It was soon after I turned 30 that I first noticed my womb had become an open forum. Phrases like “future plans” and “catchment areas” began to be casually scattered into conversations like a trail of breadcrumbs guiding me to woman’s ultimate destination: the maternity ward.
When I got married, the dam opened and subtle-as-a-sledgehammer insinuation soon gave way to the alarmingly direct. “Are you two having kids?” was suddenly considered by many – at work and among friends – to be an appropriate question. “Time is ticking,” was delivered over Christmas lunch. Less White Rabbit, more Captain Hook. No longer an individual, I am now merely a uterus on legs.
