According to Stats NZ, in the year ended June 2024 compared with the year ended June 2023, there were 57,006 live births registered, down from 57,534.
In the 1970s, the median age for a woman to give birth in New Zealand was 25 years of age. In 2023, the median age was 31.3 years of age.
The term ‘geriatric pregnancy’ once referred to a pregnancy carried by someone who is 35 years of age or older. It has since been replaced with ”advanced maternal age.”
This is not a gushy story by a gushy mother about her perfect children, it’s about an imperfect woman who accidentally had a baby, writes Anna Sarjeant
Hate is a strong word.
So let me clarify my sentiments towards children pre-2022: I hated them.
Nothing filled me with more dread than a new mother asking if I wanted to hold her baby.
I did not.
Boarding a long-haul flight and discovering there was a child onboard (if not several) made my blood pressure skyrocket. And not once did I get up to see someone’s newborn paraded around the work office. I didn’t even feign interest. Seen one, seen them all.
People used to tell me to sniff them. Babies that is.
To fully inhale that adorable “new-baby smell”. To this day, I have no idea what they’re talking about. Babies smell of Weetbix.
Boarding a long-haul flight and discovering there was a child onboard used to make my blood pressure skyrocket, writes Anna Sarjeant.
However, in 2024, that’s the only thing I still don’t appreciate about children.
Hate has been replaced with adoration. I know, it’s disgusting.
I’ll spare you the details about the birds and the bees but in July 2021, I was approaching 36 years of age with the full intention (and utter contentment) of never being a mum.
Then I got slack and then I got pregnant. The birds and the bees in full, horrifying unison.
I cried to my own mother who knew full well I had all the maternal instinct of a doorknob.
I was crying because I was terrified how much life was going to change (and I didn’t want it to) but also, I was terrified I’d be an awful mum – you know, the kind that openly admits they loathe children and alight buses to avoid snotty ones.
My mum told me it’s different when they’re your own, and my eyes rolled so far back in my skull they did a loop-dee-loop. I expected better advice than idiotic cliches.
Turns out, she was right. Because mothers always are.
If you too find banal phrases insufferable, here’s what else transformed me from Miss Trunchball to Mary Poppins in the space of 7.5 months (the hellion arrived early).
‘You’ll never sleep again’ is a big, fat – annoying - myth
One of the reasons I never wanted children was because my lazy gene thought it sounded absolutely horrendous and I happily admitted I was too selfish to grapple with sleepless nights. Due to the fact I’d never taken any interest in babies, and because the idea that “you’ll never sleep again” is repeated by – seemingly – everyone, I genuinely thought the every-hour night wakings went on for years.
Granted, for some unlucky souls it does, but I existed on 2 hours of sleep per night for all of a few months before things became significantly easier. I’d go as far as saying serial Netflix binges and stressful workloads have made for a worse night’s sleep than a child under one.
Playgrounds are not the devil’s work
The dread of giving up your ideal lifestyle for noisy playgrounds and mundane activities such as hiding behind the curtains shouting “peekaboo” doesn’t eventuate. Shockingly, it’s all quite enjoyable. Sure, some days I’d rather be nursing an espresso – undisturbed - for hours while quietly ruminating, but I also get huge pleasure from seeing my son having fun at all the places I thought sounded dire: the playground, pool, sandpit...
You re-find your inner kid and wedge your old, wobbly bottom down a slide again, or under the bed for a game of hide-and-seek. It’s surprisingly enjoyable. Having said that, beware of some indoor playgrounds, where the foam pit is suspiciously greasy and always smells of cheese.
'I also get huge pleasure from seeing my son having fun at all the places I thought sounded dire: the playground, pool, sandpit," says Anna Sarjeant.
Your own child won’t treat you like a moron (all too often)
Kids have quite the knack for making adults feel small, silly and pathetic. They can belittle us with one comment or cruel observation and they could reduce a hard-hitting CEO to tears within a minute. The worst bit? You can’t retaliate.
To the contrary, you feel even more self-conscious and fall silent while they go about their day, completely unaware that they’ve just annihilated a lifetime of therapy. Fortunately, your own child will by and large love you too much to treat you with the same disdain as regular kids. Plus, you have the power of “disapproving mum stare” and soon learn the international language of gaining every child’s approval: fart noises.
