“Wanting a child” is a strangely mild phrase to cover a desire that can punch one in the gut, and leave a constant thrumming in one’s ears, hands and knees. It is warm and deliciously tactile, yet comparable to a war-like rage. Like an obscenely powerful hoover, it vacuums up your inner rational voice, leaving you reckless of loss, care and peace.
But the inner rational voice fights back with reminders of easy delights, such as the day-to-day agency whereby it is you who decides where to go, and when. At work or among friends, the clarion calls of careeer ambition...
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