Percy Street

All my life I have never been far from a furry neck to nuzzle. From Glynn to Grace to Heather to Sally, all different breeds with wildly different personalities sharing only one thing in common; four legs. So why then, did I add two legs to my uncomplicated existence?

Children had never featured highly on my 'Things to do Before I Die' list, in fact, they never featured at all; until one day in my early thirties when my body broke free from the constraints of my mind, and struck out for independence in the name of Mother Nature and the survival of the species. As though the human race hasn't been successful enough!

I was strolling down Percy Street one unremarkable day in May. A woman was walking towards me with a baby sling strapped to the front of her body. Still nothing unusual, I barely glanced at her. But as she drew nearer, we seemed caught in slow motion for a split second as our strides passed in perfect mirror image. While suspended in this twilight zone moment, I glimpsed the tiny, peaceful blob nestled snugly against her chest. My step faltered and I turned to watch her as she continued her journey, oblivious to the bomb she had just detonated in my life.

I felt strange. My throat tightened, and before I knew what was happening I found myself cooing. Cooing! Aliens may as well have landed before me I couldn't have been left more stunned. My cooing had previously been reserved for puppies, kittens, cubs (bear and feline), foals, giraffes, hippos, ducklings, goslings (anything feathered), wolves, deer, reptiles and even the occasional rodent; but never, I repeat - NEVER, had my list included a baby!

I had always found babies to be much over-rated, believing that all they did was poo, cry, induce sleepless nights and a terrifying fear of cot death. Who needs that? And that's just the baby stage! Then they start to crawl, bringing a whole new meaning to the word neurotic. Days spent on your hands and knees scouring for discarded adult paraphernalia. That once innocent paper clip suddenly becomes as scary as Freddie Kruger in the chubby hands of a toddler. The two pence piece you glimpse heading into the baby's slobbering black hole bringing with it heart stopping terror. The coin rescued and choking averted in the nick of time while you curse your husband for having dropped it in the first place. The little menaces just have to explore with their mouths don't they? I mean really, haven't they heard of the sense of touch? And then there's the teething. Everything from the telly to the dog's bed becomes covered in a thick, slobbery slime worthy of The Blob.
But all that pales in comparison to the toddling stage. Who knew there were so many sharp corners to a house just waiting silently to catch a baby's unsuspecting head as it crashes to the floor after another failed attempt at toddling?


Presuming mouth explorations and toddling have been successfully navigated, you then begin enthusiastically encouraging it to say "mama", only to have the word used to asylum threatening proportions before they become teenagers when it morphs to the some what colder, mother and is preceded with "I hate you!" No, none of that was for me. Give me walks in the park, a game of fetch and a wagging tail any day. Except - on that day, when I was almost deafened by the chiming of my biological clock.

My husband leaped for joy on receipt of the news as it meant ridiculous amounts of sex not enjoyed in such quantities since his early twenties. I availed myself of the top ten tips to successful pregnancy and we got to work. The marker pen ringed my ovulation days in my diary. I bought extra loose boxer shorts for my husband (don't ask, I read it somewhere!) and filled the fridge with nutritious, pregnancy boosting snacks. With luck on our side (and an obsessive nature), I was up the stick pretty quickly.

When I was compiling my list of reasons for not having children back in those heady days of sanity, it hadn't occurred to me to include the actual act of pregnancy itself; not only include it, but stick it at the top! The joy felt at the loss of periods for nine months was easily over-shadowed by the mood swings, sore boobs, water retention, morning sickness and the first bout of paranoia - will I make it through the first trimester? I didn't. The first spots of blood I noticed in my knickers sent a pain to my heart so sharp and intense I thought I'd been stabbed. I spent the afternoon with my legs firmly crossed, determined to keep my baby in. I'd done all the right things, stopped smoking, eaten the right foods, drunk the right drinks, so I wasn't about to let it escape. How stupid I felt when I realised gravity is stronger than a clenched pelvis. With nothing to hold on to, it slid from me before I'd even reached six weeks.

I emerged from the bathroom, sore and swollen eyed to find Heather at the door, lying at the threshold like a guard dog. She stood up and gave a solitary wag of her tail, her head hung low with her ears pinned back as though she'd just stolen a freshly cooked chicken off the worktop. I slumped beside her and sank my tear soaked face into her neck and whispered, "why didn't I stick to dogs?"