January 23: Half-Baked Plan

I suppose my thoughts on my impending motherhood aren’t too clear as yet. Largely this is because getting pregnant wasn’t planned. Plus I’ve had an awful lot of grief from the FTB (who is a British Indian and expected to get an arranged marriage to someone of a similar complexion and not – did I say not? – go out with white girls and get them pregnant, especially when mum and dad don’t even know I exist).
The little line on the pregnancy kit appeared sometime in August. I sighed. I then drove to London to tell him, thinking, ‘Oh well, not exactly planned but things will be ok, we will muddle through, we will figure it all out, it will work out for the best, it will all be fine.’
It was not fine.
It was as far from fine as fine can be.
The reaction: ‘I can’t do this. This can’t happen. You must have an abortion. This baby will be filled with shame and stigma. It is a complete taboo. I will be disowned by my family. This cannot happen in our society. The baby has nothing going for it. There is nothing positive about this. It is the worst thing that has ever happened. This baby will never be accepted. It absolutely cannot happen. I can’t do this. You will be a single-mother. You can’t do that. You must have an abortion. This cannot happen.’
Welcome to the world of multi-cultural Britain. And I thought we were all just one big happy family.

His stance didn’t change. It got worse so, after a few days, I gave up arguing / listening / reasoning, slammed the door to his flat in a tear-hazed blaze of anger and drove home. For the next few months, feeling very sick and tired and befuddled, I fielded phone calls. ‘Will you not have an abortion? How will you cope being a single-mother. I cannot stay with you and you cannot do this. I cannot tell my family. You must have an abortion.’

I’ve got nothing (well, not a lot) against terminations– I’m all for freedom of choice in principle – but they’re just aren’t for me. I’m 30, for goodness sake. Not 14. I’ve got a job, a house, a loving family, friends, half a brain, a scruffy dog. Any baby born to me will have, for starters, four cousins - all living close by - to love it and beat it up and play with it. It will have grand-parents to coo over it, teach it to chop wood and bake cakes and to love Woody Guthrie. It will even have (fingers crossed) a 95-year-old great-grandmother with a wily sense of humour and, on good days, enough va-va-voom to do the Macarena in the garden of her care home.
And, did I mention, I’m 30? Come the age of 31 and most women begin panicking that their eggs have shrivelled to peanuts. It may not be perfect but it’s a better start than most, isn’t it?
Another reason not to? How does anyone, in early stages of pregnancy, have the ability to make decisions like that? For the first three months, I couldn't decide whether to fart or not, I was too busy trying not to wretch.
Another reason not to? Well, flip the coin. What is the reason to? Because of his mother’s cultural issues? Because of his 'shame and stigma' concerns? Sorry, tough do-do. Picked the wrong girl to try and bully into that one. Bump is staying, like it or not.