Motherhood

There’s something about impending motherhood that brings out the beast in most casual observers: if you’re pregnant, they’ll ask you why; if you aren’t they’ll wonder why not. There’s simply no pleasing the average busybody.

When I returned from my honeymoon, everyone sat around waiting for my announcement of prospective parenthoold. When I was expecting my fourth, the situation was completely reversed. (I didn’t have to announce this one; all I did was show my pea-green face in public and salacious rumour did the rest.)

My family and friends were horrified, my neighbours appalled at the news. At parties, people went out of their way to talk about overpopulation and the efficacy of birth control.

Strangely enough, they took the opposite tack with my husband. Female friends began eyeing him speculatively, and every male within jabbing distance took to giving him knowing winks and playful pokes.

The questions directed at mothers-to-be are always profuse, personal and in the worst possible taste. Once charmer came right out and asked me whether the baby was planned. Another coyly asked me the ages of my other children, as though I hadn’t already figured out that in five years I’d be sending the youngest off to kindergarten and the oldest to university the same day. I guess when you have four children, unless they’re quadruplets, you’re bound to have them occupy various levels in the educational system.

As the proud mother of three daughters, I particularly resented constantly being asked if I was hoping for a boy. I never knew how to answer this question, and often wished I had the nerve of my five-year-old, who made no bones about the fact that she’d much prefer a Shetland pony.

Why did I have a fourth child? Callous friends say it was to give me something to do. After all, when her youngest trotted off to kindergarten, every mother I know either went to work or bought a dog. I took the easy way out. I don’t know much about dogs, but I have yet to see a child who didn’t eventually mature enough to grow out of diapers.

Actually, the speculators are all wrong. My husband hit on the real reason for my maternal re-awakening. I heard him tell a friend recently, “My wife will do anything to get material for another story.”