Of the mothers in my circle, I thought I was the most “one and done”. I became pregnant with my first child at the age of 29, shortly after marrying my husband, and a year after I’d moved to Berlin following Boris Johnson’s election as mayor of London. I felt he would damage my home city, taking it further along the road to unaffordability and unfettered capitalism. The rise in the cost of everything in London meant the life I had assumed I would have as a third-generation Londoner wasn’t possible.
It was a childhood dream to open a bookshop and to have a family of my own, and Berlin made both those things possible. I was lucky to have a smooth pregnancy, and the public healthcare insurance scheme in Germany cost me the same as I would pay in national insurance contributions in the UK. Included in my plan was a monthly scan with my gynaecologist, as well as two deep scans and one 4D scan, so when my child arrived I knew everything about him. The care from my doctor was stern and medicalised – when my six-week scan showed two eggs, she told me not to get excited as one egg could vanish, which was alarming and upsetting. I chose to also get a midwife, paid for by my health insurance, who had a more holistic approach. My son was two weeks late, and she suggested that I insert a tampon soaked in olive oil and cloves, sit on a toilet filled with lavender and hay, and drink camomile tea. The doctor suggested that I be induced. I did both, and the latter brought me my son.
