As a child I dreamed of two or maybe three children. A boy and a girl would be nice, we could live in a little house in the country, maybe have a dog and a cat.
When I met the hubbo I thought things would be easy and despite a diagnosis of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, I was optimistic.
In my head I would have my coil removed, we would make a baby, and then the first month my monthly was due there would be a gorgeous happy little double blue line in the pregnancy test window and that would be that.
How wrong was I.
Month after month after month for three years, we had no baby. Always a single blue line in that window, crushing my hopes and dreams, making me feel defective and broken. Blood tests showed I wasn’t ovulating and my periods had stopped long before we started trying.
For six months I was injected with things to make me more fertile. There were tablets to start a period; tablets to stop a period; tablets to make me ovulate, tablets to stop me ovulate. I was a mess. And none of it worked. I fell into a deep depression. Big D took over, I would scowl at people with babies, cry at One Born Every Minute, sob when the Royal baby was born. Oh, why couldn’t it be me, I wanted to be a mummy.
Christmas 2013, we got engaged. We will never be parents, I decided. I will make my home a loving place filled with cats, dogs, and any other fluffy animals to fill my maternal void.
Of course in March 2014 we had a huge shock and I had fallen pregnant naturally. Turns out it took copious amounts of Vodka, one lucky egg and a cheeky night in to achieve what we had so wanted.
In November 2014 our little miracle was born and our lives changed forever. I think being hit by a double-decker bus would cause less shock than that of becoming a parent. We had done it, we had a baby, a son. Friends, family, strangers in the street, anyone and everyone congratulated us on our new addition.
But once the congratulations had stopped, that infamous bastard next question started.
“So you will be trying for baby number two soon then?”.
What? Oh shut up, I’ve just given birth to a colic-ridden nine pound lump of stuff via the sunroof. My nipples are literally falling off my body. My internal organs are still reeling from surgery. Another one? Oh hell no.
Everyone told me I’d be broody straight away; that I forget the awful birth and want to do it all again. That one child isn’t fair, that they grow up spoilt, and to be an only child is a bad thing. It’s best to have them close together, they say, to have a small gap between them.
But what if I don’t want another, what if I just want to enjoy my mancub?
I can honestly say in two and a half years my feelings haven’t changed.
I don’t want another baby. Yep, I said it. I don’t want to be a baby machine. I want my womb to remain in its current mashed up ruined state. I don’t want my breasts to touch my ankles after pumping out another couple of kids. I have no desire to be pregnant or give birth ever again. I hated being pregnant, and I am still traumatised by his birth.
I can honestly say I have never got over childbirth. I still have nightmares about it regularly. My lady parts are so mashed up inside if I stand up too fast or the hubsd the wrong way, it feels like my scar will burst open. It’s like a constant daily reminder of the best and worst day of my life.
Yes, I went there. The worst day of my life. Do I feel guilty for feeling like that? Yes, every day. Do I regret it? No, never, it gave me my son. But it could have been so different.
I never want to do it again. But people tell me I’m selfish. Tell me things will change when he gets older. And what do I want to tell these people?
Back the fuck off.
I understand how it feels to want a baby, and it be your every thought. I did three years of that shit. I was that crazy lady who propped my legs in the air after sex and wouldn’t wee just in case it washed the little guys away; who prevented my hubbo eating spicy food in case it killed his little guys. To be honest if someone had told me to stroke a lucky stuffed two-headed Mongolian pigeon in order to conceive, I would have done it.
Imagine how confusing it is to then, all of a sudden, once day, have a child pulled from your belly, nearly die, become a parent, and that feeling is switched off? To go from feeling the same way for years to then feel completely different.
Motherhood has taught me more than anything that no one knows your child like you do. It’s like you have some weird bond that makes you feel their pain; revel in their happiness, and know instinctively what they want and need.
I also wish I had listened to my own instinct when I knew that I was unwell at 37 weeks pregnant and I should have begged for the elective Caesarian.
Instead, I listened to statistics and was pushed into being induced and being forced into having a natural delivery which then failed and ended in an emergency C-section and me nearly dying.
If I could have a natural birth, maybe a calm water birth, whale music and candles, that sort of thing, I would of course have another child. But reality is, my prolonged pregnancy and traumatic delivery has ruined my insides and that can never happen.
Oh, there’s the chance of dying again as well, that makes a huge difference. And that is selfish, I know, but I don’t want to die, I want to be a mummy to my little man, a wife to my hubbo and enjoy the life I have, and not possibly die trying to give birth to another.
Of course I get broody, that’s a given. I love babies, and I am randomly that weird person who sniffs them, that glorious newborn smell, there is nothing like it. Please tell me I’m not alone in doing that…
But I can honestly say I have no desire to have another child, two and a half years on.
Am I selfish? Yes.
But I had my one lucky egg, my one miracle, and I have my life. That’s plenty enough for me.