Suffer the little children.

A family friend once told me that nannying in itself was a form of contraception, that I should be paying her for all the protection I was getting by looking after her children. This piece of advice has particular resonance as I desperately try to prevent the Preg. I have been to a number of health professionals, been on every form of birth control and nothing works for me. People warn you of the dangers of sex; the diseases you can catch, the emotional repercussions and so on. Actually, sex is a hassle. How can it be romantic and spontaneous when you're fishing around for your diaphram or bleeding 28 days out of every month from an injection that could potentially cripple you? Bring on the man-pill. Until then, babies appear to be doing the job quite nicely.

As a nanny, I am required to take Darling Child to requisite extra-curricular activities to improve social skills and balance left and right sides of brain et cetera. Today's trip to Mummy and Me Dance Class was particularly arduous as I nursed the hangover of a lifetime, but we arrived perfectly groomed, ready for a morning of FUN! Two songs in, I had a bizzare, out of body experience. It may have been due to sleep deprivation, I'm unsure, but had I not been tired perhaps this moment of clarity would have passed me by.

It all started with the song. 'Wiggly-Woo'. Taken out of context, it is a harmless children's rhyme; 'It's all a bunch of wiggly-woo, wiggly-woo, you can do it TOOOO!'. Instead, the hall was filled with the sound of forty moronic mothers singing along with gusto, complete with hand actions and gooey grins. This time, the overwhelming desire to vom came not from the tequila shots the night before but from this scene playing out before me. I could feel hysteria creeping up, but that would make me just as bad as them, I decided. Instead, my mouth became a yawning great casm as I indulged in my Carrie Bradshaw 'I couldn't help but wonder' moment.

Who were these women? This wasn't fun they were having with their children. This was desperation. Trying to make the best out of an awful situation. To my left was a woman who clearly had not had her hair trimmed since 1998 , and to my right, I was greeted with an ass crack the size of Texas. At first, I defended them, like all good sisters should. Maybe the relationship with her hairdresser ended badly. And god knows how hard it is to lose that baby weight. But no. Said womens children were of school age, or kindergarten at the very least. I get that when you become a parent, the child becomes the priority. Hell, that's what all good parents should do. But completely losing who you are in the process? I wondered who these women were BC*. They would have done all the things we do; buy inappropriate and draw-droppingly expensive outfits, laugh with their girlfriends over things guys had said to them, dance on table tops. Of course, this cannot last forever and having children means a total lifestyle change. I just find it inconcievable that women would be willing to sacrifice a sense of humour, a genuine joy for life and pride in one's appearance for another, child or otherwise. Those things make up who I am. Who you are. So, for now at least, someone is finally getting through to my ovaries. The chilling rendition of nursery rhymes and the sea of regrowth have taught them not to count their chickens before they hatch.

K x




*Before Children.