Cliches are cliche for a reason - But that doesn't make me feel like less of an ass for using them

I am still alive. I still have meandering trains of thought which overwhelm me and which I need to sometimes get down on (the proverbial) paper. The difference now is that I am a working mother living in an unfinished house and struggling to raise an 8 month old boy without secondary carers and without the (immediate and physical) support of my extended family. Time is short, and blogging has slipped to the bottom of an already badly suffering priority list. But as I crawl out from my babymoon and begin to allow time for things in my life which existed before my son, I have missed my writing. There is only one problem - I don't know what the hell to write about. This can only be attributed to one fact. I am happy. For the first time in my life - and this is not an exaggeration - my psyche has been pretty quiet.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think that I am content. I think that I am finally satisfied.

Maybe it is a phase, perhaps I can attribute it to the oxytocin released into my system from the breastfeeding. Maybe I have entered a stage of temporary madness. Whatever it is, it is foreign. But God it is comfortable. I could get used to this. Whatever is an obsessive misery addict like myself to do with such emotion? It is not that I don't feel stressed anymore, because stress is a pretty permanent fixture in my present life. It's not that I never feel sad or angry. It's just that for the first time in my life I am not looking for the next thing. Not telling myself that things will be great if I could just do X or if I just had X. I feel like I have everything I need, like anything else is just gravy. I don't need tomorrow to come quickly because I am perfectly happy to see what happens today. Some of the more Zen readers in my small audience may know this feeling well, but it is a new one for me. It is a feeling that I genuinely never believed I would know.

Once, about four years ago, I came home from a disastrous day at work and ran myself a bath. I climbed in, lit some candles, and drank a bottle of Chablis in just under an hour. Drunk as I was, I can remember that night so clearly. I sat there in the dark, weeping, and telling myself that some people just were not meant to be happy. Some of us were supposed to always feel like something is lacking, regardless of whatever joys entered our lives. I accepted then and there that I was one of those people. That I would never know what it was like to just feel all right. For days afterwords I listened to sad songs and buoyed myself with the comfort of self-awareness. Since then I have had plenty of happiness in my life, but until now I remained fairly convinced of the "epiphany" I had that night.

But to quote the Monkees, "now I'm a believer." Some people find God, I found motherhood. Please don't misunderstand me here. I have not suddenly decided life is worth living because I have a child. I have not placed my entire self-worth on the tiny shoulders of my poor, unsuspecting son. Milo's birth is not the reason, it was simply the catalyst. A moment of clarity in a previously foggy life. How incredible, and embarrassing, to think that all this time all I needed was for someone to drag me out of my own head and force me to focus on something else entirely. By stepping outside of myself in order to better care for this tiny creature who needed me so badly, I was forced to take a good long look at my life. And it is good. It has always been good, even when it was bad. I am lucky, I am blessed, and for once I am finally grateful.

Kind friends, do not despair. I have not become a child-obsessed, happy-clapping optimist who quotes "Chicken Soup for the Soul" (God I hate that shit). But I am happy. Welcome to the Unbridled Rantings of a Jaded, but Contented, Idealist. I hope satisfaction makes me more, rather than less, interesting.

Under my skin

My posts have been so inconsistent lately. Part of this has been a complete lack of time, deadlines I can barely keep up with and a house move that required most of my attention for a while. But a large part of it has been the shift in focus my life has taken. As though to prepare me for a lifetime of thinking of someone else first, this little person growing inside me has monopolised my thoughts and emotions for the last four months now. I can't write about much else, because in my life currently everything points back to baby. And for some reason, I can't find the words to write about this baby.

