To have or not to have, that is the question

ICOME from a different era. A time when rugby players didn’t have tattoos and babies just happened. There was no planning. Anybody who was getting married got married in their 20s. They got pregnant and that was it.

Just like me. I never thought about my suitability as a mother or my desire to be one. Much to my adult children’s disbelief and disgust, expectant mothers in my day continued to drink and smoke. There are photos of me with a glass of wine in one hand and a fag in the other and a bump the size of Mount Vesuvius. Classy.

And nobody can prepare you for labour. Nobody. I was well overdue with all three and had to be induced. I still don’t really know what that involved. We didn’t ask too many questions in those days either.

All I know is that I was in full blown labour with my first for 36 hours. I remember very little of it except for the time when I was walking up and down the middle of the bed in a vain attempt to get away from the pain.

And the bitch of a midwife came in and roared at me, clearly afraid of a compo case if I landed on the floor. And then the little angel arrived and all was forgiven. And I had a similar vile experience for number two and number three.

I remember begging for a caesarean with number three and when that wasn’t forthcoming, I was shouting for a sex change. It can never be said that I bore anything with dignity and courage.

I often envy my friends who didn’t have kids with their carefree lifestyle, lack of financial worries and time to spend on themselves, and then one of the three does something sweet for me and I think: “Aaah, I wouldn’t be any other way”.