I have a confession.
One that may not surprise those who know me well.
Between you and me readers, I am not as opposed to children as I insist I am.
It hit me today when I was looking at photos of my good friends baby girl. Babies are ok really. Apart from the screaming, crying, pooing, vomiting, feeding side. There's something quite joyful about watching a teeny tiny human enjoying themselves and discovering things.
And there is something slightly magical when they hold their chubby little arms up to you. Even more magical when they attempt saying your name or they sit enthralled as you read them a book.
It is entirely possible that certain circumstances involving my current relationship status and the relationship status of certain significant others (mainly he-who-must-not-be-named) let me to deny the fact that the biological clock is slowly ticking away and put up an icy exterior.
Whilst screaming children in supermarkets make my thighs shut with a force greater than Obi Wan Kenobi and misbehaved brats at parties have me triple checking I have taken my pill when I get home.. despite this, perhaps, just maybe.. certain children aren't so bad.
I love my two nephews to bits. I adore the very stylish Miss Browns' (especially when the eldest complements my shoes). I have a huge amount of affection for Master Charlie & Miss Indi, offspring of my former housemates. I have a picture of my Godson Liam on my desk. I'm strangely protective of my teenage niece, despite having only met once (we are Facebook friends though). And with much reluctance I'll admit I'm also rather fond of some of my colleagues children (I'll stress some here though).
All it takes is a stupid grin and they have Aunty Ginger wrapped around their teeny tiny fingers.
Let's keep this between us though.. and never speak of it again.
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