Some of the things I have been feeling have been wonderful. That first moment when I saw my little bean in the ultra sound was like nothing I had ever felt before. There he (for the purposes of this blog) was; he had arms and legs and a heartbeat, he was dancing and moving around, he was alive. Just as my miscarriage introduced me to the pain of true and uncontrollable grief, that tiny picture of a twelve-week old embryo gave me my first encounter with true relief and joy. In my attempts to keep myself calm during moments of panic - those times when the cramps I felt didn't feel right, or when I was worried I wasn't sick enough - I talked to my baby. I told him how much I loved him already, how I couldn't wait to meet him. I promised him things I am not even sure I could ever provide, but that I was certain I would try harder than I have ever tried at anything before. I named him, I rubbed my belly to soothe him, I prayed for him and pleaded with him. This made me feel closer to him than I felt to most of the people around me - and yet he seemed so unreal and so far away.

The first time I heard his heartbeat, the first time I felt him moving around inside me, the first time I let it truly sink in that this baby may actually be real - all of these moments have left me moved and overwhelmed, frightened and exhilarated, in ways I have never experienced before and could never really articulate. I have felt grateful every single day since I saw that pink line on a pregnancy test in July. Genuinely, humbly and heartbreakingly grateful. I was almost prepared for the intensity of those emotions, nearly prepared for the joy I would feel given the weight of the grief my previous loss had filled me with. But there were many things for which I was unprepared - many things that no one told me to expect.

The loneliness came first. Ironic, isn't it? For the first time in my life I am technically never alone, and yet I feel so isolated from the people around me. Suddenly it is as though I can't relate to anyone. Friends planning vacations or talking about going out for drinks seem so distant from my new life, my new priorities. I am all at once bored by and jealous of their lives. Small jibes of "you're hardly the first woman to ever be pregnant" or rolled eyes if I have to leave a party early have left me feeling misunderstood and, if I'm honest, a little pissed off. There seems to be a general acceptance that because so many people experience pregnancy, those who are pregnant have no right to visibly feel sick/tired/overwhelmed/incontinent/irritable. Just sit there and look cute, glowing and bumpy. I have never been one who is able to sit quietly and not react, so withdrawal has been my immediate response. Most of the time I would just rather be alone, and yet I yearn for company.

Introspection has taken over these days. My head has filled up with questions - Will I be a good mother? Will I be able to breastfeed? Will my child love me when he becomes a teenager? Will he move far away and leave me here with the life I have set up almost solely for him? The darker questions are harder still. Will I resent my child for the life I am giving up in order to have him? Have I done this too soon? Will I be mean or abusive? Neglectful and inattentive as I focus on the career that has for so long been my baby? Will I be jealous of this child as I fight him for my husband's attention? Will my husband still love me when I no longer fit in to the image of youth and beauty he has attached to me?

In her book about pregnancy, Naomi Wolfe talks about grieving for the woman who inevitably ceases to be when you become a mother. This is not a feeling I anticipated, but I find it haunts me a little more every day. Reality starts to hit hard when you're pregnant. Gone are the days when I could trick myself into thinking that a baby would not interrupt my plans too much, not throw my life into a complete disarray. Already I have been utterly merged with this little being. People no longer ask how I am without prefacing it with a glance or reference to my abdomen. What they mean is how is the baby, the pregnancy. Even the gifts I received for my birthday today have revolved around the baby - maternity clothes, stretch mark cream, essential oils to help with the symptoms of pregnancy (would you give your friend cold medicine for his birthday because you knew he had a cold?). This baby and I are now one in the same. There is no me without him, no him without me. For someone so fiercely independent, attaching another person on to every part of my life and being is frightening and frustrating, alien and profound.

My body and my life are no longer my own. Near-strangers and acquaintances suddenly find it ok to ask me about my breasts, my urinary habits and my moods. They question my dietary choices and chastise me for ordering a coffee (before they realise it's decaf). Suddenly the most intimate decisions I have ever made (Will I breastfeed? Will I find out the sex? Will I stay at home or return to work? Do I want more than one?) are fair game for every Tom Dick and Harry. My belly is the property of everyone, and most people do not hesitate to put their hands on my lower abdomen in such a way that would have caused my husband to punch them four months ago. Now he glows with pride as they man-handle me, beaming the silly grin of a father-to-be.

