I was always one of those people who looked at babies and would wince in real, physical pain. And any time spent in the mere presence of a toddler would literally send me to bed for a little lie down to recover. I considered “One Born Every Minute” to be a horror show. And not drinking for nine months (or longer) in order to carry a baby – who came up with that idea?
However, something effing weird is happening. My husband is very concerned, I’m like a baby-aholic. These days I can’t get enough of babies, screaming babies, alien looking newborns, sliced open abdomens while squirming, sticky globs of babies are pulled out, mucky poo covered babies. The other day my husband actually asked me if I could come and watch Sixty Minutes with him to get me away from the “screaming babies show” (The Midwives – it’s actually excellent, if you’re into that sort of thing).
I always thought that old ‘biological clock’ chestnut was an urban myth and for years I was wondering when I would get the yearning to buy a Subaru, a car seat and a first aid kit. Thankfully I’m still attracted to absolutely inappropriate cars (I dream of one of those Smart Cars you can park in a matchbox, or the future ‘fold up car’ that I’ll be able to put in my pocket instead of having to reverse parallel park it), and good luck finding so much as a Band-Aid in my house. But apparently my body knows better than my mind.
On more than one occasion I’ve found myself smiling at babies in car parks, like they’re part of a little gang and they might let their other baby friends know that I look like a pretty hot stuff potential mother (in reality, they’re probably about to vomit on my face). “Hey Glenda” (totally hip retro hipster baby with suspenders says to his equally hip baby friend) “check out this lady, she looks like she wants to eat me”.