There is no place worse to work when you’re a childless female in her late 30s than an obstetric department. You’d think that a daily exposure to all the worst aspects of childbearing would put me off. But it doesn’t. Instead it’s turned my biological clock into some sort of high-pitched emergency alarm, and taking the batteries out, or hitting it with a hammer just ain’t gonna cut it.
Sadly it’s not just at work. About 95% of my similarly aged friends have already popped out two children and are trying to think of ways to stop popping out more. Some of them seem to look at me in mild pity. Others spend their time warning me off the whole thing, warning me about sleepless nights and no sex and exhaustion and getting fat and bored and covered in vomit.
But I can’t help it. My brain might agree. My brain enjoys it’s snowboarding holidays and bike rides and evenings in the pub. But my brain is not in charge. My ovaries are. And those bastards won’t listen to reason. If this was Trafalgar, my ovaries are Nelson and my brain is overwhelmed and about to be taken hostage.
My ovaries want me to become a baby bore, cooing over my child’s faeces with endless fascination, and driving my friends to distraction over milestones and growth percentiles. My brain would rather concentrate on going to glastonbury. But it’s not winning. Every time I see a baby I just want to sniff its head. What is happening to me?
As one of the midwives pointed out earlier, if it wasn’t for our mums’ ovaries turning into biological dictators, none of us would be here, and I’ve read The Selfish Gene, so I know what I’m up against, but good god. And i can only feel sorry for the boyfriend. The poor fella is clearly totally shitting himself and rightly so. He’s got no chance against the might of my ovaries.
As I head off to watch the reg wrestle a baby out of a birth canal with a pair of forceps, and sew up another 2nd degree tear, my ovaries are still in charge. As women scream and cry and bleed, my ovaries are still in charge. If none of this will change their tune, nothing will. So I’m going to send the fella an ovulation calendar so that he can leave the country for one week a month, and hope that this will prove sufficient. Tenner the ovaries find a way round it.