A little bit of personal history, if I may. I mean, of course I may, it’s my blog and I’ll write what I want on it, but ANYWAY. This year I will, as I’ve observed before, turn fifty (barring accidents). I’m sad that neither of my parents is here to see that happen, not least because it took them quite some effort to bring me into the world. Mum couldn’t remember exactly how many attempts they made, but she thought it was six before me and two after (why yes, Trek fans, that would in fact make me literally seven of nine if those numbers were right). So I was at least the seventh one, and the only successful one out of the lot. The folks were desperate enough for kids that, in 1965, they adopted one, my late brother Grant, but still kept trying for one of their one, with a string of failures until 1974. (Frankly, the unlikeliness of me having just happened like that used to make me wonder if I’d been adopted too. I never asked and I don’t suppose I’ll ever know now, and do I want to anyway.)
Mum and Dad were both 36 when I was born. I mention this specific detail because I saw this post from a soi-disant “NuTradWife”:
…That’s MY mum you’re having a go at there, cunt. Mine wanted me badly enough that her and Dad kept trying until they got me. And kept trying after that. But then she posted:
So the idea of a woman wanting children at 35 is laughable but you want them to wait a few more years despite that? Hope your mum has regrets about you, Aly.
