Another baby?

‘Do you really, really, with all your heart, really, really want another baby?’ asks Unhusband.

For a nanosecond I pause – mainly to draw breath.  But Unhusband seizes the opportunity.

‘See, you had to think about it,’ he says. ‘That means you don’t.’

‘Yes, I do,’ I protest. But Unhusband is already waxing about the benefits of having a streamlined family. Two parents, two healthy kids, two bedrooms, two car seats… And I’m almost convinced. Too knackered, too poor, no outside support, and D still won’t give up the boob. Blah blah blah…

But I also have two ovaries playing Countdown. Two years off forty. Two years before it’s too late? I remember coming home from hospital the day after D was born. And I remember thinking:  I don’t want this to be the last time I ever hold a newborn. My newborn.

I remember the other bits too –  the agony of pissing battery acid every time I went for a wee, not being able to wear anything without an elasticated waistband for the best part of a year, and counting sleep in minutes rather than hours.  Oh, and labour.   But even the memory of thrashing around, screaming in a murky birthing pool, with the gas and air wedged down my gullet, doesn’t put me off. I just can’t imagine being a family of four. Somehow, it just seems too small, too normal, too final.

‘Just one more,’ I say to Unhusband. ‘You know you’ll love it.’ And so the argument starts again – time, money, space ….

Then a couple of months ago I started feeling really rough. Like, really rough. Being a raving hypochondriac, I naturally assumed it was everything from meningitis to cancer (not helped by the fact I was still waiting for the biopsy results.)

Though before dialling 999, I did a quick pregnancy test. And this happened. 

So while Unhusband was busy convincing me of the practicalities of having two children, it turns out he’d already impregnanted me with a third.  Because unless I’m the Virgin Mary, it’s definitely his. (Though he wants a DNA test to be sure.)

So baby number three is now on its way. Hopefully.

I say hopefully, because it turns out I wasn’t being a complete hypochondriac after all.  It wasn’t just morning sickness, I also tested positive for parvovirus, or slapped cheek, as it’s known in the school playground.

Unfortunately, parvovirus and pregnancy aren’t a great combination and there are some potential risks, which I won’t go into now. I’m having regular scans and will soon be taking out a loan to cover the hospital car park fees.

So far everything is fine – except for the mildly inconvenient due date of Christmas Day.  Perhaps I am the Virgin Mary after all.

 

About Becky Dickinson

Mum of three. Writer, blogger, grower. Trying to keep my head above the compost heap.

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Comments

  1. Oh wow – congratulations Becky!

  2. Charlotte says:

    Becky that’s so amazing! how lovely for you xxxC

  3. Hi Becky,
    Lovely to bump into you today and congrats again, I am SOOOO going to use the name Unhusband! I love that!

    • you too – looking forward to hearing your news (: Always up for coffee if you and bump / baby ever fancy one. Good luck!

  4. Congratulations. I hope everything will be ok for you and your baby.

  5. Oh wow congratulations! Hope you have a very smooth and healthy pregnancy. xx

  6. Congratulations.
    There must be something that happens to make you ladies forget about labour. Even you skimmed over it in this post like it was bad constipation.

    We husbands/partners don’t forget the general awfulness of the whole thing and all the language – good grief!
    We should get a signed document at the time saying “I will never go through this again”…

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