Now don’t get me wrong…
Despite how the title reads; I can assure you I’m not saying I’m desperate for another boob-eating, vagina-shreading, tit-stamping, poo-producer… In fact, earlier today my 17-month old son took a shit in his OWN ACTUAL PALM and slapped me round the face with it while my 4-year old daughter laughed and ate a dairylea dunker. So trust me… this is NOT a post about me announcing I want that times three.
But it’s a strange feeling – finally clearing out the baby equipment, wondering how long you’ll need the ‘big pram’ for, knowing the tiny clothes you haven’t quite been able to part with for some reason will never be filled again… makes you feel unsettled. Unsure. Possibly even slightly… broody *runs away, does some shots and hides*
Trying to explain that sensation to my husband has been like trying to punch information into a brick wall with excellent stubble and a penis. I’m just not ready to say the actual words – I WILL NEVER HAVE ANY MORE CHILDREN EVER NEVER EVER WITH FAECES ON TOP… Because it makes my ovaries have a little sentimental weep. And makes me get the moses basket back out of the spare room, put one of my cats in there dressed in a baby-gro and start rocking it….
When you have only one child – people seem to be constantly asking you when the next one might come along… Everyone seems to be ‘waiting’ for it. And when you do very luckily as I did, get a boy and a girl, everyone presumes you’re done. Automatically. You don’t get asked. You get told you’re lucky and everyone moves on to a new selection of scan pictures on Facebook they can gush at with ‘love’ emoticons.
Yep. If you’ve already got two, opposite sex children, the SECOND you look like you might even consider a third, all you get is warnings… ‘You’ve only got two hands’. ‘You’ll have to move house’. ‘Get a new car’. ‘Stop drinking four bottles of pinot grigio on a Tuesday night and playing dead for most of Wednesday while your children forage sofa raisins and eat playdoh…’ (and my personal favourite) ‘HOW WILL YOU EVER GO ANYWHERE OUTSIDE YOUR LIVING ROOM EVER AGAIN. IS YOUR VAGINA IN-FUCKING-SANE.
Everyone has a bloody opinion. Everyone seems to think three is one too many… But is it better to have three and deal with the struggles of being outnumbered, or better to never do it and always wonder what if…?!
Hormones are one evil bastard. They team up with your womb and start erasing the memories of the illuminous yellow thunder-turds that ruin your day… The ENTIRE YEAR that you didn’t sleep longer than 20 minutes and still got up in the morning and sung Wheels on the C@*ting Bus to a toddler who just poured their potty contents onto the sofa. The leaky boobs. The veins… oh the bulging, blue, veins… you just remember the cute bits… Timehop showing you the lies you told yourself and the random people you forgot you were still ‘friends’ with stalking you on Facebook…
Like I said – I’m no way about to launch into procreation of the third kind… But I know that right now I’m not ready to say never.
I’m just ready to say; probably, maybe, perhaps, one-day, probably-not, but hey…