In a nutshell, I feel as though I have ceased to be myself. And while I know that when this baby is born I will become a new, better, happier version of myself - I can't help but mourn for the person I was before I became some one's mother. This ambivalence is crazy-making. Never at any point to I wish to no longer be pregnant - nor do I cease to be grateful for this miracle that is taking place in and around me. I already love my child more than I love myself, would already die in his place, and I long for his arrival with each breath. Even as I write this I can feel him moving about, reassuring me that all of this uncertainty will wither in the face of his presence - the person I have waited for since before I knew who I was waiting for, the love of my life.

Even still, will you afford me this brief moment of silence to say goodbye to my life before him? To cry for my privacy, my independence, my marriage as I know it, my stomach and breasts? Will you all think me horrible if every day, just for a moment, I remember fondly a time when I was the only person in my own skin?

The Need for a Proper Goodbye

I was at a funeral yesterday - not of anyone with whom I was close, or who I even knew very well. But she was someone very close to someone close to me, so I was there to show my support. It was terribly sad - funerals always are, I suppose. I always struggle the most with the moment when family members first lift the coffin. There is something about them bearing the physical weight of their lost loved-one in this moment of grief. As if suddenly there was a physical manifestation of the heaviness of losing someone you hold so dear.

On our way to the cemetery, Max and I talked about what we would want done with our remains after our passing. We both agreed that the thought of being put in the ground and taking up valuable countryside was unpleasant, but that it was nice for friends and family to have a place to go if they wanted to feel the presence of a lost loved-one. Really, when you think about it, the things we do to honour our deceased aren't much about them at all. It's for us - for the living. Thinking yesterday about our recent loss, I began to feel a sick sort of jealousy for the bereaved in the church. There they were, able to listen to a priest say kind words, able to weep quietly in public and receive warm embraces and words of consolation. They threw flowers and other symbols of love into a waiting grave, they were allowed to bear the physical weight of their grief for all the world to see.

After the dark day, I cried quietly in the bathroom, careful not to upset anyone. I questioned the legitimacy of my grief given the tiny lifespan of an unnamed person whom I had never met. Oh, how there is part of me that wishes I could have donned a black dress and cried over a coffin that day, surrounded by friends and family all offering warm hugs and kind whispers.

My mother told me early on that I should do something to bring closure to my loss. That I should give my unborn child a name and say goodbye. For many reasons I have avoided doing that - fear of feeling silly or being over dramatic, fear of making it too real. Yet now, two months later, I still feel unable to let go. Still crave the comfort of my grief and wish for some sort of outlet. Max and I went shopping this morning for friends who have just had a baby. Standing there amid pink ruffles and booties I thought I would be sick. Max noticed my shaking hands when I picked up a little red dress and began walking toward the counter. He put his arm around my waist to steady me and squeezed a little while I paid for the outfit and "congratulations" card. I dropped him off at work and cried for baby in the car, the first time in several weeks. Over a dress.

Two days before we were married, Max and I met the priest to go over the ceremony. Father Rob talked about having children. He said that a family is a gift, a beautiful symbol of god's grace. I am no longer a religious woman, nor can I remember exactly what Father Rob said that day, but I do remember the feeling I had in that moment. I was so moved by what he said, and so excited to begin my life. The word "grace" stayed with me. I thought it was a beautiful way to describe a child. So, yet again taking advice from my mother at which I had previously scoffed, I am naming baby. I am not going to make a memorial or weep in a church, but I will post this poem. Just remember that I am not a poet or a writer.

Full of Grace

Faceless and formless,
the most beautiful nothing that never was.
How unimaginable that a blue line could be come a bright soul, could become three days of red
And then nothing.
If only emptiness bore visible scars,
like stretch marks.
I would wear them as badges of honour-
A memorial to a brief moment of Grace.

