I became a mum at 40 and discovered that growing older doesn’t mean growing up

There was a time when I wouldn’t have dreamed of making animal noises in public. I certainly wouldn’t have considered crawling around the living room pretending to be a dinosaur, or spending half an hour negotiating the price of imaginary groceries with somebody who hadn’t yet learned to tie his shoelaces. Then I became a new mum at 40, and whatever dignity I’d managed to acquire over the previous four decades disappeared over night.

Before Cyrus arrived, I thought I was well prepared for adulthood. I’d built a career, learned how to manage a household, dealt with difficult people and survived enough of life’s disappointments to believe I had a fairly decent understanding of how things worked. I wasn’t under any illusion that motherhood would be easy, but I assumed being older might give me an advantage. Surely all those years of experience, patience and hard-won common sense would count for something?

Apparently not. Cyrus wasn’t interested in deadlines, carefully organised routines or the fact that his mum had been awake since an hour most people would think unreasonable. He wanted feeding, entertaining and carrying around the house for reasons that were never really clear. And when he became old enough to talk, he developed an ability to question absolutely everything.

I used to think having a child would make me more sensible. Instead, I found myself singing nonsense songs, inventing ridiculous voices and discussing subjects that no adult would spend more than thirty seconds considering. The surprising thing was how much I enjoyed it. After years of worrying about behaving appropriately, I had a perfectly legitimate excuse to make a complete fool of myself.

I spent years learning how to behave like a respectable adult. Then I had a child who thought the funniest thing in the world was watching his mum behave like a complete idiot.

Cyrus has always had strong opinions, particularly when it comes to how other people should spend their time. H and I might technically be responsible for the mortgage, shopping and general upkeep of the house, but from an early age, our son behaved as though he was our creative director and we were there to carry out his instructions.

When he was little, CBeebies became “CDeedies”, while Marks & Spencer was renamed “MIGS”. I rather liked the latter. It sounded like an exclusive department store where customers required an appointment and a substantial bank balance before being allowed through the doors. Before long, H and I were using both names ourselves, which says something about how quickly a small child can influence the behaviour of two otherwise perfectly capable adults.

There was also his fascination with H’s toolbox. My husband is an engineer, so naturally he was delighted to discover that Cyrus had an interest in screwdrivers, tools and how things fitted together. What began as a simple explanation of what each tool did could turn into a lengthy discussion about how something worked, followed by Cyrus suggesting that they take it apart to investigate further. I generally preferred that they left the furniture intact, but I loved watching them together.

Children have a wonderful way of questioning things that adults stopped thinking about years ago. Why does that move? What’s inside it? What happens if we turn it upside down? Cyrus could become completely absorbed in something I’d barely noticed, while H patiently explained the mechanics. I sometimes wondered whether my husband was enjoying these little engineering sessions even more than our son.

I wasn’t always comfortable being the centre of attention when there was a possibility of looking foolish. Being bullied as a teenager left me painfully aware of how other people might see me. I became conscious of what I wore, how I looked and whether something I said might attract the wrong sort of attention. It’s surprising how long those feelings can follow you into adulthood, even when you think you’ve put them behind you.

As I got older, I learned to manage that self-consciousness. I built a career, became more confident professionally and developed the ability to appear composed even when I didn’t particularly feel it. There was always a part of me, though, that worried about making mistakes or giving somebody a reason to laugh at my expense. I suspect plenty of women will recognise that feeling, whether it comes from experiences at school, work or years of being told how we ought to behave.

Then Cyrus came along and wanted me to pretend to be a chicken. Not a restrained, dignified chicken, either. He expected a convincing performance involving flapping arms, ridiculous noises and a level of enthusiasm that would have been deeply embarrassing had anyone outside the family witnessed it. If I didn’t put enough effort in, he’d let me know. There was no room for half-hearted acting in his productions.

