Ive had three long-term relationships in my lifeproper serious ones, mind you. In each, I was rather convinced Id end up as somebodys dad. And yet, somehow, each time things started to head in a distinctly nappies and prams direction, I found myself legging it the other way.
The first woman I dated already had a toddler. I was 27, thought I was mature and all that. Honestly, I barely noticed at firstjust slipped into her routine, mastered the bedtime stories, even made peace with CBeebies. When the talk turned to us having a baby, months went by and nothing happened. She was the first to go and see a doctorturns out she was right as rain. Then she started asking if Id had any tests. I brushed her off with the old Itll happen when it happens line, but gradually, I got all twitchy and tetchy. Arguments became our new hobby. One day, without making too much fuss, I just walked out the door.
Round two was a different kettle of fish. No kids to start with; just the two of us, clear as day about wanting a family. We triedfor years, actually. Every negative test pushed me further into my shell. She cried more often; I found myself dodging all conversations about babies. When she suggested we see a specialist together, I accused her of making a mountain out of a molehill. Soon enough, I started working late, lost interest in everything, felt trapped. Four years later, we finally called it a day.
The third time was with a woman who already had two teenage sons. She told me right off the bat she didnt fancy having any more kids. Oddly enough, it was I who resurrected the baby topicas if I wanted to prove I was still up to it. And againabsolutely nothing happened. I just didnt belong. I began to feel like an extra chair at a crowded table.
In all three relationships, the same thing kept cropping up. Not just disappointmentproper dread. The fear, really, of sitting in a chilly consultants office and hearing that the issue was me.
I never did get tested. Never confirmed a thing. I always thought it was easier to make a sharp exit than to face the answerwhatever it wasthat I might simply not be able to handle.
Now, here I am, comfortably past forty. I see my exes on Facebook, all settled with their families, with children who are very definitely not mine. And I sometimes wonder whether I really left because I was fed up or simply because I never quite summoned the guts to stay and face what might really be going on with me.
