JENNI MURRAY: When I hear of women having babies in their fifties, I think: Poor you and poor them
- The number of babies born to women aged 50 or over in England and Wales has risen in the last two decades
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Many congratulations to Victoria Coren Mitchell and her husband, David, who appear full of happiness as they announce the birth of their second child, June Violet, sister to eight-year-old Barbara.
The birth made the news, not just because they’re both on the television, but because Victoria is a mother again at 51 — way past the average of 29 to 30.
You might say there’s nothing unusual in that these days. While in 2001 only 55 babies were born to women aged 50 or over in England and Wales, that figure has risen in the two decades since.
In England, between 2018 and 2021, an average of 275 women over the age of 50 gave birth, seven of those in their 60s.
And there are plenty of high-profile examples: the singer Janet Jackson had her first baby at 50 and the actress Rachel Weisz at 48.
Happy family: David Mitchell and Victoria Coren, who is a mother again at 51
I sympathise with women who put off the time-consuming hard work of raising children to climb the career ladder. I went through those nerve-racking nightmares of wondering how I could possibly manage my job and childcare.
I needn’t have worried. I was 33 when I announced to my mother I was pregnant. Her response? ‘Good grief, not before time.’
I was sure I’d found the right man; my biological clock was ticking so loud it was deafening, so I had just gone ahead, excited but scared.
These were the days when breastfeeding in public was considered an obscenity and pregnant bellies were expected to be concealed.
At the time, I was presenting the BBC’s South Today. I had numerous cards and letters telling me I looked disgusting, asking me why I didn’t have a man to keep me and berating me for having a job at all when it should be given to a man.
What’s more, my paperwork in the maternity service of the NHS described me as ‘risky, a geriatric mother’.
Geriatric indeed, at 33! Then a second time at 37.
I have no regrets that I chose to have my children when I was young and fit enough to enjoy them and for them to enjoy me.
When I hear of women who have babies in their 50s and 60s, I can’t help thinking: ‘Poor you and poor them.’
Oh, the sleepless nights. The terrible twos and the embarrassing tantrums in the supermarket. The effort of finding the energy to be a parental taxi service or to stand on a freezing cold touchline as your son or daughter plays sport.
There’s another advantage to having them younger, which I’ve learned to appreciate recently. My sons, now 40 and 36, are mature enough to help me at a point when the tables are sometimes turned.
I don’t want you to think I’ve been away for a month swanning around the South of France. I actually suffered from that phrase I have always hated so much: ‘I had a fall.’
I tried to deny that the agonising pain would soon go away. I was wrong. At the Royal Free Hospital, a chest X-ray revealed a badly broken vertebra in my spine.
Surgery, which I feared, was ruled out. The cause of the fracture was the common bone thinning disease in elderly women — osteoporosis. The bone would be too weak to benefit from an operation. I would just have to wait and hope the vertebra would heal itself.
Jenni’s sons proved especially useful following her recent fall, helping her in the hospital and providing a taxi service for her while she cannot drive
And this is where my wonderful, wise, well-informed, grown-up sons came into their own. They were there, by my side, bringing love and comfort that I sorely needed.
I had to endure several agonising scans. Lying on my back on the hard surface of the MRI machine was more painful than I had imagined. Several times I screamed in pain and begged to be let out of the machine.
The boys — I know I shouldn’t call them that, but they’re still boys to me — had come prepared. They’d made sure they had no metal anywhere on their bodies and insisted on coming into the room with me.
As I howled, they stroked my forehead and spoke calmly, full of encouragement that these scans were necessary to give the doctors a proper picture of what was going on in my spine.
I know, if they hadn’t been there, patient, well-informed and wanting me to be well, I would have given up and run away.
Ed, my older son, is a vet and has medical knowledge, as does his wife, Liz, a senior consultant in the NHS. Without their support and advice, I wouldn’t have known how to talk to the doctors who came to see me.
They told me what to ask about my bone health — or lack of it — and what future plans would be put in place.
Ed then sent me a long list of questions to later ask the GP. I got good answers for the next stage of managing the pain and treating osteoporosis. She laughed when I finished, asking me which medical professional had made the list.
Charlie, meanwhile, has now taken over my old role of taxi driver. It’ll be a while before I can drive again, but he’s there to help and calm me when anxiety about my future takes over from my usual good sense.
I’m now home, doped up on painkillers and grateful that they bullied me into installing a downstairs loo; an upright, comfy chair instead of my sloppy old sofa and a new bathroom with a beautiful shower.
I hope Victoria Coren’s daughters are just as helpful when she hits her 70s. They will be in their early 20s then.
But the young men, to whom I gave birth in good time for them to be useful when I got old, have come up trumps. I could not be more grateful.
Why my father hid the fact he was Jewish
There is nothing to be cheerful about in the area of London where I live. It’s a predominantly Jewish part of the capital and I’m horrified by the stories friends tell about the fear they’re suffering as a result of what’s going on around them.
Jewish schools have been closing, children are told not to wear uniform that marks them out as Jewish, posters of missing hostages are ripped down.
Jenni’s father concealed his Jewish identity for fear of anti-Semitism
In this city, which prides itself on its diversity, anti-Semitism is worse now than at any time since World War II. Do people not know they’re being racist?
I can feel the fear that led my father to conceal his identity. I only discovered my grandmother’s history when we visited Auschwitz together. I was 14 years old. It was 1964.
Just leave the Venus alone!
Just Stop Oil activists smashed the glass protecting Diego Velazquez’s Rokeby Venus this week
What is it about Diego Velazquez’s Rokeby Venus, pictured, that makes people want to destroy her?
First a suffragette called Mary Richardson slashed her in 1914. Now the Just Stop Oil gang has attacked her by smashing the glass protecting her.
What an unoriginal protest. Just leave her alone.
Ellie and Vito get my vote
I was very relieved when Angela Rippon survived the Strictly dance-off last week. But Ellie and Vito were a revelation.
Ellie did a bit of tap and ballet when she was a child, but has no ballroom training. She’s what Strictly should be — from just about managing to the Ginger Rogers to Vito’s tall and elegant Fred Astaire.
Sorry Angela, but my money’s now on them to win.
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