I’m not pregnant, before you ask. I’m thirty four and as yet showing no interest in children, which makes me wonder if I’m one of those people who just doesn’t want them. I tend not to write about this much, as everyone who’s had a baby then spends hours telling me about how wonderful it is. Which I know – I can see their joy. And I’m sure that if I had one, I’d be overwhelmed with love too. Generally I prefer puppies but I’m not an emotionless monster, you know. No, really, I’m very warm and nice and . . .
Anyway, my only other friend who’s always felt the same told me a few months back that she was pregnant. ‘Oh shit,’ I said, knowing how she felt about it. Then we both laughed til we cried because that’s not the kind of response you’re meant to make when someone tells you they’re pregnant. But I knew the exact mental turmoil that she must be having because her and I have always been on the same page when it comes to this sort of thing.
Anyway, she’s had the baby. And she is so smitten, so happy, so delirious with love that every time I hear from her I burst into tears. (In a good way.) I can’t stop staring at the pictures on facebook and text her about five hundred times a day telling her how happy I am, which must be really annoying because she’s probably exhausted to the point of madness.
The night I found out, I also happened to watch One Born Every Minute for the first time and literally every time a baby popped out, I started bawling.
That sort of crying is the best, isn’t it?
Welcome to the world, baby with no name yet. I can’t wait to meet you. X