Where are your mourners, Grace?
Where are your flowers and wreaths?
What becomes of the mother of a blue line that became a bright soul, that became three days of red,
And then nothing?
A childless mother with no grave to weep over,
no face and name to miss.
I will remember you, though.
My moment of clarity, my glimpse of something miraculous,
My Grace.

This is my goodbye,
My love song to you.
Full of all the words I can't find,
and all the words that don't exist,
and all the sentiments that fail
to describe the love of a mother for her child.

Unfunny

I can be fun. Seriously, I can. I have a good sense of humour, I'm capable of making people laugh, and I laugh often. However this aspect of my personality seems to constantly evade my FG persona. Reading my blog, I imagine one might picture a dark, gloomy figure. The Eeyore of her generation. "Oh, bother" I think to myself when I re-read some of my essays, "what a terrible bore am I."

Oh, but it is such a chore to talk about funny things. Funny things are for doing, for living and experiencing. I put all of my happy and funny energy into those activities, whereas my sad and angry energy is best ventilated through a keyboard and sent off into the great unknown so I can rid myself of it once and for all. When I'm funny, it is usually a spontaneous and often unintentional thing - I think I am laughed at rather than laughed with. Either that or I'm sarcastic. Neither of those kinds of funny translate well in writing. Some people are gifted with a lightness of being which permeates their every action, can convey that lightness through all manner of media. I, however, am just better at the serious stuff. Recently I was reading this post and I was endlessly entertained. I wish I had such a gift, to be able to make someone who doesn't know you just laugh out loud and continue to giggle about it throughout the day.

But, alas, I am who I am. I have far too much self-knowledge to think I could write hilariously funny posts or that I would suddenly stop needing this space to be a place to air my frustrations with the world. So you're stuck with me, all of my ranting and raving and crying and whimpering.

That said, there will be no whining and whimpering today. I had a great weekend. Max whisked me off for a well-timed trip to Donegal. We stayed in a caravan and ate far too much BBQ'd food (what is it about a BBQ that makes you feel like one portion of everything is just not enough?), we watched more Mighty Boosh and took long strolls on this beach
which we essentially had all to ourselves. We played boules, built a sandcastle, hunted for crabs and played fetch with the dog. I put my feet in the Atlantic Ocean and imagined I was touching home somehow. Max got a sunburn in spite of my constant nagging for him to use sunblock, and I remained that special translucent shade of white reserved for those people born to Scandinavian ancestors. At night we drank pear flavoured cider and curled up with the dog in between us for warmth. Max did his usual "hey, I'm cool and down with the kids" routine to try and hush the teenagers in the caravan park after midnight, and we laughed at how un-punk a nearly thirty year-old man in his pyjama bottoms and slippers using phrases such as "lady friends" must seem to a pack of 15 year-olds.

One of the nicest parts of the weekend was talking about having a family again. We've been almost afraid to talk about kids since the Dark Day - at least I have anyway. But we were surrounded by it there on that beach. I caught Max watching a father dipping a toddler's toes in the water while the baby laughed wildly. The entire beach was full of such scenes, couples pushing a pram and calling for other little ones to catch up as the splashed through the water dragging a child's fishing net full of seashells. "That's us next," he said, hopefully. I just squeezed his hand. I think I am starting to believe him again, though, and the last month has done nothing if not show me how ready I am for a family. For the first time since the miscarriage we talked about what we would be like as parents, how I would inevitably end up the practical mom while Max played the cool dad, how I would read to them every night and how it would seriously detract from the amount of time I spent reading to Max (much to his chagrin), how beautiful a baby would be with his curls and my eyes and his long cow-lashes.

Then we went back to such shenanigans as putting these sunglasses on the dog and seeing who could bring the other one down the hardest in a wrestling match, because we're not parents yet and therefore completely entitled to act like children. Even the drive home was wonderful, listening to the summer-y sounds of The Divine Comedy and watching the seemingly hundreds of shades of green fly by the window. Occasionally Max would reach over and squeeze my hand, or I would catch him humming along to songs he pretends to dislike, and I felt truly happy with the life we have started to make with each other.