I can’t claim that motherhood suddenly cured years of insecurity. I still have moments when I’m painfully aware of how I look or whether I’ve said the wrong thing. But having Cyrus made me realise how much time I’d spent trying not to look ridiculous. When your child is laughing so hard that he can barely speak, it’s difficult to remain terribly concerned about your dignity. And I began to wonder why I’d worried about it quite so much in the first place.

Before I became an older mum, I imagined I’d spend a great deal of time teaching Cyrus important things. Reading, writing, counting, good manners and the difference between right and wrong were all fairly high on my list. What I hadn’t anticipated was the amount of nonsense that would occupy our conversations during those early years when his imagination seemed to operate without obvious restrictions.

I’ve had discussions about dinosaurs, Gruffalos and whether these things could possibly happen in real life. I’ve been expected to answer questions that would probably challenge a qualified scientist, usually while trying to prepare dinner or find something that had mysteriously disappeared. And I’ve learned that telling a small child you don’t know the answer rarely brings the conversation to a satisfactory conclusion. It usually just produces another question.

Then there were the games. Cyrus could transform an afternoon into an imaginary scenario in which H and I were assigned roles without any consultation. I might become a customer in a shop where everything cost £100, while H was expected to perform some entirely different function. There were rules, although they tended to change whenever Cyrus decided the original ones were no longer convenient.

I sometimes became quite invested in these imaginary situations. I’d complain about the prices, ask awkward questions and occasionally demand to speak to the manager, who was usually Cyrus wearing a different hat. H would join in, and before long we’d have two adults participating in a conversation that would sound completely absurd to anybody listening from outside the room. Looking back, those afternoons were some of the funniest times we had together.

There’s a tendency to assume that becoming a mum later in life means you’ll be more patient, settled and emotionally prepared. I certainly hoped that would be the case. After all, I’d had plenty of time to establish my career, enjoy my independence and work out what mattered to me. What I hadn’t appreciated was how difficult it could be to surrender control over the smallest parts of my day.

Before Cyrus, leaving the house was a fairly straightforward exercise. I’d pick up my bag, find my keys and go. With a baby, a quick trip to the shops required nappies, wipes, spare clothes, and snacks. Even then, there was every possibility we’d have to turn around because I’d forgotten something.

The sleep deprivation was another matter. I remember standing in the kitchen wondering why I’d gone there, forgetting what I was saying halfway through a sentence and occasionally calling Cyrus “Siri”. Quite why my brain confused my son with a virtual assistant remains a mystery, although both were capable of ignoring perfectly reasonable instructions. H and I became adept at communicating through exhausted looks when negotiating whose turn it was to get up.

There were days when I was impatient, overwhelmed or desperate for a little time to myself. I loved Cyrus enormously, but I didn’t love every minute of motherhood, and I don’t think women should be expected to pretend otherwise. You can adore your child and still feel irritated when they interrupt you for the fifteenth time. You can appreciate their imagination while wishing they’d occasionally use it to entertain themselves.

I found the guilt difficult at times when I compared myself with other mums who appeared to have everything under control. Looking back, I suspect many of them were just as exhausted as I was. They were just better at hiding it, or I’d caught them on a good day.

One of the things I’ve enjoyed most about raising Cyrus is watching him grow up with two cultures woven into his everyday life. H brings his Persian background, language and traditions into our home, while I bring my British upbringing and a tendency to worry about whether we’re going to be late for something. Between us, we’ve created a household that doesn’t always operate according to one particular set of rules.

Cyrus has grown up hearing Persian words and expressions, eating foods that weren’t part of my own childhood and learning that different families have different ways of celebrating important occasions. To him, none of this is particularly unusual. It’s simply how things work in our house, and I’ve always liked the ease with which he moves between the different parts of his upbringing.

H and I also bring different approaches to parenting. My husband enjoys explaining how things work, particularly when there’s an engineering principle involved. I’m more likely to be thinking about what needs doing next, whether we’ve remembered everything and how long we have before somebody announces they’re hungry. Cyrus benefits from both approaches, although I suspect he’d choose an afternoon investigating tools with his dad over helping me organise the washing.

