Having tonsillitis results in a few lifestyle changes for a short period of time, until you stop feeling like your muscles have disintegrated and your throat no longer feels like it’s been shredded or replaced by golf balls. Rather than going to work, exercising or socialising, your days are filled with terrible day time television, over usage of the DVD player and inane staring at the cat. As a result, over the past week I have had the pleasure of carrying out some of the above activities and on my break from my exciting life of shopping and alcohol consumption I regaled myself with a programme about underage parents. Do not fret, I am not about to spend the next few hundred words insulting the pubescent scoundrels who wouldn’t know the difference between a condom and a plastic bag. But, I will merely waffle about how, if I were in their shoes, I would simply make like an ostrich and hope the giant bump was due to my addiction of chocolate. Those who know me are aware that I’m not exactly a fan of children. If a child runs towards me with its arms out expecting a hug, I run for the nearest fire escape. Should a child merely crawl near me, I back away as if the girl or boy is a venomous snake. Dribble, spit laden fingers, inability to control the bladder, screeching, yelling, clapping their feet together like some disabled seal are all factors that some women actually find charming. They aww at how the child missed its own mouth and has now slathered the contents of its yogurt onto the nearest chair: Say, ‘Bless him!’ as the little rugrat yanks at hair and ear rings with so much conviction it is a wonder my whole head didn’t follow: And they coo ‘she didn’t know any better’ when the demon’s recent moment of curiosity meant the demolition of multiple shop displays. Indeed I believe the only time I have actually ventured towards the ‘aww’ scale of admiration towards a child was when it was silent, still and sleeping. Only then will I approach with caution and perhaps understand the reason why so many women genuinely feel broody. The thing is, when it comes to children, women gradually start to find themselves in certain motherly categories. Category one: ‘I want babies NOW, I wanted them yesterday, I want them today and forever’ Maybe I exaggerate but you get my point. Category two: ‘Oh Jesus, look after a child? I killed my goldfish this afternoon; I only bought the thing this morning’ Category three: ‘Well...you never know! Why not have children aye? See what the future holds’ Category four: ‘I hate children but I’ll probably like my own won’t I? I just don’t want to die alone, is that wrong?’
Naturally I find myself in category four. Despite my grievances towards the little blighters I might one day like my own but would probably force myself to have children for all the wrong reasons. For years I’ve been under the impression that when I grew up I was going to be completely career focused, totally independent regardless of what emotional hurdles life threw at me. Sounds cold but that was the idea that I had in mind when I started my university adventure. Three years in and to my dismay, this has changed. With education it’s almost like I had some curious epiphany; an epiphany that made me realise that no matter how many essays I write or how much money I earn, those essays and earned pennies aren’t going to bring me cups of tea when I’m incontinent and senile. Of course I am completely aware children bring more joy than cups of tea and company on the death bed. They provide laughter, new adventures, the joy of watching a person grow up, the sacrifice of free time, basic hygiene and freedom...what was my point again?
Nevertheless, what is more frightening is that at the age of twenty one I see quite a few of my friends now have children of their own. They have become remarkable mothers, strong and seem to have so much more wisdom and self confidence than I possess. At the same age, I’m still thinking about men, dating and all things in-between. I’m still deciding on whether to do a masters or get a graduate job. Hell, I’m still at the stage where deciding what to wear in the morning is a matter of national emergency. Admittedly, I would not change this for the world right now. I’m too immature and selfish to be thinking of another human being’s needs unlike other incredible women I know. However, I do somewhat fear for my sanity when the time comes and I only start feeling mildly prepared for mother hood at the point when I am pushing a bowling ball through my unsuspecting vagina. Maybe by the time I hit my thirties I will finally understand the wonders of having children. I will finally ‘aww’ at the inane sentences some toddler is spurting at me and perhaps I won’t mind being chundered on by a little whippersnapper just because he ate too much chocolate cake with too much vigour. Yet, if all fails, and I really do fear that the arrival mothering gene will never come , I could try to kick start it by watching youtube videos of babies laughing in the hope that mine will always be like that. Sat in a high chair and laughing, constantly laughing. That said...even that sounds infuriating.
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