Why I've realised it was selfish to leave having children until my 40s Barbara, now 55, had her daughters when she was 40 and 45 Her husband, Peter, was aged 48 and 54 Now they are both in declining health and Peter recently had a stroke She wishes they hadn't left parenthood so late Children too young to be contemplating a life as their carersÂ By Barbara Metcalfe For The Daily Mail Our lives unravelled on a June day, bright with sunshine. In the garden, my partner Peter and our daughter Isabella were putting up the parasol so we could eat outside. I heard their voices float into the kitchen where I was preparing dinner; Izzy prattling, Peter's laughter. Then suddenly they were both in front of me with panic in their eyes. Eleven-year-old Izzy looked stricken, her face drained of colour. Peter was speaking, but making no sense. I felt a lurch of fear. 'I think you're having a stroke,' I said. Regrets: Barbara, now 55, with Izzy, 11, left, and Thea, 16, who she had when she was aged nearly 40 and 45 'I think I am,' he replied, and it was his last cogent phrase. He lost his speech entirely over the next couple of hours. I drove him to hospital that day five months ago, leaving Izzy and her older sister Thea, 16, at home. They stood at the window, mute and pale with fear as we left, and it struck me then how vulnerable they were. Peter is 63; old enough to be their grandfather, and although he is now slowly recovering, his stroke was an awful shock. At 55, I, too, am afflicted with ailments. Just over three years ago, I had a hip replacement because arthritis had eroded the tissue and the pain had become unbearable. Before the op, I had the stooped gait of an old woman and walked with a stick. I felt embarrassed for my young, beautiful daughters. I looked like their grandmother. In truth, I felt like it, too. I've had surgery on my shoulder and two operations on my hands. Last year, out of the blue, I was rushed to hospital with an infected gall bladder. Middle-aged spread has engulfed me like lava and my joints creak when I haul myself out of a chair. I do not kneel because the pain in my joints is like cuts from shards of glass. Barbara cradling Izzy as a baby: She thought being in her forties made her a better parent I worry for our girls. They should be enjoying their lives unencumbered by concerns about their parents' failing health. They should not now be contemplating a life as our carers or worse, prematurely fearing our death. Yet this is what we have done to them. Already I've watched with a mix of pride and sadness as they've adopted supportive roles, staging their own speech therapy sessions with Peter and gently coaxing him to draw and paint as he used to do. They've been patient and tolerant and pretended not to mind when, tired and pain-racked, one or both of us has snapped at them. Izzy forfeited sleepovers at our home with her friends in the early days of her dad's recovery. Thea, meanwhile, did not go to her school prom. She gave up the chance to celebrate the end of her GCSE exams â€" she achieved eight A stars â€" and dazzle in her lovely jewelled dress because Peter was moving to the stroke unit on the same day. These sacrifices, and the allowances the girls make daily to accommodate our physical decline, fill me with guilt and sorrow. They have led me, too, to the stark conclusion that it is wrong â€" selfish, in fact â€" to have children as late in life as Peter and I did. I was almost 40 when Thea was born, and Izzy came along a week after I turned 45. Peter, in turn, was 48 and 54 when he became a father for the first and second time. By any measure this is a late entry into parenthood, and although we both felt well and vigorous at the time, it has alarmed us how swiftly our advancing years have stamped their mark on our bodies. Too young to be carers: Peter has had a stroke and Barbara worries about how their daughters will cope if their health continues to declineÂ We cannot pretend we have been afflicted with more than the usual run of bad luck with our health. The truth is, past the age of 50 everyone is more vulnerable to chronic illness and life-threatening diseases. Indeed, age is the single most important risk factor for strokes. For each successive ten years after 55, the stroke rate more than doubles in both men and women. I recognise, too, that once I reached 50, I became more susceptible to arthritis and to osteoporosis â€" which afflicts one-in-three post-menopausal women â€" and that my chances of getting breast or ovarian cancer also rose sharply. The mere fact of being over 40 increases the likelihood that I will develop diabetes â€" and Peter already has it. Â I do not want my girls to live in a constant state of worry. I want them to be carefree, like their friends whose parents are only just in their 40s and still full of life Yet, just two years ago, I was arguing a contrary case â€" putting up a spirited defence of late life parenthood in an article in this newspaper. I believed then, before Peter's stroke, that the benefits of having children when you were older outweighed the disadvantages. I listed the pros â€" patience, experience and financial security. I also stressed the fact that older parents, accepting their hedonistic partying days had come to a natural end, did not resent spending cosy evenings at home with their children and were more attentive as a result. Some of this, of course, remains true. But I now have to concede that Mother Nature did not intend women on the brink of menopause to be the mothers of young children. My own change of life arrived abruptly and with a force that almost floored me, after I'd had a hysterectomy when Izzy was just five. It ushered in a raft of symptoms from drenching night sweats to a lack of recall that still makes me sometimes fear I have dementia. And then there were the mood swings. One minute I was ranting at the poor dog for getting under my feet, the next I was in floods of tears when I'd accidentally broken a glass in the kitchen. Pregnant just before she turned 40: She now wishes she hadn't left it so late but she had polycystic ovaries which reduced her fertility All of which adds to my sense that I've short-changed my children. They should not have been encumbered with my irritability, my mood swings and constant tiredness. And older mums are less than fair on themselves as well. When I yearned to be at home with my aching feet on a stool I was, instead, perched on a tiny junior school chair at a parents' evening. When I craved an afternoon nap, I'd be standing