I sense I am encountering the opening bars of a crescendo of announcements that all my fellow mummy friends are expecting baby number two. So the opening bell of Round 2 appears to have been rung – ding ding – I was just oblivious to its call. The race is on (again) to get pro-creating. But this is a race I’m requesting a ‘time out’ from.
With each announcement my gushing congratulatory enthusiasm masks a deep set horror, disbelief, fear and (weirdly) jealousy. I’m not entirely convinced my acting skills have been suitably honed to disguise my incredulity and the resonating thoughts in my head of, ‘Are you having a moment of madness madder than that of King George?’
I am as ready for contemplating reliving the past twelve months as London is for 2012’s Olympics. But despite this, I start to wonder why it is that I am not ready where others are. Incompetence? Weak will? Laziness? Worse still, that old covetous thing rears its ugly ahead again (see post on 7 February 2009, ‘Are we all just big babies?’) – a niggling relentless obsessive desire, clouding my rational vision.
Child birth is like the marmite of life experiences – love it or loathe it; there’s no fence to perch on. I know which camp I firmly reside in – not the one full of women looking irritatingly beatific even mid throes of labour but the one for mental trauma victims verging on the need for rehab. Perhaps that’s precisely what the doctor orders though – rehab and jumping back on the horse.
The prospect leaves me feeling more than a little ill at ease and could go a long way to explain why Mr A complained he was prematurely awakened this morning by the sound of me grinding my teeth in my sleep.