It's nearly September. I'm currently giving myself a good talking to and bracing myself and I've warned Richard not to succumb to my charms over the next couple of months. This is because September and October make me broody, and if ever there was a non-broody woman on this planet for the other ten months of the year, it's me.
The reason for this autumnal broodiness is that I (laughably) managed to get pregnant with Rory in September 2008. (The 'laughably' bit is because I'd just started teaching Reception in a new school - firstly I have no idea how I actually found the time or energy to become pregnant as anyone who's ever taught Reception will be familiar with the feeling of your head exploding and your body packing in every day at around 3pm after dealing with 30 tearful, over excited four year olds with little impulse, volume or bladder control all day. Also, getting knocked up within a week or two of starting a new job is not a sure-fire way to impress your new boss).
So, what I'm feeling isn't necessarily broodiness. It's maybe more....nostalgia. But nostalgia for what? I suppose the first two weeks weren't so bad. That was before I started heaving my guts up from dawn until dusk, although I have a fond memory of being found asleep face down on a pile of marking and cutting and sticking equipment by the head of key stage shortly after I'd sent the children home one day, so it can't have been a whole heap of laughs. The day after that, the cement mixer stomach started, then the bleeding, then the endless dashes to hospital to be checked for miscarriage. If my memory serves me correctly, September and October were mainly spent either being scanned, lying on my back with my legs in the air or retching into a Tesco bag in my stationery cupboard while my class ran amok with the plasticine worms. It is hardly the stuff that nostalgia is made of.
If I prod my mind a bit further, I notice that not only do I not want to spend the next nine months feeling sick as a dog and getting progressively more barrel shaped, I don't actually want a baby either. I quite enjoy my sleep thank you very much and my house looks so much nicer now it's not encrusted with dried milky sick.
So why the broodiness?
It occurs to me late one night, thunderbolt style: I'm not broody. I simply fancy a bit of excitement and attention.
When you're pregnant, it's exciting. Even if you've been told you'll most likely miscarry, there's still the hope and the different feelings and the existence of something different in your life. Then you tell people you're expecting, and you get attention by the spade load. It's all bump rubbing and giving up seats on the bus and talking about baby names and listening to horrific accounts of labour. In contrast, the most exciting thing that happened this week was when the washing up liquid nearly ran out but I managed to eke it out a bit longer with some of Rory's bubble mix. And nobody ever pays me any attention. I could turn naked cartwheels past my husband and son with a kazoo stuck in each available orifice and they'd still continue to make their Lego fire engine without so much as glancing my way, so it's no wonder I want some excitement and attention.
So, suggestions please, readers. What can I do to fulfil this need that doesn't involve getting up the stick again?