‘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!’
‘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.
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.
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!