In spite of having sand in places sand should never be, it was the perfect way to spend a weekend.

The Great X-Box Scandal of 2008

Well, folks - If you are tired of hearing about my bad days, swiftly proceed to the next blog on your reading list. I told myself I wouldn't write about this (probably the main reason I haven't written for a few days), but this blog is for me at the end of the day and I need to get this all out.

This week has left me feeling like one of the children in the Lemony Snicket stories, afraid to settle into happiness for fear of something lurking in the shadows. I have really been fighting to stay positive. I keep myself busy and focus on all the good I have in my life. Believe me, I do know how good I have it. I really do. I am trying to remind myself of that every day. That said, I spent all night last night in tears, and today is shaping up to be of a similar standard.

My journey back to the land of the miserable began early last week, when my mother-in-law reminded me again how ungrateful I am. Usually this is her husband's job, but apparently I had really offended her this time and she just couldn't contain it. My offence - I bought my husband an X-Box360 for his birthday.

Apparently me spending £170 (total bargain, for those of you who are unaware of its normal £230 price tag) is a slap in the face and evidence of my lack of gratitude for the endless sacrifices they are making on my behalf. I tried to explain that this was a one-off. It was meant to be a special treat after two years of tight budgeting which has included agreeing to set £20 spending limits on all presents, not having a honeymoon, not going on vacation in five years and avoiding trips home because they cost too much. I tried to say how I knew that things would be even tighter once we moved into the new house, and so I wanted to be able to give him this one gift (which he has wanted for two years) since he never buys himself anything or does anything even remotely financially indulgent or irresponsible. I tried to point out that we have no credit card debt and used some of the profits from our last house to pay off our wedding and car loans so that the only debt we now have is from a mortgage and tuition fees. I wanted her to understand that I was trying to find a way to sufficently tell Max "thank you" for how wonderful a husband he has been lately and how I couldn't make it without him.

Not good enough. Ungrateful and irresponsible. And I don't even do anything around the house to every one's lives easier after all they do for us. Don't I realise that someday I am going to have to be able to run my own home so I may as well learn how to do these things? I won't go on, although I could, because my mother-in-law is a wonderful woman who really has done a lot for me and I feel bad portraying her in her not-best light. In isolation, this would be the kind of thing you just shrug off and hope will blow over. But my defenses are down, I am barely dragging myself out of bed some mornings and I burst in to tears spontaneously at least once every other day. It is partly sleep deprivation and stress, partly a lack of personal space and the indefinite nature of my living situation, partly grief over the Dark Day that I try so hard not think about. I told mother-in-law I was sorry she felt the way she did and that I would try to do better. Then I told Max I was moving out.

I know, I know. It seems like an overreaction. But I needed it. I need to wake up each morning without the awareness that my every action is going to be scrutinised and perhaps held against me at a later date. If I don't, the "I'm sorry"s and "I'll try to do better"s will start turning into "I never wanted you to do any of this anyway, you are just control freaks who won't let your son and I make our own decisions in life"s and "Why do you expect me to conform to every thing about your family/life/culture without showing any respect or acceptance for mine?"s or even "shove your help and my gratitude up your arse"s. I don't want that. Max wants to say something, to tell his parents how much they are hurting me and that he won't stand for it, but I keep begging him not to. I know full well that it will end in an un-holy argument, leaving us with no support system and him stuck in the middle of his family and his wife. So I told Max's family that my friend Suz's husband was starting the night shift (true) and she didn't like staying on her own (also true) so I was going to spend the week with her. The week has been tense, everyone knowing I was leaving and no one talking about it. I've spent the majority of it in my room - but I made sure to clean the house before I left.

