As I’ve reached the milestone of being 30, my body is starting to talk to me. When I met up with a friend I haven’t seen in ages, and I saw how she was with her two sons, I realised that I don’t want to wait until I’ve got that promotion. I don’t want to wait until I’ve finished that project. I want to start having children now.
I started looking around at all my friends that I went to school with who have children. I seem to be the anomaly that went off to university and got myself a career job. And while I have done that, I wonder whether my penchant for DVD boxsets and chick lit books is really hiding that hole that I have inside me. Do I think that if I just buy that DVD – and wait until I’ve eventually watched it – or I’ll buy that book, that it will make me whole?
My problem is that I’m worried that as I continue my trek through the tricenarian forest, will it get more difficult to become pregnant? My work is important to me, but what is more important in the long run is what I leave behind when I’m gone. Who will be there to look after me when I’m old and greying? Who will be at my bedside as I take my last dying breath?
I’ve always been adamant that I’d be a rubbish mother, as I consider myself to be quite selfish, and I was always a strange type of woman who would never go gaga over babies, but would always say that puppies were cute and gush over them instead.
Now, I want it all. I want the two babies. I want the crying in the middle of the night, the cleaning snot from a nose and wiping it on my nightie. There are going to be no more regrets.