At 63 and 71, our friends are becoming grandparents. We’re raising a kindergartener.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Barb Higgins, 63, a part-time CrossFit coach from Massachusetts.

It has been edited for length and clarity.

Our town is very close-knit, so I already know a lot of the parents at pick-up and drop-off at the school where my son, Jack, recently started kindergarten.

Nobody bats an eye when I arrive, though some of the kids seem a little curious about why I look older than their moms and dads.

One child said out loud that I looked like a grandmother.

I didn’t mind in the slightest. “I’m 63, of course I look like a grandmother,” I told them. “Don’t worry about it, but I had him in my belly, and he’s my baby.” As for Jack, he doesn’t register that I’m in my 60s and his dad, Kenny, a retired businessman, is 71.

He loves us for who we are, not how young or old we are.

It was a long, hard road to have him at 57.

I was heartbroken after the death five years earlier of my youngest daughter, Molly, from a brain tumor when she was 13.

And I’d had health struggles of my own.

In 2018, an MRI ahead of a surgery on a facial nerve showed three non-cancerous growths in my brain.

The larger was removed, and the others were treated with radiation.

It was a terrible setback, but I was grateful to be diagnosed.

The path that led me to the facial operation began when I decided to try for a third baby.

If I hadn’t undergone a full health check-up before doing IVF, those tumors might not have been spotted.

My longing to be a mom again — sparked by vivid dreams urging me to get pregnant— may have saved me.

I’m a spiritual person and saw it as a sign.

Kenny and I weren’t looking for a “replacement” for Molly because she could never be replaced.

Still, the desire to create a living sibling for our older daughter, Gracie, now 25, was all-consuming.

I didn’t care what people thought about Kenny and me having fertility treatment in our late 50s and 60s.

We weren’t aware of any criticism at the time.

Even if we had been, it would have made no difference.

I’d gotten the all clear to carry another baby after many tests and tune-ups.

I was extremely fit after a lifetime of sports, including running.

My body age was much younger than my driver’s license said.

We were thrilled to get pregnant with Jack on our second attempt at IVF, though I don’t discuss the details because of his privacy.

I didn’t announce it until the 22-week milestone and kept it low-key.

My OB-GYN warned that I would be judged as being “too old.” He said to let the birth be the news.

Jack arrived in March 2021, and we bonded immediately.

I nursed him and never felt that I didn’t have enough energy to keep up with him when he became a toddler.

Everybody that I knew was ultra-supportive.

However, I did some media interviews, which brought out the trolls.

They made negative comments about my age.

One online magazine aimed at women really cut me down.

They tore into me for breastfeeding, were mean about my “wrinkly” face, and wrote that I had some kind of “Mother Mary” complex.

I wrote to the editor, saying, “For a magazine that supports women, you’re treating this one pretty crappy.” Since then, I’ve only had compliments about the way we’re raising Jack.

He’s always been super affable and will speak to anyone.

He’ll spontaneously say to me that I look beautiful.

He’s an only child for the most part — Gracie lives and works in Paris — and is growing up in a house full of adults.

He is very smart and can carry on intelligent conversations.

Jack was so excited to start kindergarten at the end of August.

It’s a forest school where most classes take place outdoors.

He does tap, hip-hop, jazz, and ballet.

Then he’ll play T-ball or go to the ninja gym to swing on rings and climb.

We’re constantly going on field trips, to birthday parties, and to parades.

I stay busy, partly because I like being busy, but having Jack keeps me vital.

The combination of his going to pre-school and now kindergarten has opened up my world.

Your social circle tends to diminish as you get older, and you get lonely.

Yet here we are meeting wonderful parents in their 30s and 40s who embrace us.

Kenny and I do get the odd, strange look when we’re out and about.

Most strangers will assume that we’re Jack’s grandparents or are fostering him.

It’s clear that we’re parental figures.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned about the future.

I’ll be 75 when Jack graduates from high school.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I’ll worry about staying as healthy as possible for him.

Still, I’m not your typical 63-year-old, particularly because I do CrossFit and Hyrox.

Longevity runs in our family, and I can see myself getting beyond 90.

Once you lose a child, you realize there are no guarantees in life.

I have no bigger risk of dying because I’m in my 60s than I do getting hit by a bus.

A normal trajectory would have my kids grown, some grandkids coming, or maybe not.

And I would be living my end years.

People ask if I regret anything as an older mom.

Like parents of any age, I’ll have fleeting moments when I think, “I could be doing that, but I’m doing this.” However, I wouldn’t want my life or Jack’s life to be any different.