'At 41, If I Wanted to Have a Kid, I Was Going to Have to Go it Alone'

Photo provided by Laurie Sandell 

When I was 38, a single girlfriend confided that she’d been diagnosed with prematurely aging ovaries. Having made the decision to have a baby on her own, she urged me to visit a fertility doctor, too. At the time, I was single and really starting to worry about my prospects. I had a job that I loved as a freelance writer and an incredible circle of friends, but had yet to date any man I wanted to marry, let alone make babies with.

While I loved my single life (sort of), I was getting tired of everything that came along with it: that panicked feeling as the weekend approached, the terrifying reality of having no financial backup, the solo invitations to weddings (“Just let us know if you’re dating anyone seriously!” friends would crow). In an effort to speed the process along, I went on dozens of Internet dates. But it was nearly impossible to conceal my desire for children, and before long, my date would mumble something about wanting to spend a few years having fun with his wife before becoming a parent and I’d never hear from him again.

Briefly, I considered having a child on my own, but scrapped the idea after reviewing the facts. My income varied wildly. My family lived in New York and I was planning a move to Los Angeles. Most of all, I feared, having a kid would make me un-dateable. The men I’d gone out with were ambivalent about commitment at best, if not downright commitment-phobic. I worried that I would be choosing between love and motherhood. So I prayed I still had a few eggs that worked and hoped that once I met someone great, he’d be willing to knock me up right away. No pressure!

Photo provided by Laurie Sandell 

By the time I hit 39, I was officially in a panic spiral. A girlfriend mentioned that a friend of hers had decided to have a baby on her own, and before she could finish her story, I snapped, “I’m not there yet!” In relationships, I found myself doing crazy things such as proactively trying to have a baby with a boyfriend of six months. As that relationship unraveled, instead of reaching for the birth control, I rationalized my behavior. What was the worst that could happen if we broke up? We would share a beautiful child. Blinded by my desperation to conceive, I ignored the implications of hitching my wagon to a guy for the rest of my life.

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Thankfully, our attempts were unsuccessful, but the grief I felt upon the demise of that relationship was unlike any I’d experienced before. More than once, I found myself curled up on my living room floor, sobbing. At the time, I thought I simply missed my boyfriend, but really I was in mourning over something larger: the dream of a family with all its members intact. At 41, if I wanted to have a kid, I was going to have to go it alone — just like I’d been doing for years.

As my grief subsided, I allowed myself to once again consider the idea. My circumstances hadn’t changed, but there was no getting around it: time was up. So I carefully researched sperm banks and got inseminated, skeptical that it would even work. To my shock, I got pregnant on the first try. Then, the next miracle occurred: almost as soon as my doctor confirmed the pregnancy, my misgivings about single motherhood evaporated. Sure, I would have to make some big changes and had no idea what my love life would look like, but I stopped worrying about the future. Eighty percent of my handwringing, as it turned out, was about the decision itself.

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Over the next few months, I allowed myself to simply enjoy my pregnancy. I erased my Internet dating profile, turned my office into a cute Ikea nursery and marveled over my body’s changes. Once I had my little boy, Teddy, none of the fears I’d had about single motherhood came true. I didn’t stop getting writing assignments — “Every baby comes with a loaf of bread,” one friend had assured me — and I discovered I had plenty of help. My mom moved in for two months and the friendships I’d been cultivating for years became Teddy’s “village.” For the first nine months of his life, I didn’t even think about dating and when I was finally ready to post a profile, I felt curious about who I was going to meet, instead of the usual dread. Nor did I feel any pressure about entering a relationship. I had my baby; I could take my time getting to know a man (which is how it should be, but try telling that to a woman tortured by the deafening tick of her biological clock).

So when I met Jonathan, a divorced dad of four kids, instead of spending our first date fantasizing about what a great dad he’d make for my unborn child, I simply enjoyed his company over a good Italian meal. We spent the first few months of our relationship going on dates when our schedules allowed — no more twisting myself into a pretzel to make myself available — and exchanging stories about our lives. When I introduced him to Teddy, I liked how low-key and relaxed Jonathan seemed and how Teddy responded to him — and later, his kids. Before long, I realized I’d met someone profoundly special, but if things didn’t work out, that was OK, too. It was a mind-blowing concept.

Do I wish I’d done things in a more traditional order and met a guy in my early thirties, married him and then had a kid? Sure, certain elements of my life would have been easier, from society’s perception of my choice to how I’ll talk to Teddy about the circumstances of his birth. There is nothing I can do to change the trajectory of my past. It also gave me the life experiences that led to Teddy— who is the love of my life—and a man who may someday fit that description, too. Would I change those things? Not a chance.

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