I Never Wanted Children. Then I Got Pregnant With Twins At 53.

I had twins at the age of 53.

While some young girls love to imagine their future wedding dress and plan how many children to have, I did neither. Instead I climbed many mountains in the Pacific Northwest, obtained an undergraduate and graduate degree, worked for a well-known tech company as an instructional designer and, finally, surprised myself by getting married at 45.

Still, the thought of having children did not interest me until I was 52 and had taken time away from my job to re-evaluate what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. When I finally knew that I wanted to do it, the realization hit me with incredible force. I felt certain that I wanted to raise kids — and raise them the way I wished I had been raised. I wanted to bring them up with unconditional love, compassion, a love for learning, a sense of adventure and amazement at the miraculous small things in life.

Though I never dreamed of having children, I had always been fascinated with pregnancy. By the time I was 20, I had amassed a small library of books on the topic, so when I decided to actually have kids, I knew I wanted to carry them. I never considered surrogacy or adoption.

Before I could become pregnant, I had to overcome some obstacles. I went through premature menopause at 40, so I was not ovulating, and Barry, my 58-year-old husband, had a vasectomy in his 30s. Despite these challenges, I was determined to find a way forward.

I researched the possibilities and made an appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist. When I told Barry, who was an airline captain, what I wanted to do, he was on the flight deck in Sydney, Australia, and all I heard on the other end of the phone was a shocked silence. He agreed to meet with the reproductive specialist when he returned to the U.S. but only, I later learned, because he believed his vasectomy meant a baby was impossible.

When we saw the doctor, Barry spent most of the appointment reading an old Newsweek. When we were told that sperm could still be retrieved from his body, I heard a thud as the magazine fell into his lap.

Though I had several health issues, including Addison’s disease, rheumatoid arthritis and sarcoidosis, the doctor assured me I could still get pregnant using an egg donor.

“Would you like to look at the binder of potential candidates?” he asked.

Barry shot me a “what the fuck!” look before we were quickly ushered down the hall. It took some convincing, but he finally agreed.

If I hadn’t been absolutely certain I wanted children, I probably would have been dissuaded by the mostly negative comments I received when I told people my plan. My mother said I was “crazy and too old.” Someone else told us, “You should sue the fertility clinic for agreeing to take Anne on as a client.” A member of my church said, “A lot of people will think you are selfish for bringing children into this world at your age.” And many, many people asked, “Do you realize how difficult it is to raise children, let alone at your age?” But my best childhood friend burst into happy tears and with her and Barry’s support, I was ready.

When it came time to prepare my body to receive the embryos, it was not easy or fast. There were group meetings with health care professionals. I had to get innumerable shots. I had to have a painful physical to make sure my ovaries and uterus were healthy. I had to give myself a shot in the butt and the stomach every day for several months. And I had to sync my newly revived reproductive system with my egg donor’s. It was tedious and it was expensive — as in, refinancing-the-house expensive.

About four long months later, with a friend in tow because my husband was once again working in Sydney, a puff of air blew two eight-day-old blastocysts into my uterus. I went home on that particularly beautiful sunny July day happier than I had been in years.

My pregnancy was a breeze. My three autoimmune diseases were in remission due to the babies excreting anti-inflammatory chemicals that kept me from rejecting them. I felt the best I had ever felt. Sure, I had morning sickness 24/7 — almost everything made me queasy, including certain smells, certain food, even dust balls in the corners of the house — but I didn’t care.

Despite my age, my autoimmune diseases, and the difficulties that can present with any pregnancy, I felt strangely calm. I had total confidence that these babies would be born healthy, and for some reason, I felt like I was carrying two very dear friends.

At 32 weeks, however, I knew something was wrong. We went to the hospital where I was admitted with pre-eclampsia. My team of perinatologists decided to perform a C-section and Little Barry was born at 6:01 p.m. followed by Little Anne at 6:04 p.m. Their lungs were fully developed, but they needed to stay in the NICU for a month to learn the suck, swallow, and breathe sequence.

I didn’t fare quite as well. I hemorrhaged on the operating table, lost eight units of blood, and spent three nights in the ICU. Five days later, I was released from the hospital after finishing another unforgettable experience of “skin-to-skin” contact with my babies.

