Friday evening saw me tired and emotional after a long week in work, so to complement my horrendous humour I sought out the company of two friends I was sure would be truly sleep deprived. The reason? Their 4 day old daughter, a squalling, auburn-haired little beauty by the name of Eadie. She'd been giving her mam a hard time over the last few months so it was a relief to finally meet her, and to see that she'd made it here with more or less the minimum of fuss. Childbirth may be the most natural thing in the world, but it's also very fucking scary, even from a nice safe distance. Apparently the hard part starts now, but at least there'll be help at hand. I've already volunteered my services as chief babysitter, though I haven't babysat since I was about 15 and back then it was all about what was in the fridge. Still, changing nappies is a little like riding a bike... (unpleasant). They're the first of my friends to spawn, so it'll be a while before the novelty factor wears off. For me. It's never going to wear off for them.
I was walking with my brother this morning and telling him all about Eadie and her proud parents (he hasn't had the chance to meet her yet). As I was talking to him about it I realised that through the jokes about sleepless nights and shitey nappies I'm worried that it's something I might not get to go through myself. At 23 I was warned that I might have trouble conceiving. It's not something I like to dwell too much on, especially given that I'm 26 years young and inexplicably single, but there are times when it's hard to be objective about it. My brother, however, knows just how to make me feel better. "Chewy babies* are mad cute though" he said. "Adopt one".
I laughed. He's right. They are mad cute.
