confession of the deliberately barren

I watch a young parent labour a double pram uphill. A toddler on the left and a baby on the right.

Ecstasy wells up. I get rivulets of joy gushing from my toes up my calves and thighs and a wicked delight spreads from somewhere behind my eyes, out, down and through my bones. I am not them! I think. How wonderful. How brilliant. How utterly glorious.

It’s a wild mix of pleasure and relief, an adrenalin surge akin to the near escape of a bike accident or aerial stack. It’s an abandoned sense of freedom, a barefoot dance.

I laugh out loud and caress my empty belly.