I went to see Bridget Jones’ Baby last night. Loved it, if you’re after a review: it may not win over any new fans, but die-hard Bridget lovers won’t be disappointed.

Before I went my boyfriend said to me, in only a mildly accusing tone, “You’ll be broody afterwards”. Of course (as with all sensible, grown-up conversations) I immediately disagreed with him. “It’s not that kind of film. It’s all about her not knowing who the dad is – it’s NOT about how awesome babies are.”

But actually, the baby is pretty cute at the end. And Bridget kind of rocks being pregnant. (Yes, I know it’s not real and she’s wearing a prosthetic bump and has make up artists and hairdressers and millions of dollars in the bank and isn’t actually battling raging hormones, throwing up multiple times a day, barely sleeping and unable to tie her own shoes. I know all that.)

I even dreamt about a baby last night. Granted, it wasn’t mine, and it had just shat everywhere and I was trying to persuade someone – anyone – else to clean it up, but was my subconscious trying to tell me something?

I’ve never been MASSIVELY broody. I’m not one of those women who feel their true calling/sole purpose in life is to reproduce. My Facebook profile will never declare me a ‘proud stay-at-home mummy’. I mean, I want kids someday – sure. But as I get older, someday doesn’t get any closer. When my mum was my age she’d already had me and my sister, but there’s no pressure for grandkids (“Don’t be daft, you can’t afford to have a baby”).*

That’s not to say I don’t have my moments (not counting dreams about dirty nappies. Because surely they don’t count). Last week an old work friend had a beautiful baby girl, and I went to buy her a present. Browsing the baby clothes in Next – kudos, Next, you have some unbelievably cute outfits – I began to feel insanely broody. I started to imagine a little mini-me, all sweet and snuggly and incredibly well-dressed.

But I took myself to the  Sainsbury’s a few doors down, spent ten minutes or so gazing at the shelves of wine (*heart-eyed emoji*) and normality was restored.

My primary reasons for having babies are as follows.

  1. To dress them up in funny clothes (mainly animal costumes).
  2. To re-read all my favourite childhood books (mainly Roald Dahl).

My primary reasons for not having babies are as follows.

  1. I really like sleep.
  2. I really like alcohol.
  3. I really like caffeine, unpasteurised cheese, rare steak, shellfish, pate – you get the idea.
  4. I can barely look after myself; let alone a tiny, defenceless human.
  5. I’ll never get my figure back. I haven’t even ‘got it’ yet – I need to achieve Dream Bod status, enjoy it for a few years THEN destroy it forever.
  6. Conversations have shown that my boyfriend and I will never agree on a name. And apparently “it’s coming out of me” does not give me carte blanche. Men can be SO unreasonable.
  7. The world is a pretty terrible place at the moment – am I fuck bringing a child into a world where Donald Trump could be President. And negotiating with Boris Johnson.
  8. I hear they’re really expensive.
  9. I hear it REALLY hurts.

So basically, it’s a numbers game.


*The same can’t be said for the in-laws. When asked last November what they wanted for Christmas, they replied “grandchildren”. I’m not sure how much attention they paid in biology. However, the upside is that “if X happens there won’t be any grandchildren” is a very effective threat… I imagine.




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