In my early 30s I’m surrounded by an epidemic of pregnancies. But will it prove contagious?

At the ripe old age of nigh on 34, I’m suddenly surrounded by pregnancies. Some of my friends and Facebook acquaintances, much like the vaunted rumours of HRH Kate – all bets suspended – have popped out one, and are in the process of their second. One has just announced 3 and 4 in one fell swoop, her shock and surprise matched only by the unprecedented number of likes she has attracted for the announcement, usually only reserved for the first womb shot or that strangely passive aggressive update beloved of some women newly up the duff –the “baby on board” tube badge profile pic.
Many are in the middle of making number one and those who haven’t popped a sprog yet can’t stop talking about it as a prospect. It’s an epidemic.

With the average age a woman has a baby hitting thirty for the first time EVER, it seems like I will be stuck in tokaphobic hell for some years to come. It’s not that I dislike pregnancy, per say, although it’s sure as hell no picnic. Or pregnant women – come to that. It’s just that – having been there and done it, first time mums can be slightly nauseating company even when they’re past the peaky stage- it’s like being a third grader stuck with the first years.

The age a woman has her first born rises in parallel to the level of professional status she has achieved, or so it seems in my entirely unscientific estimation. So, many of my “career” friends, if you can even call “women who work” that in this day in age when pretty much everyone needs to generate an income to put a roof over their heads- have one in the oven. Having reached managerial status or above, they are blissfully confidant in their ability to manage an offspring in the same way they manage a colleague. Far be it from me to disillusion them, but their pregnancy glow and rosy tinted spectacles can be a bit much to bear for cynical old two timer me, now struggling my way up the career ladder having done things “the wrong way round” (unless you’re Kirsty Alsopp). Maybe I’m just the teensy weensiest bit jealous. But not when I think of nappies. Or sleep. Or cBeebies.

But it can be irksome to be the most qualified women in the room where my pregnant co-horts are chowing down on tea and cakes (I did my time in that particular social hellhole – bring on the rose and a cheeky Vogue slim, say I.) I am rarely asked for advice. The maternal defence mechanism goes up at conception and old hands are perceived as out of date and judgemental by pre-partem idealists still forming views on their not yet nascent mothering skills. It’s easier if I just stay schtum, pour the tea and make sure I’ve not had a fag before I pick up the overtired bawling baby who really just needs to be in a dark room in their own cot instead of a room of clucking women.

But the danger of doing it earlier, is however exhausting, limiting and boring new motherhood is, and however hard it is to crawl your way back up the career ladder after a delayed start, it’s hard to quite let go of the idea of making another new little person when physically you’re able to and financially, it’s not an impossibility – however long it may be before you can actually have a conversation with said small person that does not involve interestingly lisped words for bodily effluent. Especially when all your friends are doing it.

So for now, I’ll just have to grin and bear it, so to speak, while my thirty something friends pop out number one. And perhaps, just perhaps, be ready to join them in the pudding club (I loathe that expression, but it serves my metaphoric purpose here) when they are all just a little more seasoned.