Babies, Cher Impressions and Duvet Days

Mood: Nauseous, drunk, lazy

Style: Casual, punkish

Listening to: Steptoe & Son on Radio 7

What’s on today: 7pm: Quiz Night

Sundays are precious things: boiled eggs, The Sunday Times (well, the supplements anyway) and the pub quiz.

Something untoward happened on this particular Sunday though: I got pregnant. I was meant to be on my period this weekend but I skipped one. This is quite common. I fear this may be because I’m on the same pill they put me on when I was 15 but hey, I’m not pregnant so it must be working. And my inner vanity refuses to switch lest she starts putting on weight/sprouting crops of teenage spots. Although this happens a lot, I always get a pregnancy test, just to make sure.

Mr P and I were tucking into an aubergine bake when I felt suddenly very sick. I ran to the bathroom and waved hello to my previously consumed tea before brushing my teggies and rejoining Mr P downstairs.

MR P: You alright?

ME: I am now. I was sick though.

MR P: (placing a half-mocking, half-serious hand on my tummy) You don’t think…?

ME: (more confident than I feel) Naah, course not.

MR P shoots me a meaningful look.

ME: I’ll do a test tomorrow.

Mr P and I have differing views on lots of things: meat, fox hunting and Elbow are just a few. Babies is another. He wants them. I do not. Yet. And that ‘yet’ is significant, let me tell you. I used to be completely opposed to the idea of child-rearing but since then, I’ve softened and am taking the ‘never say never’ meaningless, cop-out line whilst praying that my maternal instinct kicks in by the time I hit 30 which is the age I’ve told Mr P that we can have a baby.

At first, we were joking around, plucking ridculous baby names out of the air and trying them on for size with both of our surnames (Wilberforce anyone?)  The piss-taking soon became less hilarious when we realised that we had to have a serious talk: what would we do if I was indeed up the spout? We decided we would go with the flow no matter what happened. Although neither of us felt ready for a baby (but then, when do you ever?), we’ve been together 5 years, we love each other, we’re not teenagers. We would do this parenthood shit if we had to.

That night, we both got very drunk after winning the pub quiz. The night ended with Mr P belting out Dock of the Bay very well on the makeshift karaoke and me doing my Cher impression very poorly. But at least it took our minds off the baby issue.

Monday morning rolled round all too soon. I took advantage of my strange puking episode and called in sick. Mr P wasn’t working so we spent the morning, and some of the afternoon, in bed.

The next day, Mr P had to drive to Paris for work. I went to work as normal and popped into Boots on the way home. On the bus back to our village, I studied the mums getting on with their cumbersome buggies. Not one of them looked happy; in fact, they looked frazzled, stressed or hot. Or all three. Suddenly, I knew that I was so not ready to give up getting irresponsibly pissed on Sunday nights. I knew I wasn’t ready to plan events months and months in advance to ensure I could get a babysitter. I knew I wasn’t ready to talk about breast-pumps and nappies with other mums at playschool. I knew I wasn’t ready for a baby.

By the time I got home and did the test, I was convinced that I would see two purple lines appear in the little windows on the pregnancy testing stick. The three minutes you have to wait for the result of the test feel like three hours. A purple line can make or break, not just your day, but your entire future.

Only one purple line appeared. Relief rushed over me like a whoosh of bracing, sea air. I wasn’t pregnant.

That night I called Mr P to tell him the good news. He said he was happy. So, why did he sound so depressed?

Simple Pleasures: A sneaky duvet day with your gorgeous man.

Pet Peeves: KKK bemoaning the fact that a patient had come to the UK from Libya for free NHS treatment to cure his chronic disease. I rebutted her whinges with “well, you would, wouldn’t you, if you were in the same situation? I would for sure”. She just humphed and harrumphed. I love playing devil’s advocate.

This entry was posted in Bambinoes, Drunkety Drunk Drunk, Just a Little Bit About Me. Bookmark the permalink.

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