So, the world ends tomorrow and I’ve just found out I’m pregnant. I can’t help feeling these two things are connected.
While it’s not a complete surprise – after all, we were having sex and sex makes babies – it’s certainly happened a lot faster than we thought it would. Somewhat like the Swiss arriving to a party (“but you said it starts at 8pm!”) or builders that actually finish a job on time, it’s welcome development that’s come far earlier than expected.
We’d planned to have kids, and figured at some point in the next year would be good as I am over 35, and had – if not embraced all the things you are meant to do to encourage fertility – stopped diligently and enthusiastically preventing conception from happening.
We did this about 6 weeks ago. I am now 5 weeks’ pregnant.
I don’t know whether to congratulate our bits on their fecundity or curse them roundly for not waiting until after the Christmas holidays and we’d had a chance to drink a few of the nice bottles of champagne we bought for the occasion.
The funny thing is that my biological clock has always been on snooze – while I like kids, I’ve never felt the huge yearning many people get for children, and babies to me are intrinsically less interesting than puppies, kittens and pygmy hippos of all varieties. I had assumed my uterus would be similarly disinterested and take a good bit of kick-starting but no, apparently it’s in a huge rush to have a baby.
Well, that or beat the end of the world.
Sceptimum 