Note to self

Now that I've spent a day with my niece and nephew I am once again reminded of how adorable kids can actually be. Yes, I just voluntarily wrote that sentence. No CIA or waterboarding required. They are adorable. As long as they go back to their homes at the end of the day. And the exposure to them is monitored every bit as vigilantly as the sunbeds.

I'm 33. The day when my biological clock finally decided to kick into action is probably not very far. Soon I'll be completely at the mercy of my raging hormones (well, nothing's really about to change in that front...) that tell me I'll want to be fruitful and multiply. My ovaries will start conspiring and scheming, leaving me thinking my life won't be complete without a child. So, perhaps I should draw up some kind of a contingency plan?

Since I'm not on the pill... I should probably convince The Man to have the snip. He doesn't want to have kids anyway. Which is very noble of him. I can't imagine what torture it would be for any child to grow up with that nose. It seems to take 52 years for the rest of the body to catch up and grow into it...

I can hardly be held accountable for my actions once the baby fever kicks in. Women have been acquitted of murders based on their actions having been driven by their hormones like Schumacher in a Ferrari. And if he seriously wants to avoid a one-night-stand luring him into a lengthy, costly legal battle about alimony... then surely swelling, bruising and the occasional erectile dysfunction is a small price to pay?

But I suppose I should also write myself a memo I can refer myself to once I start going ga-ga over goo-goo.


Dear raging hormonal bull,

You're reading this letter because your biological clock has staged a mutiny and your sense has abandoned the ship. So read carefully, preferably with a large G&T in your hand. Which, by the way, is something you wouldn't be doing for over a year. Hah.


You can't afford to get any fatter. The last one of your sister's kids was born almost 6 years ago and you still haven't lost all the weight! And you definitely can't afford yet another new wardrobe that would accommodate all 100 kilos of you. And I've heard it's not just the hips that get bigger, it's everything. Including one's feet. Which would mean saying goodbye to all your fabulous (albeit impractical) shoes. 

Ok, babies are cute. But once you've been up non-stop for 2 years because of teething and diarrhea and colic, you won't be. And you will want to stay cute. And puking, shitting, spitting, carrot-mash-throwing babies are not compatible with your penchant for white, dry-clean only garments. With babies one can always get another one. That is not the case with carefully sourced, limited edition Stella McCartney blouse.

Anyway, they grow out of the chubby cuteness. Into cantankerous kids. And tempestuous teenagers. And arrogant adults. And before you know it, you're living with a 30-something with no job, no prospects of actually finding one, no meaningful relationship, no mortgage- basically none of the anchors of adulthood that would securely moor them somewhere other than in front of my TV.


And let's face it: the world does not need more people like that. Well, people like you.


                    
Love,
You (the sensible and by now a slightly tipsy version of you anyway)