Which leads me to Drama - phase II.
My suitcases are all in Max's parents' garage full of summer clothes, so I needed a bag to pack my crap into. That's when my mother's package arrived. She sent it before the Dark Day. A box full of books about pregnancy and babies, including a 7 year memory book. I knew it was coming. Mom had tried to stop it but Amazon had already put it in the post. I resolved to put the package directly into the garage and leave it there until I needed it, but it arrived in a large white sack which seemed the perfect thing for storing all of my belongings in during the move. I figured it wouldn't hurt to take the box out of the bag. As it happened, the bag was very useful, but the box was open. I had to look, I have always been a bit of a masochist and the curiosity got the better of me. There they were, mocking me. What to Expect when you're Expecting, The Expectant Father, Baby's First Year, and Baby's Memory Book.

I flipped through the books, remembering those brief days when I was filled with the excitement that was written all over each page. I thought about the fact that if I were still pregnant I would be getting ready for my first scan, approaching the time when you can start telling everyone the good news. I imagined being able to fill out the pages with how things were developing, what names we were thinking of, how I was coping with morning sickness. I started weeping and I couldn't stop myself, I cried so hard my stomach hurt. I hadn't realised how sad I still was. Eventually I managed to calm myself down and pack the books away, reassuring myself that I would need them again someday soon.

The problem is, that "reassurance" does little to comfort me. Although I want so much to have a family, I am absolutely petrified to get pregnant again. I am a firm believer in the powerful effects the mind has on the body, and I am so afraid of what my anxiety will do to another pregnancy. What if I am not just one of the 1 in 5 women who miscarries her first pregnancy? What if there is actually something wrong? What if I worry so much about having a miscarriage when I do get pregnant that the stress and worry causes more problems? The thought of it makes me nauseous. Not that I would tell anyone these worries. They would think I was crazy, over dramatic, not able to get over something that so many women have suffered in so much more terrible ways. Hell, I think those things about myself.

I have been working so hard to put this out of my head, move on quickly and not let myself get so sad that I get depressed. Unfortunately I have ignored the warning signs that it is happening anyway, perhaps because I am trying so hard to ignore it. I can't sleep, I'm snappy and irritable, I'm smoking again. Every time I take the folic acid tablets the doctor gave me I well up, so I've stopped taking them. I'm eating like a pig but still losing weight. I think I finally have to acknowledge that I am not quite OK yet. The biggest problem with that is having to admit it to other people.

So here is a start. People, I am not quite OK yet. I may need a little more time, and a little more help, before I feel 100% again. I do not have a stiff upper lip, I am a soft-hearted, bleary-eyed sap. I cry, feel things, and think too much. It's how I cope, it's how I need to cope. I'm off to brace the people in my life for a reality check (and to re-read Alan Carr's Easy Way to Quit Smoking).

Biological Time Bomb

The moment I realised I was in love with M was in IKEA. We had gone there for Swedish meatballs, just to kill a rainy afternoon. It was long before we said "I love you." It was before we had even stayed the night at the other's apartment. Yet standing there in that soulless warehouse, surrounded by rushing shoppers and bland Swedish furniture, I wanted us to buy a house and fill it with things and stay locked in it alone together forever. With my M, I never saw lightning bolts or got sweaty palms. I didn't feel weak at the knees when we kissed or pine for him when we were apart for an hour. But he has always given me this urge to settle down.

There was this time when I realised the loan my father had secretly taken out in my name defaulted and that any chance I had of taking out a loan to finish school was ruined. I felt so lost, so defeated, totally alone. I was sitting on a bar stool next to M, sobbing quietly and feeling like my life had finally caught up with me. M is a man of few words, but he just took my hand and said "we'll fix it. You and me against the world." It was kind of cheesy, he probably even got it from a movie or a song, but I was immediately comforted. If anyone else had said it I might have laughed, but from him it seemed true. Even M's smell makes me feel calm. Not the smell of his cologne or his soap, the smell of HIM. Sometimes when I can't sleep because I am feeling anxious or sad I bury my face in his neck and get a good whiff of him. It always works. I always tease him by saying that I only love him because of his smell, that his pheromones are so strong I couldn't resist him. This is, of course, not entirely true. But M's ability to inexplicably make me want to nest, and the ever-powerful draw of his BO are certainly testaments to the strength of biology.

