“We gave birth!” I’m on the phone to a friend.

“Congratulations!” I ask how his wife’s doing.

“Amazing! She’s like superwoman.”

“Aw, glad to hear it. And how are you feeling?”

He lets out a trumpeting laugh. “Yeah, pretty good! Except…” I imagine he’s about to complain about a lack of sleep. “My bloody son. He ruined my playground on the way out!”

I suck in my breath. “Sorry?”

His laughter tapers off. He sighs and I feel the air rush into my eardrum.

“My son ruined my playground on the way out! You know? That comedian said it.”

I don’t know which comedian said it. He asks me about my job and I ask him about his, but I can’t focus. My voice starts wavering as I build myself up.

“I have to go back to what you said earlier. About how when your wife gave birth, it ruined your playground.”

He groans the universal groan of a man who’s about to be called out. I struggle to articulate anything vaguely intelligent. I say the word ‘vagina’ out loud and feel my face go red.

“I get it, I get it,” he reassures me. “She doesn’t mind, though. She thinks it’s funny!” I cringe and don’t believe him, but who am I to say what his wife thinks is or isn’t funny? It’s her experience, her sense of humour, her body. He asks about my parents. I ask about his. I congratulate him again and ask him to give his wife and son a hug from me. We say goodbye, and I slide off my bed onto the hard wooden floor.

“The pressure on women to have children comes from all angles – this is what it feels like”