The age old question with no right answer.
WHEN THE SWEET BABIN’ HELL SHOULD YOU HAVE A BABY?
Ah, womanhood, you jolly hoot, you.
I often stay away from writing too much on this subject for fear I will rock up home from London one chilly weekday laden with a belly full of wine to find my boyfriend has changed the locks and my excessive framed print and winter coat collections are chilling in the front garden.
Lol to women maturing before men, eh?
It suddenly occurred to me last week, whilst I was watching a particularly stressful episode of 16 And Pregnant, that, should I get pregnant like right now, I would be 27 when the baby was born.
That, my sweet internet friends, is the age at which I told myself throughout my teenage and early-twenties years, I would have my first baby.
Thing is, I’m not there yet.
I’m not ready. Or at least I don’t think I am. I mean, I saw that photo of Louis Tomlinson and his baby on Twitter and then I was like YES ALL THE BABIES, but y’know, who didn’t feel their ovaries suddenly take over their bodies as if they were possessed by the devil, eh?
My issue is that I want to frantically squeeze in a few more travel adventures and save some more money and do things like get drunk in the middle of the afternoon on prosecco whilst eating cake and gossiping about nipples and sponsored posts for a bit longer.
I want to be me for longer. This version of me that is happy and settled and can say YES YES YES to all the opportunities.
But I fear that I am being selfish. I fear that I will blink and be like maaaaaate, how am I 36 and why isn’t making a baby super easy?
I always knew that I wanted to be a young mum. That is, a mum that still had energy and understood her kids. A mum that was more likely to be confused as a sister than a grandma.
I’m not talking like woah get me on the UK version of Teen Mom, but like, I wanted kids before 30. I wanted to live a little, set myself up a career and a home and a little pot of money and just get going.
But when I made all those wild plans for the future with my inner monologue, I didn’t take into consideration how I’d actually feel as a person, inside my own head, when I reached the age where I assumed motherhood would beckon.
The thing is, I could look after a baby. I could fit a baby in my home. I could probably afford a baby if I just tried a little harder to cut down on the YOLO ASOS ORDERS and afternoon Starbucks treats and £8 packs of colouring-in pens.
But I still, deep down, right in the little crevices of my brain, feel like a child.
Like a teenager playing house. Like I can’t possibly really be this old, this much of an adult. I thought I would feel so much older than I do when I hit this age, this period of my life.
I feel like I was supposed to have lived so many more experiences and loves and activities and memories before I got here, before I got to the terrifying adulting realm of the late twenties.
I’ve written this post waiting for the ambush of nice ladies in the comments section to tell me that OMFG YOU’RE SO YOUNG AND WHY ARE YOU EVEN THINKING ABOUT THIS YOU’LL BE FINE.
But alas, my ovaries – or, in fact, any of our ovaries, might not actually be willing to be all cute and willing when it comes to baby-making in a decades time.
Because most of us have no idea if we’re part of the fertile crew or part of the lol, I ain’t making you a baby for shit, crew.
Whichever way you look at it, our bodies and our reproductive systems haven’t evolved as quickly as society has and the stats still say it becomes harder to conceive after 30. Heck, it’s even slightly, marginally, harder to conceive after 25 than it is before 25.
So, before I have to give this whole stage of my life anymore space in my brain, me and my polycystic ovaries have gone and done something a bit wild and out there.
We’ve gone and booked ourselves in for a fancy Fertility MOT at a clinic in London. Because yes I’d have loved to have spent a sneaky £200 on a Kate Spade handbag, but y’know what, I’d rather spend that money giving myself a heads up.
Just letting a girl know whether she’s free to explore the world as a slighty-drunk sleep-obsessed twenty-something for as long as she likes or whether oh sweet mother have mercy, your ovaries are only a couple of years away from crumbling into oblivion. Y’know?
Anyway, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subjects, as career-focused millennials and what not.
I want to hear tales of oops I got pregnant at 19 and IT WAS THE BEST THING EVER. I want to hear, I got pregnant and 25 and mate, you should defs put it off for longer and I want to hear, I waited until my thirties and why the fuck did I do that?
I want to hear every side. I want to make this a discussion we have out loud. Something we talk about. Not something that feels a bit frowned upon because wait your degree and career comes first.
SO TELL ME, HOW DO WE JUGGLE THE WEIRD OL’ PUZZLE THAT IS FITTING EVERYTHING INTO LIFE IN JUST THE RIGHT WAY, EH?