As women we expect our bodies to work,
You know, tick over nicely with as little effort as possible,
Only the necessary attention to detail needed.
Like baking a cake, getting all the right ingredients together,
Weighing them out, mixing them up, following the recipe,
Or putting a bun in the oven.
It’s easy. Sorry am I being greedy,
Which one am I wanting, a cake or a bun?
Oh, a baby, how silly of me.
Well, now, that’s awkward
Because if you know me like I know me,
You know that’s not exactly reality.
It could be a possibility,
In my dreams, maybe not.
The thing is I don’t know a lot
But what I do know is I’m broken.
I’m like that offer on the shelf in your local store,
That’s discounted that does all the right things
Almost exactly and as perfectly as every other product
But my box is dented and you take a chance
Because like the cheaper option your goods might just turn out alright…
But what if they don’t, what if they’re damaged;
What if I’m damaged?
Damaged goods are no good to anybody – especially me.
And it’s me who sees this, it’s my reality.
It’s definitely me. It’s hard.
It’s hard to know where to go or what to say
When people look at you at twenty-eight
And wonder why you aren’t trying for a baby,
Well maybe, just maybe it’s not that easy.
Not for me, you want to make them see but at the same time you’re embarrassed.
So, when the comment comes you take it on the chin and say….
Uh Hum, Well, where do I begin…
I don’t have enough money, I can barely look after myself;
Children don’t really actually very much like me…
It would just be wrong – wouldn’t it?
Me. With a baby. Or at least the ability to make one;
For my mum – not me.
I’m not bothered. It’s her I worry about,
She’s not getting any younger and
I think she’s done with having them herself,
She’s already got three. Three whole babies,
One of them’s me… I’d like to give her one,
Give her one back. It’s like a repayment
“Thank you and here is your reward for putting up with silly old me my whole life,
I didn’t mean to cause you so much strife so here’s a grandchild…”
Go on, someone dig in another knife,
There’s room for one more – unintentionally of course,
Their hearts are in the right place but
Doesn’t really make a difference because,
In this instance I’m hurting.
Why don’t I work properly?
Why can’t I be the best, most efficient cake maker and bun baker
This side of my dreams. The side where I’m awake not just asleep,
It’s all very nice living in a different life when the lights go out
And the evenings start to suffice and show you your ability;
So, I finally call the doctor.
I already know I have PCOS, so that’s not gonna be news to me,
I call the doctor because maybe, not right now but
Eventually I’d like a baby and
It’s taken me years to admit this to myself,
Always pulling out the “I’m not maternal” card or
“Children would be for me too hard.”
Hard work. What an off putter.
Who’d want to wipe all those smelly bums
And guess which miraculous little word might come first…
I don’t want to see the carbon copy of my very own eyes looking straight back at me,
My nose, my mouth, his chin, his hair – it’s not fair.
I want to teach poetry to a little girl who’s only three… four… five…
And the rest, yeah,
Maybe it’s about time I should get this off my chest.