If you knew... would you?

Someone asked me recently, “If you knew then what you know now, would you still have had kids?”

It’s a question that I couldn’t answer but it’s bugged me ever since. Would I?

After several nights of churning this one over, I’ve decided I have to answer the question in two parts; if I had to take into account that I know and love the people they’ve grown to be, then yes, I would without question have still had them. However, if I didn’t know the people they’ve become and based that decision solely on snapshots or glimpses of the heartache I’ve known over the years, then no, I wouldn’t have had them.

About a week ago, my three children were running around in nappies... at least, that's what it feels like. In actuality, it’s been well over a decade and a half since I had to deal with nappies, but I can’t begin to tell you where those years have gone, or how they slipped by unnoticed.

And now, I’m the parent of adults. My youngest child is 18, the oldest 23 with the middle one being 21 years old. Along with that goes the horror of the realisation that I’m now officially middle aged – I’m 42 – but in my head, I’m still about 18. I think that's because the last time I had room in my head just for me was when I was 18. Ever since then, it's been taken over by what's going on with my children. Not that I begrudge that, I don't. I wanted them and I had them and I love them but the majority of my youth went awol as a result.

The wrinkles and my need for early nights testify to the fact that my babies are all now well old enough to have babies of their own and validates the fact that I may have one foot in god’s waiting room too.

But what a journey it’s all been and I had to consider the journey to answer the question.

I’d always wanted three kids, ever since I was old enough to arrange my dollies in the miniature Silver Cross pram I had, I’ve wanted three kids. So I had my three kids and though it was awesomely hard work, done alone for many years after my marriage broke up, they’ve brought me more joy than I though was possible, but they’ve also brought me more pain than I could have imagined existed too.

Parents tend to live most of their lives in a state of controlled terror; at least, I did. When I was pregnant, I was terrified I’d lose the baby. When they were born, I was terrified they’d die of cot death. When they were first at school, I was terrified they’d be bullied then later, scared stiff they’d get run over or abducted when they insisted on walking home without me.

When they became teenagers, I was petrified they’d get into drugs or get mugged or killed on the roads. When my daughter went to uni in Teeside, I lived in perpetual fear of her walking the streets at night. When my middle son first lived on his own I felt the same horrors but with him, I worried he’d leave the gas on and blow himself up or live on biscuits and get scurvy.

When I found out that my youngest son was smoking weed, I had visions of him being a junkie in ten years time. Even though I’ve smoked it myself and didn’t turn out to be a heroin addict, I can’t help being terrified that he will.

Unfortunately, more than one of those scenarios has happened over the years, with each of them to varying degrees and I can’t begin to explain the absolute agony of having something terrible happen to your child and knowing there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. You can’t make it better, you can’t take their pain away and knowing they are in pain is infinitely worse than anything you yourself could experience as an individual.

That said, as I mentioned before, they’ve brought me joys that you simply can’t get from being anything other than a parent, so, I’m now asking you the same question. If you knew then what you know now, would you still have children?