Last week I wrote about how I don’t like being referred to as a mummy blogger, because DURR I write about way more than my kids, yeah?
Today I’m going to write about my kids.
I’ve noticed that at the age of 30 my friends are starting to have babies. At 24 I realise I was insanely early to this party and always noticed that where I lived most mums with children the same age as mine were a little bit older than me. I didn’t outright plan to have children so young but having suffered greatly with Endometriosis in my late teens I was told that it would be tricky to get pregnant so I wasn’t exactly trying not to, either.
Turns out that if you as much as take an unprotected sneeze near me you’ll knock me up. You have been warned.
So while Elfie was in no way an accident she was definitely kind of a surprise. A good surprise, but a surprise all the same. And then soon after she was born my ex-husband started making noises about having a small age gap between our two children (thank you, man who no longer lives with us ;) and so Hux followed a year and a half later. Before I knew it I was a 26 year old with two children under two. To say it was a bit of a whirlwind would be an understatement.
Because of the way my children came along I never felt that ‘pull’ that I know that many mothers get. You know, the ache in your arms and in your ovaries that tells you that it is imperative you pro-create NOW IF NOT SOONER. I mean, I knew I wanted to have babies at some point in my life but I didn’t feel the desire to get on it there and then. Very luckily for me it just happened – twice! – and I am very happy that it did.
After Hux was born I was in a big post-natal depressive fug. And then the divorce happened so I didn’t really think beyond getting through the next few years. Babies weren’t even on my horizon save for some Facebook birth announcements that seemed increasingly uninteresting to me (sorry new mums!). Pre-having kids I’d always see a mum to be and think “aww, look at that lovely blooming belly” but it actually got to the point where I’d feel sorry for a pregnant woman, for the poor lady surely did not know the difficult times that were to come.
Of course I was at this point a single mum of two pre-school children so who can blame me, really?
It’s only now that I have clocked into the thirties club that I’m starting to get the weirdest most alien of all the feelings. Readers, I think I might be broody.
It has been the weirdest thing. I get soppy eyed at newborn babies. I ask questions about how much they weigh, sleep, poo. I like pregnant bellies and get misty over reminiscing about my own pregnancies.
Sidenote: can I remind you of the following that I wrote at 16 weeks pregnant with Hux?
“Again I marvel at the body’s capacity to forget and I worry about a potential baby number three now I’ve committed my first trimester experiences to paper (or blog). Right now I don’t think I could face going through it all again, especially not with two kids. I would rather do anything, ANYTHING, than go through that again.”
And yet. AND YET! Pregnant bellies! Newborn heads! Giving birth! How dreamy!
This hugely unexpected event of Mother Nature declaring war on my child-bearing emotions has made me think about if I want another one. Because how do you really know when your family is complete? I have friends who are currently having that discussion about two or three (or four!) kids, and honestly with my hormones the way they are I don’t think I could be so sensible about it. I’d be one tipsy irresponsible shag away from a people carrier.
Though I guess that not having a boyfriend does help me not throw caution to the wind and have another third child right now; unless immaculate conceptions are A Thing or like I said, someone virile sneezes near me.
I think a lot of this comes from the stage I’m at in life. I might not have a man but I have never been happier or felt more settled or – dare I say it – grown up. I take the bins out on the right day, I don’t drink or nap to excess (not always anyway), I read intelligent books and buy footwear for comfort rather than looks. The Alice in 2015 is much better placed to deal with pregnancy and babies than the Alice in 2010 was and I can’t help but feel that I might have cheated myself out of the ‘dream’ childbirthing experience by not being in the best of places back then.
But for now I will ride out the hormonal wave and continue to inappropriately rub stranger’s bellies. Because as lovely as babies are I am not doing that stage alone again. And when the time comes maybe I will have that number three and a VW Touareg. Or maybe I wont. Who knows.