I had my first (and only) child at an age at which my contemporaries with children were shooing theirs from the nest. I was asked, “Are you happy?” more times than I care to remember.

Oh, happy I was. Fueled by hormones, the likes of which I never knew existed, I floated giddily through a blessedly uneventful pregnancy and a textbook, scheduled c-section.

My child, the boy we call Will, was happily breech, awaiting his birth in the lotus position. I am convinced he was meditating on the meaning of life and the existentialism of cartoons, while compiling an arsenal of questions that would need to be asked (and answered in great detail) after he made his entrance into the world.

I was 43 when I held my baby for the first time.

The absolute worst and best thing about being an older mom — way, way worse than people assuming you’re the kid’s grandmother — is knowing that you have so much less time with your kid. The constant of the ticking clock is both sobering and exhilarating, and it forces you to carefully consider how you spend each minute.

Those years of experience are also valuable. I’ve been around the block enough times to know better than to sweat the small things. The calamities of childhood are so often the builders of character that I always consider the wisdom of interjecting myself into my kid’s situations; I need this kid to learn how to fend for himself. I’ve also carefully sifted through complaints from school: Throughout his young life, there have been caregivers and teachers who have complained that Will asks too many questions. Excuse me, but I just can’t get myself worked up about that.

While I know my years of life experience help me be a better parent, I’d be disingenuous if I said that I’m fine with how quickly time is passing.

I recently got two letters from school. One was announcing middle school information night; the other contained the permission form I needed to sign for Will to take “Human Growth and Development.”

I heard the footsteps of time picking up the pace.

Over breakfast one morning, Will talked about his “Human Growth and Development” class.

“I asked a question in class,” he said. “I asked about Andy on ‘The Office,’ when he did the splits when he was dancing and ripped his testicles. I asked if that happened a lot.

“What did the teacher say,” I asked.

“She said that the guy must have had some sort of problem down there because that usually doesn’t happen,” Will said. “She said I didn’t have anything to worry about.”

“What else have you learned,” I asked.

“Well, I am going to start stinking soon,” he said, poking at his eggs. “None of this makes me happy, momma, none of it.”

That makes two of us, I thought, as I assured him of the wonders of modern-day deodorant.

“I think I’m going to start calling you ‘mom,’ too,” he said. “Momma sounds too little kid.”

“Whatever,” I said. “You can call me whatever you like.”

“Oh, Maria, Maria, Maria,” he said.

I laughed and shooed him from my nest, happy that he’d be back at the end of the school day.