I thought about divorcing my blissfully unaware husband (whilst 5 minutes later sobbing and begging him not to leave me). I went to the GP. She suggested HRT. I took it as an insult. I slapped on a patch and prayed to God it would work. It did.

The changes were not purely physical but brought about a huge amount of grief. One of my life’s greatest blessings is the longevity of my dear parents. Both have made it into their 80s and both have been around to witness many significant events in my daughter’s lives – from the first day back from the hospital to the first steps, first day at school, first nativity play, first exam results through to the first day at university for my eldest. I have never taken any of those days for granted.

However, the fit and able parents I started my forties with were not the parents I finished with. The days out mum and I used to enjoy have had to be adapted as she became dependent on a wheelchair. Even my dad (once so fit he could outwalk his son in law) began to nod off on the sofa after a short shuffle around the block. Their diaries became full of hospital appointments and their prescription lists grew with every new condition. I spent a lot of my forties holding my breath and praying to turn back time. Both unproductive and draining.

Grief came in another form. There are many women who have babies in their forties (I know, as a midwife I have witnessed them). But for me, I had placed 40 as an arbitrary line in the sand. For so many complex medical reasons I decided it was better for me and my family to stick at two children and at 40, I put an end to the longing to twist. As the clock of forty chimed, my biological clocked rang out and for the last time to the sound of my soul sobbing.

The unending grief of my forties continued as my babies became, well not babies anymore. Handwritten letters to Santa transformed into emailed lists with attached links. Birthday parties at home with a houseful of princesses were replaced with ‘I’d rather have the money mum’. I kept my girls as close as possible but as a mum it was and is my job to help them grow their roots and wings, so I encouraged them to fly high. But my stomach lurched as they soared, and the empty nest loomed large.

I said I wanted to offer hope and reading this is probably not filling anyone pre 50 with even a sprinkling of the stuff but fear not. The darkest hour is always before dawn. Call it magic, call it witchcraft, call it my prescriptions kicking in, call it what you will, as my forties petered out a new dawn broke and the sun has not stopped shining.

My fifties – My fifties, where have you been all my life? I am only 2 years in, and this decade has already been the jewel in a decidedly dodgy crown. In part two of this series next week, I will share why the best is yet to come and why a woman’s fifties is the best kept secret ever.

Tell your friends….

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