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‘So which one of these little ones is yours, then, Sophia?’ asked Felicity excitedly.
‘None of them, actually,’ I replied as I pulled the bottom of my fitted navy jersey dress down over my knees. Maybe I should have worn jeans too. I might end up catching my leg on one of the toys on the floor and laddering my tights.
‘Oh?’ she questioned, face perplexed, like I’d just asked her to divide 1.3 million by 13, then multiply it by 27 without a calculator. ‘Why, where are your children?’
Oh dear, here it comes. Thekidterrogation: when ‘well-meaning’ individuals, often those with children, interrogate womenwithoutkids about the status of their ovaries. This is exactly why I dreaded coming to kids’ parties…
Now, predictably, as Felicity tried to find some common conversation ground, she’d dropped the K bomb.
‘I don’t have any children,’ I replied, hoping unrealistically that she’d accept my response and just talk about the weather instead. Wishful thinking. More chance of London having a thirty-degree heatwave on Christmas Day.
‘You don’t have any children? Butwhy not?’ If I thought she looked confused before, now she had the kind of horrified face you’d expect to see on Mariah Carey if she was asked if she wanted to stay at a Travelodge rather than the penthouse at London’s swanky Corinthia Hotel.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I understood that because we were at a kid’s party, it might be a fair assumption that every adult in the room was here to oversee their offspring. However, asking someonewhythey don’t have children is a very personal and intrusive question and most definitely isn’t okay.
For all Felicity knew, I could have been struggling to conceive for years. How did she know I wasn’t on my third round of IVF and was riddled with worry that it wouldn’t work again? What if I’d recently suffered a miscarriage, or just been told I couldn’t have children at all? Or, horror of horrors, I might have even made a conscious decisionnotto have kids, like Roxy. Nowthatwould blow Felicity’s mind! But as many women over thirty without children will attest, people like Felicity don’t actuallythinkabout the implications and emotions that can be evoked by casually asking someone they met less than five minutes ago something that is frankly none of their business.
I wonder how she’d react if I asked her how often she had sex with her husband or what colour knickers she was wearing today. Ha-ha! Nowthatwould be funny. I was almost tempted to ask, just to see her reaction.
Anyway, because I knew Felicity probably didn’t mean any harm by what she wrongly considered a perfectly innocent question and was just trying to make conversation, I trotted out my standard response:
‘Oh, you know, Felicity. It’s just not something that has happened for me yet, but perhaps in the future,’ I said, complete with fake smile.That’s it. Keep it short and sweet.
‘Right,’ she muttered, still unconvinced. ‘But what about your husband? Doeshenot want kids now, then?’ she added, firmly pushing the second of my buttons. As well as being an outcast if you didn’t have children, I was also learning that being single in your thirties was also a crime to womankind punishable by something terrible like suffocation by wedding veil.
Keep calm, Soph. She doesn’t realise what she’s saying. Pretend you’re at work. Be professional.
‘Actually, I’m not married, Felicity,’ I replied confidently, and she suddenly became overcome with utter disbelief. In the past few minutes, her face has gone through more expressions than an impressionist onBritain’s Got Talent. And as for what she was thinking, I’d imagine the current headline in her brain read something like:
BREAKING: 30-Something Woman Discovered Living in 21st CenturyWITHOUTChildren or a Husband!
Ever persistent, Felicity was clearly not going to let this go until she discovered what led me to lead such aterribleexistence.
‘Oh..! Good heavens!’ she said disapprovingly, struggling to think of something constructive to say. ‘Um…erm, well…you’re still young, I suppose, so you have alittletime. Not much, but some at least. What are you? Around thirty-two, I’m guessing? It’s only when you get to thirty-five that youreallyneed to start worrying, becauseboom! Your fertility nosedives faster than theTitanic,’ she added solemnly.
Now I’d consider myself a patient person, but she was pushing my buttons harder than a teenager typing a text message. Oblivious to this, she continued:
‘That’s why it was a race against time to have Billy, my third child, before my thirty-third birthday. Phew!’ she said as she gestured wiping imaginary sweat from her forehead. ‘Just pushed him out in time. I mean, Bella was incredibly lucky. Having a baby at thirty-seven—I tell you, it’s a miracle. Any older and, let’s face it, it would have been curtains!’
Is she for real?Yes, I’ve done enough research to know fertility decreases with age, but that isnotan appropriate thing to say to someone you’ve just met. And as for the husband thing, seriously. Was this the 1800s? Didn’t she realise that not every woman has to get married?
‘Well, in that case, Felicity,’ I said, my face getting hotter by the second, ‘I’m fucked, then, aren’t I? I mean, seeing as I’m not thirty-two—thanks for that compliment, by the way—I’m actually almost thirty-nine.’
‘Sophia!’ screamed a clearly horrified Felicity. At first I thought it was because she couldn’t believe I couldpossiblybe in my late thirties and wanted to know what anti-ageing face creams I used, but then I realised this wasnota happy scream. This was ayou’ve just told my child that Father Christmas doesn’t exist and shattered their dreamsangry scream.
‘The children!’ she gasped again. ‘You cannotswearin front of the children!’
Right on cue, Billy, who had been playing with a small red toy Ferrari on the floor beside us, then proceeded to innocently and repeatedly shout, ‘Fucked! Fuck! Fucked!’
Crap. She did have a point about the swearing. I wasn’t used to being around children, but in fairness, I wasn’t accustomed to being irritated by some insensitive, self-satisfied ignoramus whose views belonged in the Natural History Museum either.
‘Billy, stop saying that!’ pleaded a rattled Felicity. ‘Bad word!’
‘Fuck, fucked, truck,’ he trotted out calmly as the other parents looked on, trying to work out whether this two-year-old was in fact dropping the F-bomb. But Billy continued rolling the Ferrari backwards and forwards along the wooden floor, clearly oblivious to the meltdown poorFelicity the self proclaimed fertility expertwas currently having.
Come on!You can’t tell me that was the first time little Billy had heard that word. He said it far too fluently. Bet Mrs Baby Making Machine used it at home constantly!
‘Yes, Billy!’ I added, thinking on my feet. ‘Have you ever played with a truck? I was just telling Mummy that Ilovetrucks! Trucks, trucks, trucked. Can you saytruck, Billy?’ I paused as I waited to see whether I’d salvaged my fuck faux pas.
