So here I am pulling my hair out over what to write. After 10 months off work my English skills are sloppy and and my typing skills seem to have devolved dramatically. It’s already taken me 15 minutes to write a sentence. My career goals are sky high (as in they’re up in space somewhere basically) and the sleep that I’ve had for at least the last ten months is very questionable- but I’ll give this blogging thing the best chance. My biggest cause for all of this hassle is just over a foot long. No, I’m not using some fancy metaphor for anxiety or depression- I’m talking about my almost ten month old daughter.
I was on track for all my ‘career goals’ when all of a sudden s*** got real. I had the perfect life planned out for me and my boyfriend. We were going to move out of his house share in North London and get some cool but overpriced studio flat in East London. It was going to be some sort of niche dream, but it just didn’t work out that way.
My boyfriend and I were lugging his stuff out of his house share in preparation for our new life together. I remember being on the tube on the way there and suddenly having a HUGE urge to cry. My British ways were like a dingy in a massive tsunami of tears and there was no hope for me on this train.
So two weeks and 15 pregnancy tests later (yes 15) I suddenly realised that the chance of getting 15 fake positives was probably not so high- probability was not on my side.