When a young woman reaches a certain age, she begins to feel the pressure as her biological clock ticks louder and faster. Often, though, this pressure is brought on by well-meaning outsiders asking, “When are you going to get a boyfriend?”
Then, “When are you going to get married?”
Followed by, “When are you going to have a baby?”
And, “When are you going to have another baby?”
There is barely enough time to catch your breath between questions. Angelique was not even a day old when the nurses started making comments like, “See you in a year’s time for the next one.” I wish I could have made some snarky retort but, alas, I was still recovering from the anaesthetic and trying to process the fact that my baby was finally in my arms. (Next time, I will think of a few comments before the birth so I can be prepared.)
My princess is now nine months old, so I have been not-pregnant almost as long as I was pregnant. It’s amazing how much can happen in nine months. A baby develops from two tiny cells. A baby learns to roll, sit, crawl, cruise and cause general mayhem. A mother forgets things like wanting to die from morning sickness, just thinking about a toilet and needing to pee, and how uncomfortable and eternal that ninth month was. She begins to imagine a baby brother or sister or both, and ignores the voice of reason that wants to know when she plans to get a full night’s sleep again.
The voice of reason demands to be heard, pointing out things like a small flat, nappy prices and night feeds. “Remember the two-year plan?” it asks. And, “Aren’t you sick of feeding bras?”
I remember. I am.
And yet …
And yet …