I love my kids dearly. But a longer life as a mum? Not for me thanks
They always say, don’t they, that ‘having children is hard work, but it’s not rocket science’. Actually, they’re wrong. It is.
I know, because I’ve spent the past three weeks trying to build a rocket for my son’s school science fair. Turns out building them is really hard, even if they are only made out of a plastic bottle, some tin foil, duct tape and a cork.
Countless trips to Wilko and Poundland to purchase vital materials; endless redesigns; extensive trials involving bicycle pumps; a regrettable incident involving some putty and the dog.
Lucky for me I have an incredibly supportive husband. As he said over the phone only last weekend from America — where he was having lunch with George W. Bush, since you ask — it looked great from his perspective, thousands of miles away. Really impressive and pointy. Like a rocket should be.
In the end, after much to-ing and fro-ing, the only thing that blew its top was yours truly. Which is why the news that scientists in Sweden claim that having children prolongs your life by up to two years has got to be one of those fake news stories.
Let us examine the evidence. Me before children: healthy, slim-ish, quite sporty, low to negligible alcohol consumption, own teeth, occasionally fun. Passably attractive in the right light.
Me After children: broken wrist, burst appendix, dental abscess. Between one to two stones overweight. Overwhelming need for wine. Mostly haggard. Not always fun.
And that’s just the start of it. I used to read three books a week. Now I’m lucky if I manage one a month. I haven’t seen a grown-up film (one not involving animal characters or spaceships) at the actual cinema for five years.
It’s not that my children are especially difficult. In fact, as such things go, they’re pretty civilised. It’s just that they are children — well, teenagers, actually. And, as such, extremely time-consuming.
Take my daughter. Delightful girl. Managed to dislocate her knee a few weeks ago. Since then, I have added chauffeur/ambulance driver to my long list of job titles (which already includes short order chef, maid, cashpoint, sports coach and diary secretary).
her room’s in the attic so I spend my evenings running up and down the stairs, conveying essential items to her as she ‘rests’ (aka eating Oreos in bed while pretending to write essays). She’s taken to calling my mobile when she needs something, like a dowager duchess ringing the servant bell.
When people talk about having children, they always focus on the early years. The sleepless nights, the nappies, the toddler tantrums. It gets easier, they say.
But that’s not true. It’s just that the nature of the exhaustion changes. It gets less physical and more mental. Sure, they learn to go to the loo by themselves and use a knife and fork. But the older they get, the more emotionally time-consuming and the more stressful they become.
Are they being bullied? Will they fall in with the wrong crowd? Will they do something silly and post it on Snapchat? Will they have their heart broken? Will they find a job? An infinite number of catastrophic scenarios. An extra two years of parenting, you say? I love my children dearly, of course, but not for me, thanks. Don’t I deserve just a little time off for good behaviour?