The Incubator…

It’s like an urban legend. “The Man Who Wants Children”. It’s become like, a taboo. Unheard of.

Of course, all men *say* they do. The same way they say they’re very romantic, affectionate and would never have their stag parties at Mavericks. Someone, pass me a lie-detector test, stat.

Imagine my shock when I did meet someone who unabashedly stated very early into our dating that he most definitely wanted kids, ASAP, immediately, if not sooner. My response was the same as any sane woman in my situation: pass him another whisky until he tells me more.

I’m not going to lie. The idea of having *one* small, little wee baby fills me with fear, anxiety and stress. And fantasising about what it could be like. I am assured by all my parent friends that my fantasies are very very far from the reality of no sleep for 18 years and imminent poverty.

I was still fascinated by this brave man who courageously declared he wanted me to bear his offspring, asking eagerly how many months maternity leave I get, how easily do I think I’d fall pregnant, why do I insist on drinking so much, really, it may harm my body, and, um, can we please make sure it’s a girl because he doesn’t particularly want a boy.

Hmm. I kinda want a boy. Especially one with Daddy’s shamaaaazing legs and penchant for being irritatingly cute. Wait. I’m beginning to get this most curious suspicion. It all started when Broody Man wasn’t introducing me as his Girlfriend. When he wasn’t particularly fussed on being a good boyfriend… at all. When he was taking calls in rooms far away and making sure his phone was on silent. I wasn’t invited to parties he was going to. You know the deal is sealed when you both have a Blackberry and messaging is free… and he’s on his phone ALL day but you never hear from him.

So, my head hurts. This is confusing. You want me to have your babies and pass on my glorious head of hair and sparkling smile, but if I’m not your girlfriend, um, what am I?

*lightbulb moment*… I am… The Incubator.

Dear God, how revolting!!! I had to get my girls on the line and find out if my Broody Man was a member of a cult and whether I should call an exorcist.

Sadly, heaps of women are familiar with this man. He’s older. He’s dated enough skinny bitches to know falling pregnant if you’re a part-time coke addict just isn’t any old stroll in the park. I’m probably the only girl he’s ever met who cried when he showed me family pictures and made him cookies for his week at work, who booked doctors appointments and bought him underwear and socks.

There’s nothing specifically flattering about being chosen for your womb, and not your scintillating personality, caring persona, enormous (ok, partial) success and sexual prowess.

Plus………You need balls to make a baby.

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