“Isn’t it time for another baby?”

When Finley was about nine months old, just before I was about to go back to work after maternity leave I had a funny five minutes. I fancied we could have another baby immediately. I fancied we could have five children. Five of the little buggers running around, a bit like The Waltons except not like that because it was 2014 and we lived in a very modern, very white apartment with high ceilings and a dishwasher.

I thought it could be fun to have a house full of kids, just letting them run riot whilst we’d be all jolly and poor and sexed up like Ma and Pop Larkin.

Why not adopt some? Let’s really go bat shit crazy on this one. There’s only so many C-sections you can have, lets Google adoption…

But that was just pre   my-cushty-maternity-leave-situation-is-about-to-end-and-I’ve-only-just-started-to-like-it   syndrome.

The jig was up, I had to go back to work and more kids were not the answer.

I knew this for a fact when one month before Finley’s first birthday we had a pregnancy scare. My period, which is normally as predictable as an American election  just didn’t show up. I had no substantial reason to think I could be pregnant but when your period is never late and I mean  NEVER. EVER. FUCKING. LATE  you do start to shit yourself at around the post four days mark.

I even took a Tesco’s pregnancy test on day five, which of course was negative and then I took another one every twelve hours for the next four days and started to get the nervous sweats. What the hell was my body up to? The more I convinced myself I could be pregnant, the more my body wanted to mind fuck me.

Ten days late my period showed up and I was literally ecstatic, like a miracle had occurred. I have never gloried in the marvel of the female menstruation so much. I was full of thanks and the joys of life, skipping around all blood soaked and fabulous.

No baby for me, woop dee fucking woop!

When Finley turned two, people started asking    “Isn’t it time for another one?”

No it bloody isn’t, you nosey bloody twat. What kind of question is that anyway? Are you asking if we want another one? If we are currently trying for another one? Are you suggesting I’m getting on a bit and ought to bash out another baby before my eggs dry up, my tits drop below my knees and I have to find solace in yoga and Eastenders?

Also just for the record – other peoples babies, don’t make me want more babies. Even if they are super-cute and the kind of ones that don’t vom on you. So you can stop wheeling them out and trying to get me to hold them or feed them. I mean, I’ll do it because I’m not entirely dead inside but babies have never been something I have particularly enjoyed, so they wont sway me. Move along.

Present me with a lunatic three year old, who wants to play ‘artal arts and karate chop the cat and we might have something to talk about.

Truth is, I don’t know if one child is enough and does that lend itself to the fact that one isn’t, because otherwise I wouldn’t be asking the question? Perhaps there are more children in our future or perhaps our little party of three is enough. Maybe we should invest in a spare to our heir. Perhaps I should try yoga. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

But either way I’m only thirty, my tits are doing just fine and it’s really none of your business.

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