Children

When I described the events of last Thursday’s babysitting drama to my boyfriend, I kind of expected some admiration for the way that I handled the situation. Instead, to my horror, he gave me a knowing grimace and said, ‘yep, it’s as I thought. You would make a terrible mum, you would probably leave your baby on the bus, just like you did with your gym kit last week.’ I was outraged! Now it’s true, I do have a predisposition for losing things, I have seen the wonders of Mitcham Bus Garage, the chasms of the TfL Lost Property Office and Tiger Tiger in all its stinking morning-after glory, all in the name of reclaiming lost gym kits/coats/mobile phones. But I would like to think that I would be a little more careful with my own child. In fact I am accompanying my boss and her kids on a little excursion this weekend, that proves just how much I like children (and well, she is paying me).

In fact I think being a mum at around 33 would be ideal. By then I would have enough life experience to be wise, enough maturity to spend weekends at the Natural History Museum, and possibly enough money saved to consider private education. I am a little worried though that my body might not recover so well from the trauma of pregnancy and childbirth at that age. Perhaps the savings would be best viewed as an emergency tummy-tuck and occasional pair of Prada shoes fund (well you can’t be expected to sacrifice everything…surely?).

I observed my friend and her husband who have children at dinner decently, and they made a charming picture of domestic bliss. That is until little Emily suddenly announced loudly that she didn’t want a blue straw to drink her juice, she wanted a yellow one. I still cannot believe how the ensuing discussion descended into a full blown debate on her human rights (asserted by little Emily, who at four is already well on her way to becoming the next Cherie Blair) and inevitable tantrum and tears. Good god, I thought, I am never having children. Well, actually, I am never having coloured drinking straws in my house. And no Judge Judy either.