Three years ago I terrified DD by announcing my womb was the size of a 16-week pregnancy.
There was deathly silence on the other end of the phone.
It was a bit mean to scare a 52-year-old father of four like that – he wasn’t going to be a daddy again, it was a fibroid taking up all the space.
I’d freaked myself out a few days earlier when I discovered a big mass under my caesarean scar. I promptly decided I was dying.
I rushed to the doctor and did my usual “I’m probably being a hypochondriac, but …” routine. He got me to lie on the examination table, palpitated my lower abdomen and said: “Wow! That’s way bigger than I was expecting.”
Freddie the Fibroid had grown from 4cm to 9cm wide in 12 months and I was facing a hysterectomy.
I had a bit of a cry afterwards because life seemed a bit too complicated, I’d decided I was really fond of my womb and didn’t want it taken out via major abdominal surgery, and it was oddly distressing to know my childbearing years were over.
Why on earth would I be distressed about not being able to get pregnant at almost 50?
There’s something about falling in love when you’re perimenopausal that makes an irrational part of your biology think it really, really wants one more baby before all your eggs reach their expiry date.
Now, three years later, I’m beyond sure I don’t want another baby, no matter how ga-ga I am for DD. That clock has permanently stopped ticking.
Lordy, I even regret my fur baby decision. The little buggers probably have at least another decade of hale health in them. Meanwhile, I’m spending half my life driving 45 minutes back from DD’s house to let them out for a wee.
They can’t be trusted with a doggie door because they bark at everything that moves at night.
After doing that drive four days in a row during the past week, I’ve found myself yearning for a life less responsible.
My hairdresser was horrified when I said I was going to run away from home when the kids finished high school. He thought it was completely heartless of me to even think about ditching the doggies and kiddies.
Well, I wouldn’t ditch them. They’d be welcome to run away with me. But my location won’t be chosen with their convenience in mind.
As the weather warms up, I’ve been daydreaming about how lovely it would be to sit on DD’s sunny deck in the afternoons, sipping a cold bevvy without worrying about a commute.
Although … I’ve realised it’s not just my baby clock that’s ceased ticking, it’s also my living together one.
I think I’d rather live close by instead.
I’ve become quite fond of my own space since my ex departed. And it turns out DD and I have very different ideas on running a home.
The way I shambolically stick stuff in his fridge almost gives him heart palpitations.
We don’t have the same taste in decoration and he thinks rugs belong in the kitchen.
Our mealtimes definitely don’t coincide – he’ll often not eat until about 3pm, whereas I’m a three meals at sensible times kinda gal.
He professes to enjoy doing housework, while I hate it. Yet somehow we both live in a state of cluttered turmoil that does our respective heads in whenever we visit.
And we both prefer the left side of the bed.
I’m not entirely sure the twain can ever meet.
Maybe they can, but I’m a bit suss – would familiarity breed contempt?
On the other hand … it would also breed fatter bank balances if we were only running one household instead of two.
But I’m awfully fond of that left side of the bed …
Would you live with someone again or prefer the peace and quiet of being solo?
Song of the day: Madness “Our house”