Change is here

Last October, I went to see a psychic. She came highly recommended by S-Friend and although I’d wanted to see her on previous occasions, it just never happened. But over breakfast on a Saturday morning, with a whole week of leave on the horizon, S-Friend suggested I see this psychic and something just clicked.

She predicted many things, like needing minor abdominal surgery (hello emergency lap coli) and much travel. But the most interesting was the prediction was that I wouldn’t recognise myself in a years’ time. Admittedly, she didn’t say whether the change would be good or bad, but I just assumed it was for the better.

Since I’m coming up to the anniversary of the visit, I’ve been looking for the change. I still see the same chubby face in the mirror when I brush my teeth and my clothes all still fit, so the change hasn’t been physical. This morning, though, a change dawned on me as I lay in bed procrastinating getting out of it.

The back story goes like this: I’ve always maintained that I’ll never have kids. I never thought it fair to pass on my undesirable (in my eyes) genes and pregnancy completely grosses me out. I tend to be pretty selfish, so I didn’t want to have to share my space and time with a screaming infant. There were always many, many reasons. Ten years ago I was adamant that I would never procreate.

Then I turned thirty. No, there was no sudden ticking of my biological clock, no jumping uterus every time I saw someone else’s screaming infant, no overwhelming desire to steal babies away from their mothers. But there was this thought that if I did happen to find myself with child, I would cope.  Not that it was likely to happen – I am perpetually single and not all that unhappy, yet – but if it did happen, I wouldn’t be upset. I decided that I wouldn’t go to great lengths to fall pregnant – IVF etc – but if it happened while I wasn’t paying attention, that would be ok.

But this morning, out of the blue, came the thought that I might actually like to have kids. Note the plural, as in more than one, because I think it’s important to have at least one sibling. Don’t know how I’ll cope with being pregnant. The thought of this thing growing inside me is completely appalling. Maybe they can put me into a medically induced coma for nine months and wake me up once its been cleaned up and is cute.

It might not sound like a huge thing to you, but for me it’s equivalent to Neil Armstrong landing on the moon. I’m not rushing out to find a sperm donor, and I still doubt I’ll agree to major medical intervention if it doesn’t happen naturally. I’m holding out for the nuclear family – a husband before kids – for now. But who knows, the clock might start ticking before that happens.

 

So, the change has become noticeable. It has me excited and apprehensive about what else is going to change. And a little sad at the gradual passing of the old me. I was rather fond of that girl.