I was talking to a lactation specialist just before I left the hospital when suddenly I heard a huge splat! A large amount of fluid from my abdomen broke through my stitches and saturated my clothes and covered the floor. Instead of readmitting me to the maternity ward, they made me go to the emergency room where I sat in a hospital gown open in the back in a dirty wheelchair for four hours. I picked up MRSA during that time, so my incision didn’t heal properly and I was forced to visit a bizarre place called the Wound Clinic every few days. I was given a wound vac — a machine that followed me around and used a suction device to remove fluid from the wound while promoting the growth of new tissue. Fun stuff. A month later, my incision was closed and the babies finally came home.

Given my age, my parents were too old to babysit. Barry was in Australia and New Zealand three weeks out of the month, so I was essentially alone with the babies. I averaged three hours of sleep a night. It was not easy and time went by very slowly, but the babies were precious and I felt so blessed to have them. The love I had for them was beyond measure. I still couldn’t believe they were mine.

After several months, I started going out more to keep from going stir crazy. I joined several mom groups, but I felt uncomfortable being several decades older than most of the others. I decided, instead, to take them to every single baby story time at the local library and all of my errands — including braving it at the grocery with both of their carriers completely filling my shopping cart.

I began to relish the “firsts” — the first teeth, the first roll overs, the first steps. It was worth all the pain and suffering I went through.

It was remarkable how close Little Barry and Little Anne seemed to be to each other. They were always holding hands or reaching for each other. It still amazes me that Anne sang constantly, way before she could talk.

When the twins were 3, my husband retired and I went back to work, but after only six months I realized my head was no longer in the game and I retired too. The twins were now old enough to attend preschool for several hours a day. I would go have coffee by myself or go to the library to take out stacks and stacks of award-winning children’s picture books, which the kids would invariably use as building blocks instead of looking at the pictures.

I loved watching them observe everything around them. I lived for taking them places just to experience it from their perspective. They were forever collecting what they called “sunflowers,” which were really dandelions, but I never told them that. They changed my life in so many beautiful ways and I knew that a world without them would be empty and meaningless.

When the twins started kindergarten, I loved their teacher so much that I volunteered in the classroom several days a week. I baked a lot of holiday-themed things for them and did little science projects at home. I combed the kids magazines and websites for things to do in the area.

I took them to museums, art galleries, zoos, aquariums, science centers, rivers, the ocean, lakes, and more. Invariably, everywhere we went, people would think I was their grandmother. Sometimes I corrected them and they were embarrassed and surprised, but many times I just let it go. It didn’t bother me and, incredibly, it didn’t bother the kids. It still doesn’t. I enjoy telling people our story and people are often amazed and inspired by it. Many people call me “brave,” which I still don’t get.

Elementary school passed in a whirlwind of activities. It was fascinating to watch their interests develop. Anne loved drawing, ballet, and singing. Barry played chess, loved instruments, and became active in scouting.

Middle school was a totally different beast. Suddenly along with the good grades (thank God) came endless swearing and smartass comebacks. I miss the sweet and cheerful babies I once had. I silently cry when Facebook sends me memories of when they were little. But now the twins have hilarious senses of humor and they accept and love me for who I truly am.

I’m now 67 years old with a 73-year-old husband. Despite the difficult and amazing journey we’ve been on — and despite my worries that we could be gone before the twins reach adulthood — I would not have done anything differently. Parents at any age can and do get sick and leave their kids parentless, but not many parents have the free time to devote to their children as we have had and do.

Next year it’s on to high school for them. My biggest hope is that Barry Senior and I will be here to see our kids go off to college and beyond. They’ve grown into well-adjusted, smart, curious, and, most importantly, extremely kind young adults, and I can’t wait to learn more about who they are and who they’re going to be.

Having Anne and Barry was absolutely the best decision I have ever made. It is without a doubt the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done in my life.

Anne Bockman Hansen started her career in the newspaper business as a writer and graphic artist. She obtained a Master of Science in technical communication from the University of Washington’s School of Engineering. After graduating, she became an instructional designer at Microsoft’s headquarters in Redmond, Washington. She lives with her husband Barry and their 14-year-old twins Anne and Barry in Fall City, Washington, in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.