It's been eighteen months since Jack was born and the final hor-moan wave has started to dissipate. You'd think wouldn't you, that this would mean a bit of space, a bit of time, crikey I'd even go for a bit of sex, that wasn't encumbered by babies/milk/crying or anything else your Husband does in the night. But no. The minute I begin to feel myself again (although it's been so long now I'm not sure whether that is exactly who I'm feeling) then that old chestnut procreation rears its head (and I don't mean literally). It's to do with the propagation of the species or so I'm told: wean one offspring and raise it to walking standard and then please have another one immediately so that we can carry on the Human Race. I will say this only once: we have plenty of Humans, I can see three as I write, we do not need anymore now please, hormones, leave me alone.
But do they listen? No. They just secrete away their day, creating negative feedback as they go (did you know one of the only times positive feedback occurs is during labour? Ha! There's nature's irony for you), getting in the way of my mood swings and general misbehaviours, causing havoc just by existing. Mine have been busy, ooh, for about the last five years now, and suddenly they have nothing to do. They're bored, sitting in my Pituitary scuffing their trainers against the wall, moaning that there's nothing on TV and why can't they have a Nintendo DS because Thyroid next door bought one for her child Thyroxine. They've been led to expect, you see, a high level of employment and now there's nothing to do so mischief must be made.
So I blame my hormones for becoming the predatory woman in the gym changing room, the one in the corner that just can't leave babies alone. She stands there casting desperate cow eyes at any woman with a baby (even the scary one with the mono brow), trying to gurgle and coo, thinking just how gorgeous every single baby she sees is. But this is the trick that hormones play on you. Yes, they are cute. Cute, and loud, and sicky, and incontinent, and incapable on every level. Who on Earth would like someone like that to come into your life when you've already got two? Hormones, that's who. When you no longer have a baby, you hormones helpfully point out Every Other Baby In The World, saying: wouldn't you like one like that, look how clean and good and sweet he looks. He's not crying is he? That's because only your first two babies cried, your third won't (cue ghost like, mind altering voice) Yyyoouuur thiiird woooonnn'tttt. Don't you want to pick him up, just a cuddle? Go on, ask his mum, she won't mind, she'd love you to pay attention to her baby. Ahhhh, isn't that nice, ignore his mum you're doing a great job. A Great Job I tell you. Wouldn't you like one just like this, all warm and cuddly and clean. See what a natural you are? All the other mums in this changing room are looking at you as if you're a pro. You ARE a pro, look at you. Don't you want another? Just one tiny, little, won't know he's there bundle? Talk to Husband tonight. You know he loves the spare room, it's become his really and he just loved having the last baby. Remember his tears at the birth? You could both have that again you know, you'd both bond again over this tiny sweet thing. Go on, you know you want to.
At this point you notice the baby's mother glaring mono-browed at you and you relinquish your bundle with much sighing and regret. Until, that is, you look into Mummy's eyes. You forget you see, that behind every cute, fragrant bundle is a Mummy, leaking from every orifice, sleep deprived to the point of delirium, sobbing into baby's neck every night as he wails the hours away, wondering what on earth she's done to her life and who's bright idea it was to have another baby (hormones, lady, I tell you). And often behind Mummy there's a Daddy, sleeping in the spare room, attempting guesses as to when aforementioned orifices are going to stop leaking, wondering what on earth he's done to his life and worrying about the proximity of The Vasectomy (it's closer than he thinks, the vet's doing a home visit tomorrow).
And behind daddy are the grandparents. Doe eyed and willing - to an extent- to help out, but just as willing you understand to hand baby back. You see this is where nature got it right; your parents just can't wait for you to have children, as many as you please! Have sex at ours any time you like dear (as long as it's with Husband) and furnish us with as many little poppets as you can. Ahhh, because that's what you are aren't you sweetie, a poppet (cue copious amounts of cheek squidging), yes, that's what you are coogie coogie coo (yes, My Mother actually says Coogie Coogie Coo). But you see, grandparents get double the pleasure from their grandchildren. They get to watch them inflict years of sleep deprivation and what can only be termed as abuse on their parents, in much the same way as you did on them. Then, they get to have them for tea, fill them with mood enhancing additives and hand them back just in time to go out for dinner, return home at a reasonable hour and enjoy eight hours uninterrupted sleep.
So I suppose that's the only answer, have as many as you like, enslave yourself to the hormones, bring up the children, and then sit back. Sit back and watch the very people who gave you such a tough ride, attempt to do it themselves, secure in the knowledge that whatever happens, it can't be as hard as it was in your day. That's when my time will come. Excellent. I'll just give Husband a call about it and then I'll make a start on those oysters.