I've been avoiding my son. He's going on nine months old - almost old enough to have spent longer in my arms than my belly. He seems nice. I like him, and I love him. Exhibit A:
I have a daughter, too. She's three. She's over a metre tall, can type her own name, loves the cardboard dollhouse I made her, and hates brushing her hair. I like and love her, too. Exhibit B:
I've never been a baby person, and wasn't sure how I'd handle it. In fact I (mostly) loved it the first time around, thriving as a mum in a way I'd never experienced before. That first pregnancy was eight and a half months of helpless 24-7 misery, but the privilege of getting first dibs on being the stay-at-home parent was absolutely worth it.
The second pregnancy was worse than the first, and nine months later I'm still too sick to do most jobs. . . including, in my opinion, being a stay-at-home parent (only morons think it's a cushy job). So I found myself a different job, and I now spend the smallest possible amount of time with my kids.
I miss my health - most of all the ability to enjoy playing with my beautiful kids. But I enjoy my job, and right now I'm better at that than minding two littlies on my own.
So, between the crashing waves of Mummy Guilt that I'm not strong enough to dodge, I'm not sorry. Every parent needs to figure out the best path for their whole family (themselves included).
My kids will grow up knowing that women are allowed to make choices about what they want to do with their life - even after having children. I'm glad to be able to give them that gift.