by FAITH SINNOTT
So confession…? I am terrified of my friends’ newborn babies.
It seems like there was some kind of alert went out to my entire social network on our 36th birthdays announcing – ‘you all must go forth and breed’.
I however missed that call.
Those who have not yet procreated are all planning babies whether by coming off the Pill or IVF. Me, I have no immediate plans.
Suddenly our conversations are all about C-sections, frozen breast milk and how newborn baby poo doesn’t smell bad. Really…? I am not at all convinced.
Gruesome birthing stories that sound like something out of American Psycho are told with almost a reverent joy. Who the hell thinks it is wonderful that what sounds like a grappling hook and pulley system is used in a ceasarian? Those not yet cradling a newborn perch enthralled on the edge of their seats begging for more while I wince, praying the litany will just end, seriously considering celibacy as a precaution.
Visiting now involves sitting awkwardly in a seat holding a fragile little bundle of powder smelling cuteness and pretending my arm is not about to tear itself off from my shoulder socket. Babies have a nifty magic trick of incrementally increasing their weight the longer you hold them.
It feels like a test of loyalty to my friend, the longer I ache, the more I prove my friendship. All the while I am completely unable to shift the weight as I am positive that the baby’s head is going to plop right off its little shoulders if I dare to breathe too deeply.
During these visits there are compulsory lightning flashes of high-resolution SLR cameras capturing my discomfort in all its terrified glory. People coo over snapshots of a gorgeous little bundle and a woman sitting in an unflattering way, biting her lips, her face drawn back in concentration lest that little head roll and there be photographic evidence. Must these photos be published on Facebook? Seriously, if you have any hope of me turning to Poopy Side, accept those images are not cute and delete them immediately.