Two’s Company. Three’s...well Greedy

After debiting and crediting our brains out in the metaphorical spreadsheet of life, my husband and I have committed to something that will change our lives forever. We’ve made a decision that’s bigger than moving countries and packing in full-time employment for a second term on the domestic frontlines. This is bigger and far more permanent. We’ve chosen to shift the balance of a perfectly respectable nuclear family unit (in name mind you, not in nature) and venture into territories unknown. Territories that just may prove more primitive than the United Kingdom. We’re breaking all the carbon footprint rules. We’re cocking up a standard package holiday for four. We’re committing financial suicide. We’re having a third child.

“You have a boy. You have a girl. I don’t understand?”

“So was it …er… planned? Or did you have an er…slip up?”

“Shame. You guys are so brave.”

“Wow…that’s…um hectic.”

“But you’re just over the hurdle. One nearly 6. One nearly 3. You’re on the home stretch to getting your life back. And you’re starting all over again. Like from the beginning?”

“Why? But why?”
And then the refreshingly tactless and brazen, “You are f**cken crazy!”
Or the sage advice from musician-turned-life-coach Thor Harris who in his list of How to Live Like a King for Very Little says:
"Don’t have kids. They’re not miracles, they’re people. 7 billion is too f**cking many anyway. Find some other way to give your dull existence some meaning. By the way, they’re expensive.
"

All valid questions. All valid concerns. Many of which I can’t answer now. Or probably ever. My Virgo brain reels at the asymmetry of it all. Three is just odd. It’s called that for a reason. It’s one more than two, but one less than four. It’s in the middle. It’s a lurker. And it’s uneven. Not balanced. Nothing about us is balanced though. Never has been. Me especially. I remember one of my first appointments with my hippy lesbian gynecologist when I was expecting my firstborn. We were always her dawnie appointment of the day and she’d consult with us eating a piece of marmite toast. She made harry casual look frenetic. I loved her. She was just what I needed. The perfect antidote for an uptight paranoid schizophrenic like me. My husband couldn’t stand her. Figures. Anyway, at one of our appointments she fired up her ancient scan machine to do her foetal checks on our baby. Head, spine, limbs etc. And as she was working, she was quiet. Too quiet. And I was talking. As I do. Jabbering. Nervous as all hell. Trying to get a sense that everything was ok. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore; I couldn’t carry on twittering inane small-talk through the silence. I gushed “So, is it like all normal in there? Is the baby normal? Please tell me the baby’s normal.” To which she patiently replied, “My darling girl. If you’re asking me if your baby is healthy. Then yes. Everything looks to be in order. If you’re asking me for normal. That I can’t do. You sure as shite aren’t normal. I’m not normal. And it’s unlikely that this baby is normal either. And why aspire to normal anyway? Life is way more fun otherwise.” I’ll never forget those words. And how she delivered them.

I remind myself often of this conversation when I’m waddling up the high street brandishing my gargantuan bump, pushing my daughter in her pram while my son rides alongside on his scooter. And I feel a little…and this is going to sound bad. I feel…well embarrassed. We’re becoming a troop. People have to move past us. We physically occupy a lot of space. And soon it will be more. And we’re not Amish. I’m not a sister wife. I feel like I’ve been caught standing at a buffet of sushi, stuffing my face with the last of the salmon roses when there are 200 already piled high on my plate. And there's a queue of people behind me. I feel conspicuous in my excess. I am aware of so many women who are desperate to have just one baby. And here we are having three. And I'm not even a good mother. I'm pretty average on a good day. I feel guilty for that. And apologetic. I couldn’t care less if my kids poo in public, eat sweets off the street or take off their kit in the park…but I suddenly grow some restraint when it comes to my fertility? How does that work? And as some would say, it’s perhaps a little too little, a little too late. But it’s how I feel. And I have a lovely sensitivity-sanctioning mother-in-law who once said to me “feelings are never wrong”. So there you have it. Also in some pathetic effort to try and make light of our flagrant disregard for the population explosion, I have started telling people that we're African. And Africans traditionally have lots of children. It's our custom. It's also a pension protector. We raise many in the hopes that all some of them will take care of us when we're old and crumbly. The fact however that we currently live in Britain may somewhat negate the logic of this thinking. But I try it on for size anyway. And share it with anyone who'll listen.

And so while I clearly may not be able to answer the ‘why’ of this monumental decision as rationally as anyone (including myself) can process, we can acknowledge that this baby was indeed planned. Without hesitation. We both feel it's the right decision for us. And our family. He is most definitely a welcomed addition. Carbon footprint be damned. And yes there are too many people in the world…but are there enough good people? Have a look at the news. Don’t think so. We are delighted. He is already a part of the circus that makes up our home. Fancy some chaos with your morning coffee? Come to our house. His little kicks and squirms affirm his way of making his presence felt. His siblings eagerly await his arrival. As do we.

In the meantime though, I try to get a grip over my public fear of flaunting my fertility and instead focus on the fact that we are currently googling for a Galaxy. We’re looking to buy a pram that transports two human beings at once. We are those people now. I will soon be pushing a newborn and a toddler in one contraption. In public. The irony is not lost on me. My waistline is lost, yes. My ability to work fulltime, yes. The freedom to quaff an entire bottle of Prosecco at one sitting, yes. But the irony of being one who I once mocked…nope. I’ve clocked that one. Loud, large and clear. And normal never made it to the party. Not a chance. We may do excess. But we don’t do normal. Not in this house. And aren't we the lucky ones? Don't answer that. It's a rhetorical question.

Meet the latest addition to Cookoo Land. A fist-pumping greeting for y'all.

The Galaxy. Costs a third of the value of our car. No seriously. It does.