I know I write about food.

I know I write about funny stuff that people are supposed to identify with, like drinking so much you forget your husband's important boss's name and in fact where you live so you can get a taxi home after a night on the gin.

But tonight, things are different.

I have spent my weekend surround by the fertile.

The natural parents.

Those who are doing the greatest, most satisfying job of all.

Raising the next generation.

And I applaud this.

Genuinely, I do.

I see the sleepless nights.

The chaotic houses.

The changing of opinions on everything from reusable nappies to dummies to breastfeeding to Peppa fucking Pig.

And I wonder.

Where people like me fit in.

People who don't hate children.

People who see how much joy they bring to your lives.

But people who wonder if they will ever be 'enough' for a child; who wonder if they will ever be able to embrace the sleepless nights and the chaotic houses and the Peppa fucking Pig.

Because people like 'us', and, dare I say it, people like me, slip between the gaps. We don't fit into the 'mother' description, and all of the great things that this hat allows you to achieve. 

Neither do we fall into the 'no children ever' crowd, where our enjoyment of wine and disregard for bedtimes be celebrated, rather than chastised.

But here we are, somewhere in the middle, not quite sure of how we feel about anything or anyone. 

And FUCKING HELL do I wish I had the answers.

I don't.

But I do now that my husband supports whatever stance I take on this.

And my parents, much as they long for a grandchild, love me and care for me and wish me only happiness in this life, children or not.

So if you don't have parents like mine, that is my duty right now.

To give a shit.

Whether you are doing handstands after shagging to make that sperm do its best.

Or whether you are on the sofa drinking too much wine and wondering where it all went so wrong or right.

I give a shit.

To that army of women (or men, Mr P and I get interrogated on this matter fairly equally TBF), you are not alone.

To women who have children, I will probably never understand the tiredness, the chaos, the Peppa fucking Pig.

To woman who have decided to never have children, I will probably never understand a luxury holiday, or an all-white living room, or a commitment that doesn't fall through.

To women like me, I understand the anguish. I understand the questioning. I understand the wondering if you are doing the right thing.

You are absolutely not alone.

And, if you need anybody to chat to, I have the gin on ice.