As a social scientist, I have always been much more a fan of nurture in the whole NvN argument. But as evident above, I do believe in natural forces by which we are not rendered powerless - but are certainly weakened. Biology played its part in bringing M and I together, and it has started rearing its ugly head again - trying to encourage the growth of our little family. You guessed it, the old biological clock is ticking.

"Ticking" might be an understatement. It has been "ticking" for a while. I have always loved kids. I oooh and ahhh over babies, I have always loved babysitting and spent the majority of my teen aged summers as a nanny. I have often wondered what my children would look like and even written names down at the back of my diary. But this is different. This is not your average "tick-tock." This is an all-powerful, biological drive that says screw you, your plans, your husband's plans, your PhD or any gallivanting you had hoped to do - it is baby time. It is a pain in my ovaries when I see small children, the constant urge to touch my abdomen looking for any sensation that something is in there. It is an overwhelming urge to love and cuddle my dog in ways that no animal who has potentially just eaten its own feces should ever be loved or cuddled.

At first I thought my desire to pro-create was a societal invention. I worried that I wanted to have a baby because it was the next thing to do...go to college(check), get married (check), get a good job(check), buy a house (check) - have a baby. I grew suspicious that society was trying to force me to have a baby through brainwashing and manipulation. I began to rant at the news when it showed stories about the dangers of women having children in their 30s and 40s - convinced that it was an attempt by the male-dominated media world to reinforce the glass ceiling. Now I fret that if I don't get knocked up before 30 I am ruining any chance of having a family at all. Is it all hormones? My doctor thinks so. When I went to see him recently about the horrible, painful, emotional menstrual periods I have been having he informed me that "childless women of my age" often experience difficult menstrual cycles because their bodies are ready for childbirth (reminder, I am 27. 27!), and that once I have a baby it will all correct itself again. It probably is hormones to some extent. I mean, what rational woman would be so overcome by emotion alone that every time she sees a baby she gets the urge to grab and run? If it is nature, it's no wonder it is doing over time. Believe me, nature is going to have to work hard to beat out reason in this argument.

There are a million reasons not to have a baby right now. First being that there are so many things I want to do. I haven't been anywhere outside of Europe and North America. I want to see different cultures, volunteer in the third world, travel around speaking at conferences. And I am really selfish! I want to have the option of staying out with my friends until the early hours of the morning. I want my husband all to myself for a bit longer - I require a lot of attention and he can barely keep up as it is. And what about my youthful good looks? What will become of them? I want my nice perky breasts to remain nice and perky. I am concerned enough over the size of my arse, do I really want to make it bigger? And then there is work. I am only just starting to excel at what I do. I want to get to the top of my field and have the kind of career I have always dreamed of, not take a year off and let some idiot man take my job while I am home changing diapers.

Baby? Are you kidding? When? Where exactly is a baby going to fit into all of this?

But then I think about a little person with dark curly hair and big brown eyes and eyelashes so long they tickle your face when you cuddle her (this is what my husband looked like when he was a baby - one of those completely irresistible children who you just had to scoop up and hold tight). I think of trips to the beach and pony rides and first days of school. A little person who gives your life a whole new purpose and direction. Suddenly none of those things listed above even seem to matter - or they can at least take a back seat for while.

Everyone goes through this debate, right? No one likes to give anything up or having to share their partner's affection. Who willingly does something that makes your body change forever, and causes pain that you will never be able to describe? This is where nature kicks in (or kung fu/roundhouse kicks its way in, as it were). I think I will just let nature take its course and hope for the best.

In the meantime I need to find an outlet for my maternal instincts before I start nursing my puppy.