bellinis and babies

Lunch was air and bellinis. Three thirtysomethings and me (I’m holding tight to 29).

Chaz is in PR. She’s good at it. They say she sold ice to an Eskimo. Twice. Luisa’s a banker. Investment. City firm. Chasing that £2million bonus. Julie’s the lawyer. She hates it, but she likes the money. The power. The old boy’s school she gets to order around.

And there’s me.

The conversation descends to men and why they’re needless and I sit quiet. I’ve got mine, and he’s a good one. They laugh and say Tall Dark & Handsome doesn’t count – he’s an anomaly. They ask if they’re leaving me out. If I have anything to moan about. I say I do.

I say this:

“If I hear don’t you want kids? one more time, someone’s gonna get bit.”

The girls understand. Because they’re more like me than not, and because they’ve heard my gripe before. They know about the uncle who knows everything and warns ‘You don’t want to be raising teenagers in your forties’, and the old school mates who ask ‘Can’t you have them?’.

Because the first is just so obvious and the second so polite.

Here’s the girls:

Chaz: “I don’t want ’em. Ever. That’s why I have rabbits.”

Luisa: “I’ve never wanted to have children. And I never will. Not with this body anyway.”

Julie: “I only want ’em when I’m drunk. And only if if they come without a man.”

Here’s me:

I like to be in control. I’ve always had a plan. Escape the farm. (“She’d have never been happy with a country boy like me.” Stephen said it. He was right.) Educate myself. (Because I deserve it.) Travel the world. Alone. (And remember that I did it…every day.) The plan never included children. Then I turned 27, and in an epiphany, realised remaining childless would be a waste of a good man.

So yeah. I want kids. But in my time. Not yours. It’s not unheard of. Outside of the holler. I’ll be a thirtysomething mother. My teenagers will have a fortysomething mom.

And you know what, they’ll do just fine.