Another Baby.

‘Do you think it is about time we start trying for another baby?’


The gap between this sentence and the last, is appropriately proportionate to the gap I left before answering the question.

I have gotten used to huge gaps since the last time I had a baby.

Huge gaps in memory.

Huge gaps in conversation where I have been completely distracted by my three year old showing a man in the post office his willy and nuggets.


And lest us forget, huge gaps in my anatomy too.


I stop walking.

My brain goes in to panic mode.

Alarms, sirens, bells, whistles, actual sympathy pain in my vaginal area.

He is casually checking the price on a huge box of Frosties.

Addison meanwhile is attempting to climb up the shelving unit making a beeline for the jelly.

‘The child, the child! Stop the child!’

He whips his head around just as an avalanche of Rowntrees cascades to the floor and our son lets out a banshee wail.

‘Why didn’t you stop him?’ The Irish one shouts flustered grabbing one trainered foot of our three year old and dragging him out from beneath the foray. ‘You were doing nothing!’

Doing nothing?

‘I was in labour again!’ I want to shout.

I was up at 3am counting out formula scoops, searching for my sanity under 40 million Muslin cloths, sponging off dried baby vomit with a sponge smelling suspiciously like arse.

I was prodding my empty bump and hoisting my boobs off the floor so i could pick the scabs off my nipples and consider letting the baby chew on them again.

I was back feeling guilty about wanting to walk away from it all.

I was god damn wetting my knickers in front of my mother in law because I accidentally had the indecency to sneeze!

I was trying to erect a pram the size of Albania, made entirely from unbendable and unforgiving finger size catch holes, while also single handedly burping a colicy baby, leaving wet patches on the front of my tent top and trying to hold a conversation with my next door neighbour who was wondering if we could keep the baby from crying at 4am as he was obviously trying to sleep.

I was losing pretty much all of the skin off my fingers strapping him in to the car seat, only before having to immediately unstrap him, as he unceremoniously shit up to his neck.

I was wiping yellow chutney like poop off my eyebrow and inadvertently smearing it inside, yes INSIDE, my mouth.

I was skint! I was back searching through the grit under the sofa haphazardly hopeful that I would find a single pound coin I could spend all on myself. A whole pound just for me!

I was running back and forth between bedrooms in a blur of ill mental health, to check the child had not been stolen by Ant and Dec.

I was unsuccessfully trying to squeeze myself back in to my pre pregnancy jeans, my legs turning blue from the lack of oxygen, my muffin top receiving offers of advertising slogans from Gregg’s the Bakers.

I was turning down very generous offers of sex off the Irish one, using a spade and a body bag, to succinctly get my point across.

I was trying to sit comfortably with 18 stitches holding my undercarriage and bum hole together while also smiling and offering the house guests all of my precious biscuits.

I was holding my child in my arms and waiting to feel the overwhelming love everybody told me I would most definitely feel immediately.

I was back being sectioned for Post Natal Depression.

I was falling asleep standing up bouncing my head off kitchen counters.

I was spooning coffee directly in to my mouth in the slight hope it had the same texture and taste as a long, uninterrupted sleep.

I was holding his bottom cheeks apart to help him pass wind (the baby, not the Irish One) massaging his chest and crying in to my snot covered onesie.

I was listening to the tumble drier.

I was searching for my sanity.


Doing nothing?

Another huge gap.

‘You ok?’ he approaches me warily.

Addison is back in the trolley, a plastic straw wedged in his sticky mouth, singing the Go Compare advert, at the top of his lungs.

I would really need to learn some nursery rhymes this time around, IF we were gonna do it.

If I could just give birth to a two year old I may consider it. (Lets be honest here, I have the gap to manage it!)

I adore Addison now.

I adore him.

He is my entire world.

But new born babies?

I find them so dull.

Do you realise they can’t even sit up?
‘You want to try for another baby?’ I shriek a little louder than first intended.

He pauses.


A teeny tiny gap.

A man gap if you will.

‘Well, not here in the cereal aisle at Morrisons OBVS,’ he jokes. (HE JOKES! HOW CAN HE JOKE AT A TIME LIKE THIS?) ‘I think we should at least probably wait until we get home.’

It’s not funny.

I didn’t laugh.

I have imposed a sex ban.

Oh drive me to hell on a unicycle.

The conversation is coming, and I don’t know what I want!


11 Comments on “Another Baby.

  1. We waited four years after the first baby to try again because I wasn’t sure I wanted another. My husband was fine with one but I felt like we needed a sibling for my oldest. My oldest was the dream baby who slept and I had no PND after he was born. My second was a nightmare with reflux born five years later who cried constantly and NEVER slept more than two hours at a time for 17 months when I found out ooops! I’m pregnant again. After baby number three was born, I ended up in the psych ward at the local hospital diagnosed with bipolar disorder and drugged so much I was drooling. I don’t even remember living in our second house. Now my three kids are 23, 18, and 16 and I still remember that bleak time after the second was born and I lost my mind. I know. Not helping. If I had to do it again, I would do it again though. I’m closest to my second one – the one that I lost my mind over because he was sick and never slept and had ear infection after ear infection and projectile vomited every time he ate and took two hours to finish a bottle. Yeah. I’m closest to that one and crying because he wants to join the military next year and can’t bear the thought of my baby being in danger. So yeah. I don’t know what to tell you except 16 years after the third one was born, I would do it again, but without the mind numbing drugs that made me forget four years of my life. I thought it would never end, but it actually did. Knowing how hard it was for you, I think it was harder because you did the hard therapy work then instead of later. Like I said, I wish I knew what to tell you. I’m fifty now and wonder where all that time with the perfect little ones went, but the only perfect little one I remember was the first one.

  2. I waited and waited. I waited six years and ended up just as I’ll all over again. I have two grown up kids that I never really got the hang, I’ve spent years saying sorry to them.

  3. Fabulous blog. Absolutely hilarious. Never thought I’d say that about PND. And though I’ve never suffered from it, I can relate to a whole heap of what you’re saying about babies and family life. Your style (written and in person) reminds me of Caitlin Moran, which is a great big compliment in my humble opinion. By the way, on a slight change of topic, I love my Macbook. Great to meet you today 🙂 I’ll be coming back for more of your irreverent stories x

    • Haha! Thank you so much for visiting my blog! Was lovely to meet you too, I swear the MacBook makes all the difference to my writing! Let me know when you publish your book or guide me to your blog! Xxxx

  4. I also do not know what I want and my mind changes from one minute to the next. Take your time, don’t rush into anything, you will know when you are ready.

  5. Hi…new to all this….but had to say completely loved this post. Been there, done that, completely understand….keep on with the sex ban ;o)

  6. If it helps the babyhood goes much quicker the second time round – almost a blink and you’ll miss it affair. And they are quite nice when they can sleep in a ball on your chest,
    Apart from that though am totally with you on the babies are dull thing.

  7. Good grief, I can relate!

    Why would anyone rock the finally smooth (ish) sailing boat by having another one and going through that again?!?

    But then there’s this want, need, for more babies.


  8. Yeah. There are two schools of thought here. One is “fuck-kit, get pregnant, hope for the best. Other is, probably hang on till you feel slightly more inclined. Knowing you a little, I’m not sure which one I recommend. Possibly try an essay on “which will drive me more insane, the Irish One doing moocow eyes, or another baby potentially driving me actually insane again. I always recommend pros and cons lists* ** ***

    *This is probably not an adequate way to make this decision.
    ** We tried this and ended up at Relate.
    *** I am not helping much, am I?

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