Moo is getting bigger. She keeps GROWING. Soon she’ll outgrow the cardboard box I keep her in under the stairs. She will probably want things as well. Bigger clothes. More food. A mobile phone. She’ll start talking properly. Go to pre-school. Get a proper job. Acquire some dubious vices. Y’know, grown up stuff. And, as she loses her babyness and chubby ickle wubbiness, I am – rather embarrassingly – wondering if I want another one.
Uhoh. I said it out loud. I am wondering whether I want another baby.
Biologically, my body says YES. In fact it’s saying ‘YEEEEEEESSSSS for the LOVE OF ALL THINGS SWEET AND HOLY you crazy fertile woman creature, PROCREATE! PROCREATE! PROCREEEEEEATE!’ It screams this at me, once a month, when I haphazardly ovulate. And then, it shakes its broody head sadly at me when I menstruate. Like it is massively disappointed. My periods are basically symbols of my bloody failure to conceive. Yep. My own body guilts me into wanting another baby. Bastard.
My brain, however, is saying this: ‘Erm, hello? What the actual fark? ANOTHER ONE? Are you mentalistic and loonissimo? Do you know what having another one means? It means DOING ALL THIS AGAIN. All the sleeplessness, feeding, weaning, nappies, worry, panic and stress that comes with tiny new babies. And, uh, in case you hadn’t noticed – a minor detail – nothing too important really – but, y’know, you may need some actual sperm. Innit. Thanks! Love, your brain.’
I’m in conflict with myself, then.
I was having a Twitter conversation t’other day about how our babies are growing up with the delightful Stressy Mummy who, when I said it was unlikely I’d have another one due to my current circumstances, quite casually mentioned that someone she knew had used a sperm donor to conceive. WHOA THERE. Hang on a farking moment. What? Is that my option? Is that what I’ve got to do now? I dunno. I’ve not thought about this seriously at all, apart from noting the whole womb-clenchingly clucky feeling I get within my core when I see a newborn baby. Ack. Being a slave to your hormones sucks. But it has hit me, over the head, in the brains, like a farking sledgehammer of obvious truth. I want a baby. I want another baby. Wow. I really should stop saying that. But I do. At some point in the future, I want another baby. I just don’t know how.
The thought that Moo might be it for me has kind of struck me somewhat. I have not acknowledged this before. I guess cos what with all the Stuff happening, the idea of another baby is immediately shelved as something beyond what I can attain at this time. No husband? No more babies. Which is shite, of course, cos I know I don’t need a husband to have a baby. But – oh my giddy days – I’m a single parent right now. I was essentially a single parent when Moo was tiny, while my ex-husband worked abroad, and, I can categorically state, I do not want to do all that again. Alone. Nope. No way. It is so much EASIER when there are two parents there. So, so much. I am still astonished at how much easier it is, when there are two parents. It is a gift. Wonderful. To be treasured. I want that as well. A baby, and a partner, and all that comes with it.
So. In a bid to NOT scare off anyone in particular: I am not going to morph into some Liz Jone-esque crazed sperm thief, squatting over used condoms in the dead of night and furtively fingering jism into myself. Really, really, not. And that’s a PROMISE. Eek.
But I have said it, now. It is out there.
I want another one.
I want Moo to have a sibling.
I know I’ve said before, ‘No way. I’m not interested. I don’t want another one.’
I was lying. Of course I do.
I don’t know how, when, where, or with whom. But I’m going to hope fervently that it happens. We’ll see.
Parent readers: is that it for you? Are you done with the baby making? Have you cooked your last batch? And my darling non-parent readers: kids – you wan’em? How many? Is that sort of thing something you plan? Who knows.
*dissolves into a puddle of hormones*