I’m not usually one for regrets.
But there is one teeny, tiny thing.
I wish I’d tried for Aru sooner.

You see. I married at 23.
I promised myself I wouldn’t be the youngest one to have kids.
I’d already suffered from the experience of watching my friends and cousins continue to live it up whilst I had a mortgage and a husband. Not complaining about the husband part. Only mildly.
So I thought I’d aim to be pregnant around my early 30s. Nailed it.
Because of course, mid 30s seems to be the going age amongst my friends.

But I was tired.
And somedays, I think, “I really want to fit a couple more in, but it depends so much on how I’m feeling”.

Then I went to Copenhagen.
You know. The be all and end all for living. Eco living. Designer living. Scandi and all that jazz.
Average age for woman to fall pregnant?


Freaking 27.
I thought to myself, “Damn it. It could have been me.”

I’m grateful, we have a housey-house now, which is miles more convenient and I’m different to whom I was then.

But if I’ve got one piece of advice (don’t you hate people who give advice?), it’s this:

Don’t go by the average.
Go by Copenhagen (that line was a joke).
Don’t go by the average.

Go by “the whenever the hell you want it” age.