Pretty much nothing could make me have another child right now. For one thing, I no longer have ready access to the necessary sperm. Not that it would be a problem to get hold of. A good friend of mine who is trying for a baby gets hers online from a Danish sperm bank. How very modern is that? You can get hunky Nordic semen delivered direct to your door, fresh from the Viking’s helmet.
Meet your father
But no. Not even a Dane, however great, could swing it these days. And not just because of all the reasons people usually give about having to fork out for a bigger house and car, and how it’s bad for the environment, and how having more kids is just a status symbol (although I’m not convinced on that logic – no-one I know with more than two is looking more statussed than me. They mostly look like this:
I’m not particularly arsed about any of that stuff. I just couldn’t face being that tired again, ever. When I consider being as wrung-through as I was when the kids were small, only 10 years older, I feel like this:
But occasionally I do get a pang, have a little yearn for a new baba. Not because I’m such a maternal type, but because I want to wear dungarees. Man, I want to dungaree so bad. I’ve always fancied myself as a Land Girl, see, and nothing says Land Girl like a dungaree and a red lip, right? A little head scarf, a turnip here and there….
Until recently, dungarees were strictly maternity wear, but not in a good way. They were still considered part of that whole 1980s, pregnant Princess Di look, a woman-hating sartorial sub-genre that asked gestating females to dress like Mr Tumble.
So when I was pregnant, instead of following my heart and just wearing the dungarees, I spent the whole time in skinny maternity jeans, which didn’t stay up that well. I was constantly yanking them up from my knees, like a builder who’d just come out of the lav – a look that could so easily have been avoided with dungarees. Moral of the story: follow your fashion dreams, girls.
But now dungarees are all cool and non-maternity, and I could get me some after all. There’s an especially kind looking pair in Topshop, all black and tapered to the ankle. I keep Adding to Basket, but then I see the pretty young things prancing around in them, with their crop tops underneath and only one side done up – most of them virgins, never mind pregnant – and I can’t help feeling I’ve missed my moment.
Me in dungarees now would confuse people too much. They wouldn’t know if I was being cool or just dressed as Mr Tumble because I was up the duff. I’d have to face down those embarrassing ‘when are you due?’ questions from people who don’t know me, and thin people, and other bitches.
No, I must resign myself to the fact that my dungaree days are over. And get myself some Scandi-love at & Other Stories instead.