As a lover of weird humour, how did I not realise that children – easily the biggest weirdos on the planet – are the perfect providers of laughter? Tell me otherwise and I’ll show you a kid (my own) that took off all his clothes mid-walk to the dairy while insisting on pulling a yellow boogie board up the road. When a group of teenage lads drove past and hollered “yes bro!”, I beamed. Nothing humours me more than a lack of inhibition and a complete disregard for social norms. One short walk to the dairy for him = one huge surge of dopamine for me.
But you’re more hilarious
If my son is anything to go by, I’m a comedic genius. Nothing makes me feel more validated as a master of stand-up than my son’s side-splitting laughter when I pretend to fall over in slapstick fashion. Classic. Do it 10 times on repeat and you’re basically Rowan Atkinson. Then you find yourself playing up to the part of class clown, finding new and more ridiculous ways to get a laugh. So far I haven’t failed – it’s the easiest KPI you’ll ever smash.
Anna Sarjeant: The dread of giving up your ideal lifestyle for noisy playgrounds doesn’t eventuate.
It’s not as tedious as you think
Years ago, I remember my toddler niece visiting for all of three hours while I was staying with my parents. By the time she left, the relief was monumental.
Don’t get me wrong, I love her dearly but nothing cemented my anti-kid sentiment more than seeing her go home. I was exhausted; I wanted to sit down and quietly watch a film - and without having to feign interest in something boring like the bathtub for the umpteenth time.
I’ve never felt the same type of exhaustion with my own son. Of course, at times it is exhausting but when your brain knows you’re running the marathon and not the 10km, you dig deep and find the energy anyway.
Don’t tell anyone but tantrums can be brilliant
As a bystander, children’s tantrums are vile. It’s nails down a blackboard meets wailing cats. Then there’s the tears and the snot: sickening. It’s not always fun and hijinks for parents either, but there are instances when the entire spectacle is jolly good fun. Ridicule would be cruel and for little people, the despair they’re feeling is real, so while their world comes to an end because the milk is white (and they woke up that morning hellbent on having black milk), turn away and stifle your laughter.
Don’t tell anyone but tantrums can - sometimes - be brilliant.
The joy of absolutely everything
I wish I woke up with the optimism of a toddler. The sheer joy that it’s sunny (even when it’s blatantly cloudy) is infectious. Wait until they see a rainbow, or a digger, or a bus. Suddenly you’re reintroduced to simple pleasures that haven’t enthralled you since you were pint-sized yourself, such as writing in the window condensation, creating beards out of bubble bath and making hand shadows. It’s small, silly even – and that’s the glorious point.
Snot, dribble and sloppy poos are less offensive than you think
Here’s the biggest truth about the whole “it’s different when they’re your own” adage. Parents (and I’d argue mostly mothers judging by my husband’s theatrical gagging) aren’t affected by their children’s grossness. I’ll happily take a dribbly lick across the face, but I still refuse to share drinks with my partner because spittle makes me gag. And I’m not saying faecal-filled nappies smells of roses, but only when I dropped my son at daycare and got a whiff of someone else’s pungent pants – my eyes watering in horror - did I realise I don’t react in the same way to my own serial-pooping son. I’ll guarantee he’s equally heinous, I’m just convinced Mother Nature programmed me not to register it.
Wasn't me. Who let rip? Photo / Unsplash
You give up a lot but it’s worth it
Recently I found a photo of myself, pre-kids, mountain biking in Taupō and man, am I ripped. It made me sad. I love adventure and I (loved) the gym but I cancelled the latter for a Disney+ subscription.
As a full-time working mum and the only parent available in the morning, I ditched a daily workout years ago and mum guilt kicks in if I try and go after work. I also miss the cinema and dining out without the additional cost of a babysitter.
Fortunately, as an older mother, I also lived a life before kids that I have no desire to revisit; boozy weekends, backpacking and all-round debauchery. Aside from a few squats and buns of steel, I don’t harbour any resentment for a life I can no longer live.
So there you go
I don’t hate kids anymore. I deeply love two (one is still brewing) and tolerate the 10% that will always be irritating. You know the ones.
As a woman who never wanted kids, I’m also not encouraging anyone to embrace parenthood. These are simply my own experiences, and if I was still child-free I’d likely have written an equally positive story on another subject.
But, to channel my mother’s love for a good idiom - life is what you make it.
