Feeling broody for another baby? I have a cure — it’s called parenting

Now, when I see newborns I no longer feel a flutter in my ovaries but rather thank the universe that that chapter in my life is now officially closed

When I see a mom struggling with converting the car seat in to a stroller, I feel nothing but relief that we have survived this stage.

The switch has finally flipped: I am well past the stage of feeling in any way broody upon spotting a newborn in the wild.

By wild, I mean in its native habitat of brunch, cuddled up in their poor mom’s arms as she attempts to eat kimchi pancakes with one hand and cradle her baby with the other.

This is a very recent development. Up until a few, short months ago, at the mere sniff of a tiny baby head I used to feel my ovaries bounce around my mammaries (for anyone doubting ovaries are located in the mammaries, please know I did biology for my Leaving Cert, so am effectively a doctor).

But those days are over. Now, when I see a mom struggling with converting the car seat in to a stroller, I feel nothing but relief that we have survived this stage. Yearning, envy have gone completely out the window.

Evolving past my obsession with tiny newborns happened gradually, like ageing, or losing the ability to stay awake past 10. I didn’t notice at first.

I had my two children, survived the newborn baby wars, did my time serving out my maternal military duty and battening down in the newborn hatches twice, all the while saying I wouldn’t be averse to going again. But then something shifted.

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but there was a morning last week when I noted a change in my response to tiny babies. I had copped a spot by the window in my favourite hipster cafe, a place where tattoos are plentiful and the highchairs have seen things.

There was a couple beside me with a brand-new baby; fresh out of the wrapper. The mother was still sitting on one bum cheek. The father had that wild, hunted look of a man who hasn’t slept since Leo Varadkar’s first term.

I looked at the baby. The baby looked at me. And instead of feeling broody, I felt immense sympathy.

Of course, newborns are the biggest blessing. We know that, but you couldn’t get me to go back to those first few months for all the bronzer in Brown Thomas.

Sitting on my own, minus a pram for 30 minutes of blissful solitude on a break from work, I felt the ghost of my former self turning to me and whispering, ‘We’re done, hun. We’ve done our bit. Let the young ones have their turn.’

My first baby was born during covid, and my newborn phase was probably even more blurry and easy to forget as a result. Then, I had my second baby, and the vibes changed. Newborns still looked cute, but now they also looked like work. Hard work. Unpaid work. Unpaid, unrelenting, sleep-thieving, nipple-destroying work.

And now I see a newborn and it triggers the same reaction I have when I see someone start a PhD: ‘Fair play, but absolutely not for me.’

People don’t tell you this bit. They prepare you for the sleepless nights, the nappies, the teething. They don’t warn you that one day newborns will totally lose their direct line to your heart. I say that not because I don’t love babies, but, rather, coming from a place of compassion for anyone in the throes of sleep deprivation and colic. It’s so hard. I’ll never forget it.

When I see parents with newborns now, I want to pat them gently on the shoulder and whisper, ‘This too shall pass… but not for about another year, and even then possibly not until they’ve moved out for college and you’ve finally commenced art therapy.’

When my children were babies, if someone walked past with a newborn, I’d leap over tables and shove grannies aside just to peek into the pram. But now, if I see a pram, I look away like it’s an ex-boyfriend, reminding myself: Do not make eye contact, do not get involved, do not remember how soft their cheeks are, and stay strong.

And then there are the people who still ask, ‘Will you have a third?’

A third? Why stop at three? Why not get me a minibus and a reality show altogether and be done with it?

All things considered, there is no doubt that when it comes to rearing newborns, I am finished. Done. Finito. Complete. Like a Leaving Cert student throwing the uniform after her final exam paper — biology — in the bin. (Have I mentioned I did higher level?)

When I see a newborn now, I smile kindly at the baby, and even more kindly at the parent. Because I know what they’re going through and, as cute as the tiny socks and the tiny hats and the tiny cardigans are, I can’t help but think of all those sleepless nights that await and silently wish them well. Because it’s their chapter now, not mine.

Two kids. Job done. Womb closed. Heart full. Hands empty. (And solo brunch restored, if childcare allows.)