At the grand and frankly rather ancient age of twenty one, I am a dried out and withered husk of womanhood because I have thus far entirely failed to procreate. I know, you really don’t have to gasp in abject horror like that, you’ll pull something. According to my former genetics professor, I’ve completely missed the optimum window for child bearing. Rather than messing around with that whole school and university business during the ages of eighteen and nineteen in order to finish off my A levels and begin my degree, from a strictly biological standpoint, I really ought to have popped out a kid or two. Right?
Mercifully, it’s not quite that simple. I have plenty of excuses I can trot out to the eggs I’ve previously flushed down the toilet (because it would be weird to hang on to them or something). Children are really terribly needy (this isn’t sounding overly apologetic is it? It’s not like its their fault or anything) and, by all accounts, you’re supposed to be able to afford to feed and clothe them before you bring them into this world. Details, they have the potential to be rather pesky. This keeps me in the clear for a while, take that nature, I don’t have to listen to you any more (this is where I get struck down by a particularly nasty strain of flu or something to teach me for spouting such blatant examples of a thoroughly cavalier attitude).
So when is the best time for this flavour of malarkey? Well, if there was an easy or obvious answer to that question don’t you think that you would have heard it by now? Basically, if you can sneak them in under the wire before you hit thirty five you’re less likely to run into problems but if you don’t then more power to you. Yeah, I’m a bit disappointed by how mundane that was too.
The Ros Martin Archive 