I’m pretty sure there’s a very good reason I don’t have kids. Deep down my witchy senses tell me that the Universe had a large hand in saving some poor, unsuspecting little mites the pitying glances of other, more responsible and deserving adults, as mummy left them tethered outside the supermarket where the doggies should be or lost sight of them careering around a busy street while she chatted to girlfriends over a glass of Pinot in a packed, summer, Barcelona terrassa.
I almost decided to have a child once, just a mere two months before I discovered the prospective father was a cheat and worse, a liar (my PET hate). I’m going to hazard a guess, with the benefit of hindsight though, that my motivation for that decision was a little skewed…… Still love him to bits. We have a great relationship, life’s too short.
And once again the Universe spared me and more, spared them (the children that is), a life as a product of divorce, before the wedding/birth had even happened, with parents living in different countries.
The only other time I experienced anything remotely resembling maternal stirrings was when I was around 20, sitting on a tall stool round a pattern-cutting table on my fashion and textiles course, listening to the tutor. My tubes twinged, my gut said ‘BABY’ in a gentle whisper and I experienced an almost atmospheric-strength pull towards motherhood. For approximately 13 seconds. Then it was gone and giant Welsh Jeni passed out from the heat in the room, smashed her chin wide open as all her 6ft, 15 stone frame hit the tiles like a felled tree and I quickly forgot all baby urges.
I never felt them again.
Fast forward 22 years. I live in Barcelona, having moved here in September 2011 with £1000, 50 kilos of shit I didn’t need (approximately 42 kilos of those were shoes), and the ex in tow. Bless him. He wanted to help.