I didn’t conceive easily. I expected to after putting it off for years (there was always some event that required copious amounts of alcohol and I was scared of losing my identity whoever or whatever that was). After 12 months of trying, I decided to seek professional advice on why I wasn’t falling pregnant. Teenagers only have to walk over a used condom to conceive, why the fuck couldn’t I? And to make matters worse, every patient of mine, even the men, suddenly seemed heavily with child just to remind me of what I was failing to achieve.
The fertility tests showed that I had a hostile cervix and I was killing off my husband’s swimmers. Hostile cervix? Had I been smuggling an AK57 up there all this time without even knowing it? There was a way around this cervical hostility. A bicarbonate of soda douche thirty minutes before sex along with an ovulation machine which detected the actual moment the ovum jumped ship. Exactly the romantic conception I had in mind. However, it worked. The test said pregnant; I stared at it for an inaudibly long time, then crapped myself. Sadly though, 10 weeks later I miscarried. The thought of having to do it all again seemed too much and people saying to me, “well, at least you know you can get pregnant,” made me want to pull the AK57 out of my vagina and shoot everyone with it. Fortunately for mankind, I conceived again a few months later and I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Fourteen months later, on one of my husband and I’s first nights out, I got veh veh drunk and conceived my second, beautiful boy.
I had many fantasies about motherhood. I would often spend days wistfully nesting and dreaming about the next, wonderful chapter in my life. Blissfully unaware of the stark contrast between the unicorns and rainbows in my head and the reality. Here are just a few:
FANTASY: All being snuggled on the sofa together watching a film.
REALITY: Children wanting to be so close to me that they’re practically trying to climb back in the womb whilst scratching each other’s eyes out. That or fidgeting. Incessantly fidgeting. Continually and never endingly fidgeting.
FANTASY: A beautifully decorated playroom with toys carefully organised into boxes in which the children play happily together, singing songs and laughing, whilst I prepare an organic dinner.
REALITY: One child dry humping my leg in a monumental meltdown whilst the other one, insisting on ‘helping’, splashes skin meltingly hot food across the kitchen and tries to land everyone in A&E.
FANTASY: Being called Mummy.
REALITY: My new name being said at least 14 times per sentence making me want to perforate my own eardrums with a barbeque skewer. Within a week, only answering to my new name with an aggressive, “WHAT?” through gritted teeth as the frequency increases to 497 times per sentence. In a flash, muttering expletives under my breath as I hear my name being called in that voice the moment I leave the vicinity.
FANTASY: Fun with Mum classes and such like where I bond and laugh together, eternally cementing my amazing mother-child relationship.
REALITY: One child sat on my head whilst the other child is having a meltdown and unable to make it to the end of the drive because I’ve given her the wrong scarf. I’ve tried to undo my fatal error by exchanging wrong scarf with the correct scarf but I accidentally touched her hair when putting it on.
FANTASY: Organic, freshly prepared, home cooked meals.
REALITY: Beige food. Exactly the right shade of beige. Exactly the right shape of beige.
FANTASY: Getting the kids into bed in the morning for a big cuddle and lie in.
REALITY: Having your eyelids peeled back and small fingers rammed up your nose until you either get out of bed, blackout or suffer a major haemorrhage from your traumatised nose holes. That and having both kids scratching each other’s faces off trying to climb back inside the mother ship.
FANTASY: No telly.
REALITY: Telly on as much as possible just so I can attempt to wash my hair at least once a week and take a crap without a small hand trying to fish out the toilet treasure.
I think perhaps my hostile cervix was trying to tell me something.
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