My youngest daughter is coming up to a year old this May. I can’t believe where that time has gone?! We are still struggling through sleepless nights and I’m continuously dousing out calpol for sprouting teeth and suctioning snot out of tiny nostrils with something called a nasal aspirator, whilst at the same time cleaning up after a tornado of a three-year-old.
I’m eternally knackered and yet something deep inside is itching for another one!!
I have so much respect for anyone who has more than 2 kids, I just can’t understand how they actually do ANYTHING other than washing clothes and dislodging farm animals out from behind radiators. I know quite a few families with three children and all of the mothers look neat and radiant and their houses are tidy. I think if I were to have another I’d not have time for my threading appointments resulting in my moustache becoming fully established and my Hetty Hoover might just explode from overuse.
I love the dynamics of our family right now, it feels balanced and manageable so I’m concerned about the spanner a new baby might throw into our works. We’d have to lose the guest bedroom to make way for a nursery and I’m not sure how my in-laws would feel about sleeping on an airbed in the lounge…
I imagine you’d need a car the size of a military aircraft carrier to cater for a third car seat and you’d probably need an annual income of around 12 billion pounds to afford a holiday abroad ever?
All of these things and yet I still turn into a puddle of goo when I think about that first gaze at your babies brand new face… or that feeling when you tuck that tiny person into a cot that’s stood empty for months just waiting for your precious arrival. I love it all, the way newborns sigh in their sleep, the first sneeze, the first smile. It’s all too amazing not to do it again surely?
But then there’s sleep…