The sharp eyed among will surely have spotted a distinct lack of crafting going around these parts. I’m still reading all my favourite blogs and coming up with ideas of things I could do, I just don’t really have the time or inclination to do any of it at the moment. This blog is evolving a wee bit too, with more posts about me and my thoughts. Partly this is down to my new job – when I have a bit of quiet time now I’m able to take 15 minutes writing down some of the ideas rattling around in my head. So far the reaction has been good – I’m tickled pink at the compliments I got for my writing, so hopefully you are enjoying this slightly different direction. Without further ado….
As a preface to this, I should say I’m not writing this to look for reassurance or anything like that, it’s just another in a series of random musings which have been rattling about in my head.
It’s a shocking bit of gender stereotyping, but I’ve always loved babies. One of my earliest memories is of breastfeeding my teddy bear. Apparently when I was taken to the hospital to meet my new brother I threw my dolly out of my pram and insisted he be put in there instead. I remember the pram, but not this and given that Sean and I spent the following 19 years fighting like cat and dog, I suspect my parents might be making this up. However, babies have always fascinated me. I’m always first in the queue for a cuddle with the wee ones or to throw the bigger ones around. Among friends I was always the one who said ‘when I have kids’ not ‘if I have kids’. Now though, I’m not so sure.
I’m not where I thought I would be at this age – let’s be honest, I imagine few of us are. Life is what happens when you are making other plans. When I was at school, I blithely imagined by the time I was 30 I would be married with a couple of children – the classic suburban dream. It’s not an especially original assumption and a number of my school colleagues have achieved it with precious little hassle. I have not and for the most part I am ok with that. Now I am beginning to wonder if I will achieve it – and, more to the point, will I really be unhappy if I don’t? I am aware my biological clock is ticking – and yes, I am also aware that at (almost) 31, I still have a number of potential child bearing years in front of me, but do I want to be a first time mum at 37? Or 42? Not really. Also (at the risk of sounding like the most awful prig) do I want to bring a child into an already very overcrowded world? Am I emotionally even close to ready to be a mum? I’m not so sure. I have to remind myself from time to time that I am almost 31, because in my head I don’t feel any different to how I did in my mid 20s. Of course, this is all entirely academic as I am single and not doing the thing which makes babies. Mind you, in these liberated 21st century days you don’t necessarily need to be doing that thing – there is always what I crudely call the ‘turkey baster’ route. Friends have asked if I would ever consider going along this route and honestly, my answer would have to be no. For one thing I couldn’t afford to do it privately ( I wouldn’t use the NHS for something like this), for another I would feel appallingly guilty using a service designed for couples who have problems conceiving, when I have, as far as I know, no problems in this area.
I don’t regret any of the choices I have made in my career. I do regret many of the choices I’ve made in my personal life, but then, who doesn’t? However, all these choices have brought me to where I am now and that’s a pretty good place. I suppose what I’m doing now is making my peace with a situation which may not – but could – come to pass. I could be swept off my feet tomorrow and be in the family way within weeks or it might never happen. Either way, it’s ok. I suppose the only pang of regret I might have, is that my parents wouldn’t be grandparents, but then again my brother may come up trumps on that front. In the end I would like to be more than just me, but I’m ok if that doesn’t come to pass.