Mother Nature will be disappointed in me...

I’ve got a confession to make… I don’t think I want children. Shock! Horror! Outrage! I am aware this is the primary, most heinous sin against womanhood and I fully expect an army of earth mother types to come and whip out my womb at any moment; how DARE I not want to subject myself to the wonder of an episiotomy, the thrills of breast feeding, the unmistakable joy of waking up at 4am to a screeching bundle that will all too often smell of poo and get sick on my shoulder. A child that I will be morally obliged to stay at home and care for full time in the pretence of “being a good mother”. An education that I have worked at for (so far) 16 years will be swept aside, as will my future career, and in its place my days will be filled with blending organic butternut squash and getting friendly with Iggle Piggle. Pretty soon baby brain will set in; I’ll become one of those women who have nothing else to talk about but their children. My tweets will be about teething and colic, and phone conversations with friends will become interjected with cries of “Put that down! Don’t do that! Darling please don’t do your poo-poo on the carpet, mummy has talked to you about this!”

And of COURSE when anyone asks how I like motherhood, I’ll be expected to gaze at my children adoringly (tears are desirable), and gush “Well, they’re just the light of my life, they are the reason for my existence, I’ve never felt such an overwhelming rush of love”, whilst watching them re-pot a hyacinth in my Chanel handbag.

It’s not that I dislike all children; I find some of them lovely. When my cousin’s little boy Finn was born, I loved nothing more than watching him slowly drift off to sleep in my arms, with his little warm hand resting on mine as I fed him his bottle. He’s now 3 years old, and he and his big brother are cute and funny; I enjoy playing with Moonsand and reading them bedtime stories, and I start planning their Christmas presents in August - I love treating them.

But then I leave them with their lovely mummy and daddy and I skip off home. The worry about coughs and colds, healthy packed lunches, choosing the right school etc is not on my shoulders. And as they get older and become teenagers, I won’t have to drive myself crazy every time they go out wondering if they will get drunk/get someone pregnant/break a limb. Instead I’ll get to take them to Alton Towers when they should be at school, which is definitely more where my expertise lie.

I suppose it’s natural to feel like this at only 20, maybe I’ll feel completely different in 10 years time… maybe I won’t. Just, at the moment, the idea of having my own children makes my blood run cold. I like the freedom of going places and buying things without having to consider childcare or feeling selfish for spending money on myself.

And that doesn’t mean I’m not compassionate, caring, tender, and other motherly adjectives… it’s just there’s so much I want to do with my life before I ever get tied down with things like that, more than I could even begin to explain here. I just don’t know if children would ever fit into the equation, and I wouldn’t just have them to adhere to some kind of social expectation of women, but then palm them off on nannies or my mother. But by all means, I will be cool Auntie Amy. One of those Aunties who aren’t actually related to you. Any Godchildren going, send them my way; they will be welcomed with open arms and fed copious amounts of E numbers, until it's time to go home.

Disclaimer: really DO NOT mean to offend anyone with children. Honestly. Just my personal views...