If I were to get two lines on a test tomorrow, I would feel like I was about to become a teen mum. Tell me I’m not the only thirty-something whose mind hasn’t caught up with her body? I’m not stuck in some Peter Pan dream of never growing up, and my life certainly isn’t without responsibility and caregiving.
I don’t see myself as younger than I am, but the idea of motherhood feels like such an abstract concept that my thoughts haven’t changed much since my first pregnancy scare as a teenager. It’s a cruel irony that now, aged 33, I’m nearing becoming a ‘geriatric mother’, a horribly archaic description that reeks of Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest.