What I enjoy is how naturally children accept things that adults sometimes make unnecessarily complicated. Cyrus doesn’t spend much time analysing which parts of his life are British and which are Persian. He enjoys the food, joins in the traditions and asks questions when something interests him. He’s also perfectly happy to invent his own vocabulary when the existing one doesn’t quite meet his requirements.

I’ve been thinking about this more as I’ve got older. We spend so much of adulthood trying to be competent, responsible and productive that there doesn’t always seem to be much room for doing something because it’s enjoyable.

By midlife, it can feel as though every hour needs to serve a purpose. Even exercise, which I genuinely enjoy, can become another thing to measure. How many calories have I burned? Have I improved my fitness? Am I making progress? There’s nothing wrong with having goals, but I sometimes wonder whether we’ve become so preoccupied with results that we’ve forgotten the pleasure of doing something for its own sake.

It’s probably one of the reasons I enjoy Zumba. I can spend an hour dancing to music, occasionally getting the steps wrong and not caring much. I’m not trying to impress anyone, and I’m not auditioning for a professional dance company. I just enjoy moving, especially when there’s a good beat and I can forget about everything waiting for me at home.

Children seem to understand that instinctively. They don’t need a reason to dance around the living room or invent a game involving objects that were never intended to be toys. They do it because it amuses them. And while I’m not suggesting we should abandon our responsibilities and spend the afternoon pretending to be farm animals, I do think there’s something rather sad about reaching an age when we’re embarrassed to enjoy ourselves.

I enjoy this stage of motherhood. I like hearing what he thinks about things, watching his interests develop and seeing the person he’s becoming. I wish I’d written more of those moments down. At the time, they seemed so ordinary that I assumed I’d remember them forever. There were funny conversations in the car, peculiar questions at breakfast and expressions that became part of our family vocabulary. I remember some of them clearly, but others have disappeared, and every now and then I find myself wishing I could hear them again.

The strange thing about watching a child grow up is that you rarely know when something is happening for the last time. One day they stop asking you to play a game, or a favourite toy quietly disappears into a cupboard. You don’t necessarily notice because you’re busy getting through the week. Then months later, you realise that part of their childhood has gone.

I don’t want to spend the next few years mourning the stages Cyrus has outgrown. But I do wish I’d appreciated how quickly some of those funny little details would disappear, especially the ones that seemed so unimportant at the time.

When I think about the woman I was at 40, preparing to become a mum, I sometimes wish she’d worried a little less. She wanted to do everything properly, make sensible decisions and give her son the best possible start. She was also concerned about whether she’d be good enough, although I doubt she’d have admitted quite how much.

I still worry about plenty of things. I want Cyrus to be happy, healthy, kind and confident enough to make his own decisions. I want him to have opportunities, develop his interests and know that H and I will support him. I also want him to understand that being an adult doesn’t mean you always have the answers.

I’ve made mistakes as a mum, sometimes lost my patience and occasionally handled situations in ways I’d do differently now. But I’ve also spent hours laughing with Cyrus, listening to his peculiar ideas and joining in games that would have horrified my younger, more self-conscious self.

And that’s what surprises me most about becoming a mum later in life. I thought I was bringing four decades of experience to the job, but I hadn’t considered how much a child might change the way I looked at myself.

I’m still the woman who sometimes worries about what other people think. I still catch myself being overly critical, when it comes to my appearance or whether I’m doing enough. But I’m also the woman who can dance badly around the kitchen, laugh at her own mistakes and behave like a complete idiot because it makes her son happy.

I spent much of my younger life trying to be taken seriously. These days, I’m beginning to think there’s something rather liberating about not always succeeding. And if Cyrus ever wonders why H and I still call Marks & Spencer MIGS, I’ll tell him that some things are just too good to grow out of.

Have your children ever persuaded you to do something your younger self would have found mortifying? Or has getting older made you more comfortable laughing at yourself? I’d love to hear the funny little words, family expressions and ridiculous moments that have stayed with you.

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and questions from Saffron & Cyrus.