‘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.)
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.