*advance warning* mother of all rants ahead – expect colourful language and a whole lot of vagina.
I need to say this.
Why the fuck does your vagina become public arsing property as soon as you squeeze a human out of it?
By this I mean, why does everyone get to ask you REPEATEDLY when you will be having another baby, as soon as your child passes the age of 18 shitting months?!
The more I think about it, the more it winds me up… Not because I mind people I ACTUALLY KNOW knowing when I think I might be have another child, (I shall be informing my husband in due course about the point his sperm will be required… probably…) It’s more the people on the periphery; the distant relatives, the friends of friends, the ex-colleagues who stalk your facebook timeline and occasionally accidentally ‘like’ a photo of you in a bikini on holiday…. #awkward… and the fucking postman. Or those who haven’t even met me… they’re just behind me in the basket till queue at Waitrose, or sitting opposite me as I stuff cake in my face at Costa, or pouring me a gin at the pub… why do you think this is an appropriate question!?! Would you like to analyse my ovulation app, or perhaps you’d be happier if I text you each time I have sex so you can keep track for your-bastard-self… Jeeeeeeezzz.
How do they know I don’t only want one child? How do they know there isn’t some deeply sensitive issue for me surrounding childbirth (no that’s not some weird way of describing a vagina) or that I may not actually be able to have another baby…? IT’S FUCKING RUDE.
I think because I’ve got friends, and friends of friends, and known people, who are in these types of situations, I imagine myself in their shoes being forced to tell almost strangers deeply personal information about themselves purely to make ‘polite conversation’. And that shit makes me sad.
So to all you fuckers out there thinking about tapping that lady with the toddler on the shoulder in the post office queue to ask if she’s ready for the ‘next one’…
Talk about the weather or some shit instead. Because next time you’ll be getting a punch to the throat quicker than I can say botched fanny stitches and a wonky episiotomy.
Sorry about that… *clears throat and gets back to morning gin activities*