at the school gates with mothers young enough to be my daughters, enduring the swooning heat of a hot flush. Of course, the compulsion to carry on working is pressing when your children are still growing â€" when they've yet to reach university age and their financial self-sufficiency is decades away â€" so Peter and I are forced to plough on with work while many of our contemporaries are enjoying fulfilling and prosperous retirements. Peter and I met in the Eighties when we were ambitious provincial journalists. I was drawn to his wit and erudition and we both went on to become TV producers. I did not make a conscious decision to defer motherhood in favour of my career, as so many young women do today. In fact, I had all but given up hope of having a baby. I suffered from polycystic ovarian syndrome, a known cause of infertility, but in 1998, just before my 40th birthday, I realised I was pregnant. A six-week scan showed the tiniest blip like a pulsating star. I felt giddy with happiness. Although my age meant I was at greater risk from having a baby with Down's Syndrome, I declined a test. I'd never have an abortion, so what would be the point? And as my pregnancy progressed, I felt wonderfully fit. I was still running on the treadmill at the gym until 29 weeks. Change of heart: Barbara will now implore her own girls - pictured when Izzy was born - to have children early, before they reach 30 The sense that I was invincible persisted. Nobody imagines â€" when they are full of energy and in good health â€" how quickly things can change, or indeed what challenges being a mum will bring. Thea brought us delight, but her own set of problems. She is deaf and as an infant she would wake throughout the night, every night, scared of the silent blackness. She had a cochlear implant when she was two years old. Days of speech therapy and wakeful nights compounded my fatigue. By the time Izzy arrived, the sleepless nights were taking their toll. Arthritis was also exerting its grip. But although I felt every day of my 45 years, I was determined not to show it. I eased myself onto the floor to play with the girls; I crawled out of bed for dawn feeds. There are, too, other unfortunate consequences of having children late. Grandparents are either dead â€" as Peter's parents are â€" or too elderly to lend a hand with childcare. My parents, 230 miles away in Teesside, are in their 80s, and have their own health problems. Â If I'd had the choice â€" and I didn't â€" I know I would have put my career on hold at 30 to have my babies. Because none of us â€" even the most hale and hearty 45-year-old â€" can know what is round the next corner I felt this acutely when I went into hospital for my hysterectomy. Peter was left in sole charge of our two bewildered little girls and I can still see the fear in their eyes as I checked myself into the ward. Then, after my op, I was up and about again too quickly, fearful of neglecting the girls and anxious not to provide another opportunity for them to worry about me. And now it is Peter's turn to be the focus of our concern. His convalescence has been steady. He is speaking tentatively now and only a slight droop of his face betrays the fact that he has had a stroke. He is starting to contemplate work again and has TV projects in the pipeline â€" he still works as a producer â€" but it saddens me that he is forced to earn money while still recovering his health. And that is yet another consequence of being an elderly parent. Peter's contemporaries are starting to draw their pensions while we still have two dependent children and a mortgage. Our home â€" a lovely four-bedroom semi â€" would be too big for Peter and me alone. But we are loath to downsize and save money. After all, we have two growing girls who revel in the space and the garden, and are flourishing academically at the nearby grammar school. How could we uproot them? So we continue on the treadmill of working and earning and the physical demands remain relentless. I am up at 6am and am last to bed at midnight. Old enough to be grandparents: But will Peter and Barbara live to see their girls have children of their own? Our girls protest kindly that they don't care about the fact we didn't have a holiday this year. Nor, they insist, do they care about our ages. This makes me proud, but also angry that they feel the need to tiptoe around our feelings and make allowances for our needs. I do not want my girls to live in a constant state of worry. I want them to be carefree, like their friends whose parents are only just in their 40s and still full of life. My fear is what next? I know there will always be something â€" some ache, or grumble or worse â€" as I move towards 60 and Peter approaches his 70s. We should, if the natural order of things had prevailed, be having grandchildren by now. But will Peter and I live to see our girls have children of their own? Arthritis often starts between 40 and 50 years old, with women three times more likely to be affected than menÂ This is another reason why I have revised my opinion on older mums. I now implore my own girls â€" and all women â€" to have children early, before they reach 30. I know I shouldn't impose my views on my daughters, but I am adamant. They should not defer motherhood indefinitely to pursue their careers. They should not believe they will be impervious to illness and the infirmities that arrive with age. Nor should they think they can cheat their biological clocks and preserve their fertility indefinitely. I met a friend the other day who has a wonderful career ahead of her. But I couldn't stop myself from bringing babies into the conversation. I told her outright that her career should not come first. She was shocked because it was so unlike the old me. Would I be saying the same thing to her husband?, she asked. The fact is, I would. Because my own experience has taught me that fathers as well as mothers have an obligation to think about the future; about the quality of life they are bequeathing to their children. I have resolutely revised the opinion I held so fervently two years ago. I was wrong. Older parents do not make better parents. If I'd had the choice â€" and I didn't â€" I know I would have put my career on hold at 30 to have my babies. Because none of us â€" even the most hale and hearty 45-year-old â€" can know what is round the next corner. And although I can never regret having my beautiful daughters, I seriously fear the day will soon come when they will bitterly regret the fact that we are older parents.