I love children (couldn’t eat a whole one…) but I’ve never seen them in my future. Sure I can be the hip Aunty or Mum and Dad’s slightly kooky friend (but I refuse to smell of patchouli or become a crunchy granola hippy) but I’ve never been able to imagine pushing a pot roast out of my fanny and rearing it as my very own. I’ve always thought it’s a by-product of being terminally single, that my brain won’t let me imagine myself with rugrats to try and lessen the crushing disappointment that I’m going to be single forever with a vagina that has grown cobwebs through lack of use.
If I’m really honest with myself I’d like nothing more than to have children but when I envisage myself ten or even twenty years into the future I am not surrounded by Lamaze toys and JoJo Maman Bébé clothing or the detritus that comes with having teenagers in the house. In fact I see myself much as I am now, living with too many books and a multitude of artworks waiting to be framed and hung. Being at the stage where I’m starting to run out of ‘good egg years’ and knowing there is a family history of fertility problems however means that I’ve been thinking quite a lot recently about what sort of Mum I would be were I to ever bear crotch fruit.
In a nutshell (does trapped in a nutshell dance)… I’d be Beverly Goldberg.
I’ve always loved a jazzy jumper, have a plethora of saccharine nicknames up my sleeves, and am inherently nosey when it comes to other people’s lives. I’d be all up in their grill, wanting to be the hip Mum but never quite managing it. I’d take the protectiveness to the Nth degree and probably refuse to believe my children were anything other than A grade superstar children. They’d all study at the local equivalent of the Jenkintown Funk Academy because I couldn’t bear to loosen the apron strings any further and they’d probably spend most of the young lives thinking I was a gigantic pain in the butt.
In which case, maybe it’s a good thing my vagina is going to remain entrance only.