I’m at that age where all my friends are producing small, wrinkly babies and my older nephews are sitting important exams and passing their driving tests. It’s weird and I’m not sure how it makes me feel. Other than really old already.
I’ve written at length about how growing up doesn’t scare me anymore – I’m a commitment-phobe even though I’m in a relationship and have a mortgage. I’m not sure whether I’m at the age that should be embracing babies and ready to sprout a whole litter (that’s how it works right?) or whether I delay babies until I’m more, well, sensible? Grown up?
After all, there’s no rush right? I’m not going to turn 35 and suddenly find that my eggs have decided to shrivel up and stop working. Unless you believe everything you read on the Daily Mail’s sidebar of shame.
My thoughts are now consumed by all the things I feel like I need to do before having kids:
Or am I just over thinking this all?
I’ve become that weird person that proudly shows others pictures of their friends babies. They’re not even my babies. Why am I even proud? What the hell am I doing and who the hell have I become? I start my sentences with “I don’t want to be one of those people who shares loads of baby photos, but you need to see this one…. And this one…. And the time they smiled…. And the time they tried solids…”
I’m getting fidgety as I write this which usually means I’m trying to avoid the subject. So with that in mind, I’m going to wrap this baby up. For now, this blog is the only baby I need. And that’s more than enough.
Calm down parents. I know you’ll all be reading.
And yep, that’s little old me above. Looking all adorable.