Thanks for the ovary

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Almost every morning 3 schoolboys who attend the local primary school walk past my house just as I’m getting in the car for work.  I listen in on their conversations as they chat about what they had for tea last night, favourite lessons,  annoying siblings and reviews of the latest PS4 games.  It’s pretty mundane walk to school chat, nothing out of the ordinary which made yesterday’s conversation so totally shocking I cannot begin to imagine what sparked it.

The tallest of the three boys was talking to his two mates and I heard ‘when a woman gets to 50 her ovaries stop working’, ‘oh yeah’ says the smallest boy ‘why’s that then?’  ‘Coz they’re too old, they don’t need them anymore’ he replied.

The slimmest of the three chirps up ‘My mum’s ovaries still work’.

‘How do you know?’ one of them asks

He turns to face his two mates, nods his head slowly up and down, lets out a long sigh and says in a voice belying his age ‘Oh I just know alright’ and carries on nodding as he walks down the road with the two friends following in silent admiration at his intimate knowledge of the female anatomy.

Light headed with shock I was reeling, had they seen me, were they being cruel or had husband had put them up to this wickedness?  I charged back into the house expecting to find him doubled up behind the front door.  But no, he was diligently beavering away in his home office somewhat bemused as to my strident return and threats of homicide.

The timing of their words couldn’t be worse with the much dreaded 50 year birthday making its appearance in less than 24 hours.  Already plagued with anxiety about the arrival of middle age I now have 11-year-old strangers announcing to the world that my ovaries are redundant and I’m no longer  of any use.

And so I will see in my 50th Birthday knowing that my once plump ovaries are becoming wizen and shrivelled like two old raisins and for this knowledge I didn’t even have to see a gynae, I got told by the schoolboy down the road.

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