I first became an aunt at the age of 12, and to tell you the truth, I didn't really care. Who cares about babies at 12, other than those crazy girls that are destined to be mothers, that dote on other peoples children, and most often, unfortunately end up happily springing one out at the age of 15. Happily. HAPPILY!
I guess that's not so unfortunate.
But anyway, I wasn't one of those girls. I played with dolls, sure. I loved them as if they were my children - thank god they weren't because damn, they sure as hell weren't looked after lol. But I really had no interest in having babies. Not at 12 anyway.
Then I got a bit older, the idea of babies was toyed around between female friends. Who would be first? Would Prince Charming come riding in on his regal stallion, professing his undying love *le sigh*? You know, the brain of a 15 year old girl and all lol.
It wasn't anything to be concerned about. I barely liked boys at 15, let alone thinking about being with a boy and then having something to show for it. Boys, ew.
So with that seed planted firmly in my mind, I hit twenty. Then twenty-one. Then twenty-two. By this time, I had an adoring boyfriend, my Prince Charming, sans regal stallion, but definitely with a whole bunch of undying love. Babies? Oh yeah, they're pretty cute.
Then twenty-three, where I started getting a bit itchy about what my future might bring, and what I should be planning toward. Where was I going? What should I be focusing on? Babies? Awwwwwwwwwee!! What a cute baaaaby! Where can I get me one of those?
Then twenty-four, where I knew what I should be focusing on. Family. It had always been about family. Babies? Is this what clucky feels like? Maybe I should be planning out my future a bit better, with the incorporation of these new found feelings.
Then twenty-five. Oh lord. It should be noted that the year between twenty-four and twenty-five, I think I really fell into myself. I also learnt the real meaning of "feeling clucky". If you think you're clucky, you're not. You're just starting out, it's gonna get worse, unless it gets better (e.g. you pop out a sprog).
Which brings me to now, where I am an absolutely raging clucky mess, spending a large majority of my time clucking over other peoples babies, and wishing I had one of my own.
But I'm not stupid. I know a baby is very hard work. I also know that whilst I'm ready for a baby, and said hard work, my life isn't. I'm not talking career, I'm talking about money, and lifestyle, and of course, the readying of the boyfriend, who isn't even at the eighty-five percentile mark of admitting that he even wants children (c'mon, we all know the truth lol).
My life just ain't there yet, sorry baby.
Bjorn knows I want children, and he knows I want them before I'm 30. I decided that it was important for me to tell him, even if he wants to run away and go "lalalalala I can't hear you" lol. We talk about it on a regular basis, because whilst he pretends that all the wanting is coming from me, I know that his lack of confirmation is really just because he's scared, rather than because he doesn't want them (this isn't wishful thinking on my part, btw).
So whilst I wait for my life to get ready, for Bjorn to plant both feet firmly on board, I'm going completely crazy. It would at least be nice to have a timeline of such events, rather than dithering around in the timeline of possibilities, which is what I feel I am doomed to face until the time comes when it's all on like donkey kong.
Sad thing is, I find myself looking at baby clothes in shopping malls, making mental lists of baby names I like, questioning mothers about their troubles and their joys. I have gone completely mental.
And the unfortunate thing for me, it seems, is that all my baby wanting has made my female family and friends extra fertile*, meaning that they're all with-bun and here I am, with-non.
Which makes me immensely jealous, until I remember that my life isn't ready, and how foolish and scary it would be to be with, when I'm not even with it enough, without.
I know that 25 isn't old. But I do feel the crunch coming, before I know it, I'll be 26. 27. 28. 29. 30! So the years between then and now I'll be excited for whatever revelations the next year will bring, impatient for whatever the previous year hasn't brought, and completely bat shit crazy about the possibility of one day having my very own mini-me to coo, and dote on, just like all you other dirty mother bitches out there.
Until then, I will cry myself to sleep. Okay, so maybe I won't do that, but I might feel like it sometimes when I have to hold one of your adorable babies, or hear about all the cute stories. Seriously people, have some consideration! Jeez..
* - duh, I know this isn't true, but it sure as hell feels like it!