So there we were, lay in bed on a rainy Sunday evening. Relaxed and ready for the week ahead. The perfect time to strike up a fertility based conversation with your other half, right?
I approached with my usual finesse, and very bluntly, if a little awkwardly blurted out, “Are we ever going to have another baby or am I getting sterilised.” Not the way i’d imagined holding the ‘final baby conversation’ but never the less it was out there.
After a few days of stolen moments in the kitchen, discussing our future plans as a family, whilst Scott chases round a particularly mischievous 5 year old, I am cooking dinner and we are both supporting a slightly hormonal teenagers homework timetable, it was finally agreed upon that I would not be sterilised.
After holding this wonderful (if slightly stressful) conversation, I asked myself the million dollar question. How do I feel? The answer was obvious wasn’t it? I was overjoyed, excited and felt an overwhelming love for my already perfect little family.
I was also overcome with fear. Fear that history would repeat itself. Fear that we would have to spend the best part of four months bunkered down on a neonatal ward, surrounded by beeping machines and doctors. Or worse still that we might not make it that far. That heaven would gain another tiny angel and we would be left broken and empty all over again.
I pushed those thoughts out of my mind and focused on the positive. We were going to do this and we were going to do this properly. I eventually traded guilt for excitement and made the choice to power on.
I guess for us, that means that three, really WILL be the magic number.