I didn't want to write about babies. I really didn't. In fact, I stared out of the window for a full 20 minutes trying to find a corner of my brain that wasn't occupied by thoughts of changing mats and car seats and will I ever be able to wear my rings again. And I couldn't. So here goes.
I am, you may have guessed by now, having a baby. It's my first one, hence the slightly hysterical tone. Anyway, the preparations are well underway. The list is mostly ticked. Its room is starting to look less like a laundry and more like a nursery. And we even have a fully constructed pram sitting, rather eerily, in the hallway.
Sometimes, I'm so excited I can hardly breathe. And then about five minutes later I want to curl up in a ball and sob. What if it hates me? What if it turns out to be the class terror? What if my husband forgets all about me and we turn into one of those couples who don't speak to each other until it's gone off to university, by which time we have nothing left to say? Oh, and it's a boy. A boy? What on earth do you do with them? I hate sport. I hate cars. I hate building things. I come from a girl-heavy family, where breakfast on a Saturday takes about two hours because we're all too busy interrupting each other. It's amazing that my poor brother ever learnt the power of speech.
And aren't boys terribly slow to develop? Only the other day a friend was telling me about her small daughter who can have a proper conversation with anyone; and all her little boyfriends who can barely say their own name. I know, I know, they catch up eventually. But by that stage they're covered in spots, their feet stink and frankly, you'd rather they didn't say anything anyway. My husband, of course, is thrilled. Finally, someone to talk to about the Ryder Cup. Finally, someone who will throw a ball back to him rather than just stand there looking blank as it thwacks them in the chest. And finally, someone who can join him in his loathing of all things vegetable. I can already see the ganging up that's going to go on against poor, haggard mother ... and we're back to sobbing.
On the upside, there will be no unsuitable boyfriends to worry about (no, he won't be allowed a girlfriend); and I won't need to panic about him being mugged every time he leaves the house (if he thinks he's going anywhere without me, he's got another think coming).
Actually, I think I'm going to make rather a good mother.