As you may have already heard, María del Carmen Bousada de Lara—famous for being the world's oldest living new mom—died after a battle with cancer. She was 66 when she gave birth and just 68 at her death—leaving behind twin toddlers, who will reportedly be raised by her nephew. In order to conceive, Bousada de Lara lied to the Pacific Fertility Clinic and told them she was 55—their cutoff age for IVF. Unsurprisingly, both then and now there were torrents of criticism about her being too old to be a mother. I remember thinking at the time, "You go, girl!" I felt compassion for this woman who, like me, had been trying to get pregnant and had succeeded despite the barriers age had put in our way. I imagine that the rush of joy, excitement, and satisfaction I experienced when I was pregnant was very similar to what Bousada de Lara felt when her boys, Christian and Pau, were born.

Then Gabriel was born and in the blur of late-night feedings and new-mom anxiety, I changed my mind about Bousada de Lara's decision to have children at 66. I began to agree with those who felt her decision was monstrously selfish. I worried that her babies would be orphaned at an early age and, sadly, I was right. Before Gabe, my feelings were self-centered—my excitement about becoming a mommy, my joy at having a baby to take care of, my anxiety that something would go wrong. But once he was born, I became thoroughly Gabe-centered. I worried over this new life—anything I had previously wanted for myself, I wanted for Gabe. And as I watch my little duckling obsess over my every move (when he slept in our bed, he'd rub my arms and neck and kick his feet up onto my stomach), I'm trying to take my health and welfare more seriously—for his sake. We play elaborate peekaboo games, talk nonsense to each other, and dance crazy all over the house. We're buddies and I will do anything to make sure that I'm around long enough to honor that relationship—even exercise and eat salad. If I were 66 instead of 39, I can't imagine the panic that I might not see him grow up and I would worry compulsively about the effect that my death would have on him.

Now, don't get me wrong—I know it's not my place to tell women when they can and can't have children and how many they can have. I can testify that it's hard to be childless at 36. People ask you all the time if you're going to start a family—as if you didn't already know that your biological clock was winding down. What's worse, they begin lecturing you on fertility options as if to say, "Since it's clear that you can't catch a partner, you'd better do this on your own." I can't imagine what that feels like when you're 66. It must be very painful. And trust me, I'm equally aghast when men have children in their 70s and 80s (Saul Bellow was 84 when his fifth child was born). I'm just saying that sometimes for the sake of the children-to-be, we may have to put away our longings and grieve for the children we might have had rather than go to the ends of the earth to get them. The death of a parent can cause young children to suffer disproportionately from depression, posttraumatic stress disorder, and drug abuse in their later years, according to studies published in the Archives of Pediatric and Adolescent Medicine and The American Journal of Psychiatry. I think parents should take that into account when they're planning a family. And yes, I know I could drop dead tomorrow; life gives no one guarantees. After Bousada de Lara died, Sarah Vine wrote a commentary for The Times of London, which concluded, "No one thinks more carefully about having a child than the person who, through misfortune, or trauma or simply because they happen to appreciate the work of Judy Garland, cannot do so by natural means." That may be true, it certainly feels true, but we have to think about the children, not just the having them.

As it is, I worry that I'm too old to raise a kid. I squandered too much of my energy partying in my 20s. I should have had children when I didn't need sleep and had a much more cavalier attitude about my career. Of course, when I was in my 20s, I had very little patience and even less self-control, so maybe that time wouldn't have been any better. There's never a perfect time for a kid, and I respect that. But just as we worry about teenagers having children, I also worry about kids born to elderly parents. Are they being shortchanged? Won't they miss having grandparents to spoil them? Maybe not—there are millions of ways for children to be happy. They don't have to be part of a traditional nuclear family. Nor does there need to be a mommy and a daddy; they can have a couple of mommies or just a daddy. Just somebody or somebodies to give them a sense of permanent attachment and security—someone to count on when you skin your knee or experience your first heartbreak or do badly on an exam, someone to throw your graduation cap to. Even on the cusp of 40, I speak to my parents almost every day, and I'm as dependent on their help as I ever was. There are probably some of you reading this now who think I'm too old to raise a baby into adulthood. But, I do have actuarial tables on my side.

I have a hunch that cases like that of Bousada de Lara and, of course, Octomom, are going to force fertility clinics to establish more rules about who can use their services and under what circumstances. Just as public outrage brought a uniform set of requirements for people to adopt or contract a surrogate mother, there is already a push to further regulate fertility clinics. Like it or not, once we turn to others to facilitate the conception of our families, we become subject to their morals and ethics as well . . . and maybe that's not always a bad thing.

© 2009