Photo: Sam Samra

‘When are you having kids?’

To date, this has been the single most annoying Question of my life!

Don’t get me wrong, I love kids but I’ve never been maternal. Growing up I liked babies, but only from afar. For some reason my Mummy (yep, I still say Mummy) would shove any baby she could into my arms probably dreaming of the numerous grandchildren I would produce.

Babies are cute but in reality the cuteness lasts about 5 mins a day, the rest of the day you’ll be tied into a motherfucking groundhog day. Forget eat, sleep, rave, repeat more like feed, sleep, shit repeat.

The last 20+ months have been hell. Yes you heard this Mama right, HELL! My shitty journey started at 7 weeks pregnant, 7 FUCKING weeks! There was no dreamy sequence where I would revel in my blooming journey and blossom for England. No meeting girlfriends or enjoying a baby shower. Instead, reality hit at Mach force 10! Puke, pain and early maternity leave.

Some might say it’s our own fault for deliberately delaying pregnancy until our 40’s. Preachers will preach and all that. Reality is our careers, finances and lifestyle dictated when we decided to bake one in the oven. We knew the risks. A few friends of mine have been (some still are) on the journey of IVF. We get their choices, but me and my husband agreed it wasn’t for us.

What people don’t know is we’d already agreed that a natural pregnancy might not occur and if that was the case we were 100% Straight Outta Compton fine with this. If we have a kid cool, if we don’t, cool – no drama.

So, 2 months after trying my 40+ egg was fertilised and on the way. Yes, I’ll say it again my 40+ egg was fertilised! In all the years I’d heard (and read) the bullshit about leaving it too late blah…blah…blah…IN YOUR FACE!

In hindsight getting pregnant was the easy part, what followed can only be described as my body going through Apocalypse Now! No 9mm rounds I’m talking GPMG motherfucking shit! My husband may be a British Royal Marines Commando and passed one of the toughest and longest basic training programmes, but by the end of this pregnancy I was gaining an honorary coveted Green Beret, whether it was still a boys only club or not.

What pissed me off constantly was that no one was listening. Getting pushed between midwives, doctors and consultants meant bureaucratic bullshit was dictating my life. By 37 weeks paracetamol, codeine, dihydrocodeine and morphine had me Lucy in the sky with diamonds and my body was begging for saviour.

By 38 weeks I was back in the consultant’s room and an induction was booked for a week later.

By 39 weeks my waters were broken, a procedure that immediately transported me to Victorian England and still nothing. Status quo it is then. Onto shooting up 2 bags of oxytocin and still nothing more than a peanut was coming out my foo foo!

3 attempts at an epidural by an incompetent anaesthetic before Dr ‘military’ on loan from the Ministry of Defence arrived and secured the target.

I gave birth at 39 weeks by C-section and to this day I still pat myself on the back for getting my baby out before I killed us both.

Would I do it again? I’d rather take a shotgun. Sound dramatic? Nowhere nearly enough!