Quarter-Life-Crisis
"I don’t have a maternal bone in my body." A little blunt, perhaps?
"I have a maternal bone; it’s just not very big?" Slightly more accurate, yet I still sound like a demon.
Why is it, with my 25th Birthday fast approaching, I’m being questioned more on my life plans, specifically, having children? I understand that 90% of the generation before were married, parents and homeowners by the time they’d reached their quarter-life-crisis, my parents no exception. Yet more and more women today are single, focussing on their careers and desperately trying to move out of their family home. Some of these are true of me.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I like kids, I just don’t LOVE them. I’m not the girl cooing over the pram, pulling faces and talking in that cutesy voice in order to try and get a reaction from a 2-week-old baby. When asked to hold one, it will be at arms length, as if I’ve been handed a muddy football.
That’s not to say I don’t enjoy seeing smiley faces from the little people. In fact, there’s something quite calming about witnessing a 5 year old and their wonderful ways of playing. It’s easy to forget just how naïve and innocent we are at such an age and how in reality something that doesn’t even matter can seem like the end of the world.
It brings back memories of the hours I used to spend in the garden collecting cheesy bobs (yes, that IS what they’re called) or insisting on styling the babysitters barnet when playing hairdressers – no matter how much pain would be inflicted, or the hours it would take her to be free of my ‘fabulous’ creation. I always did like hairspray!
Put me in a room with a child and I either sink or swim. The fear of them not liking me is worse than the fear of not being picked for the netball team at secondary school. That being said, a child’s intuition is usually right. Referred to as “rubbish” when helping with the Lego typically means I need more practise at piecing those multi-coloured bricks together. A task that for a 24 year old, you’d think would be a breeze! I went from being the best friend to the devil in a matter of seconds.
And what about the QUESTIONS? I’ve always found it difficult to sugar coat in regards to those niggling Q’s that bombard you, clothes clenched into miniature hands until answered. I’m sorry but the birds and the bees don’t work for me. Fear not, at no point would I dare inform the tiny humans of the gory details. When it comes to “Where do babies come from?” my answer remains the same, “Ask your dad.” (One small kick back at the male population for simply not suffering as much as the mummies do during their 9 months of hell!)
I’m still trying to figure out at what point do we, as females see every pram as a shiny new handbag or hear baby cries as the latest hit single? Music to the ears and all that. Here’s to hoping its not quite yet…
If I were to be deluded enough to inflict motherhood on some poor unbeknown child, in an ideal world, I know how many, their sexes, how far apart in years they would be and both their names. Although we all know things don’t always go to plan.
SO little terrors, if ever I am to create you:
I promise not to hold you like a football. I promise to brush up on my Lego skills. I promise not to cry when deconstructing the tangled mess you have fashioned with too much hairspray.
Maybe, someday. But for now, I’ll be playing Lego solo.