If spending time around old people has taught me anything, it’s that the best way to make friends is to publicise unpleasant medical anecdotes about yourself. In the spirit of that philosophy, here are two things that happened to me this week:
As I lay in my hospital robo-bed, I found myself considering the increasingly tenuous likelihood of us having additional children. I’m already firing on two slightly dodgy cylinders (due to a longstanding medical thingy) and so the hours I spent sandwiched between a chronic vomiter and a shower-shy gastric patient were also spent disappearing into thoughts about the circumstances surrounding our production-line baby-making of the past two years. And yus, I appreciate that sounds like I spent 36 hours thinking about sex with my husband.
Am I misguided in thinking that most people in their late teens/early twenties feel an innate need to rebel? I’ll admit, this was a driver for me. The enduring obstacle for this generation, however, is this: how do you rebel in a society which actively encourages their youth to get wrecked, sleep around, play around with any chemical going and drop off the planet for months on a time? I’ll tell you how. You find a respectable husband with a decent job, you postpone your graduation to have babies and you get yourself a mortgage in a quiet countryside town. You go full 1950’s on those suckers. Getting married at 21 was my (admittedly polite) two fingers up at societal expectations. In the life I’ve chosen, the only spontaneous ‘sleeping around’ I’m doing is dropping off on the journey home from church. The only line I’ve ever cut is the one for the toilet at Tesco's.
Having established that innate brattishness was key to my decision to start a family at 21, there’s also no getting around the whole ‘I did it because God told me to do it’ thing. I know that for those of you who consign the notion of God to the same ‘file of asinine’ as the Tooth Fairy and Tory manifesto promises, ‘the voice in my head(heart?) told me to do it’ is a ludicrous premise for bringing children into the world. But I’m cool with that. All I know is that when I prioritise what I feel I should do over what I impulsively desire to do, things work out. Whether that’s deciding to have children early on, or that time I felt to drag my backside out of bed and turn on the light before taking a swig of my bedside water (allowing me to discover the dead Aragog lapping gently against the rim).
I don’t know how this recent ovarian incident will affect the landscape of our future family. What I do know, is that I’m glad we followed that ‘prompting’ to not hang around. Both of our boys were freaky anomalies (our youngest's existence being in the zero point something per cents of likelihood). I’ll have the whole of the rest of my life to travel the world, to have a kickass career, to party until 5 am - but perhaps just this small window in which to experience having a biological child. Honestly, I seriously believe there is an intelligence greater than mine with a perspective than dwarves my own. If I can tap into that, then why wouldn’t I?
So yuh. All in all, this has not been a horrendous week. My toddler drew on my Mulberry shoulderbag and thanks to my recent ponderings I didn’t even cry. Plus I got to take home this nifty little number.
Visit my youtube page for an easy craft tutorial on how you can waterproof your own stylish bedpan trilby using three nappy bags and a pack of chewed up Hubba Bubba!
P.S Anecdote 2 to follow later. I know you can’t wait to hear more about my exploding ovaries.
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