My boss’s wife, after just over a week of being overdue, has given birth to their second son, very happy for them, and I wish them all the best.
This new arrival to the world prompted another discussion about our family future – which is that my wife wants another one.
“I will want another one” she said to me one evening, I think it was during a particularly delicious bolognese. Smart move by her – she knows I love eating, and this is the best time to talk serious family business, especially since there may be a moment I can’t reply due to spaghetti in the mouth.
I let her comment swim around my brain, I thought about our son:
This, initially, sent chills through my body, mainly because the sheer manpower required for our little prince is so great, that I’m certain another one like him may finish me off. I’m 26, I look 40. two babies in the house would destroy me.
Of course, as usual, I’d selectively listened to my wife and her statement. What she did add at the end of “I will want another one” was “Eventually”. Once I’d stopped hyperventilating, she explained it wouldn’t be for at least a few years, meaning Ned wouldn’t be a chubby, demanding, dependent noise – he’d be a chubby, demanding, SLIGHTLY LESS dependent noise, which means he might not be getting up 2 – 3 times a night, need picking up because although he wants to crawl, he ends up sprawled on the floor, face down, and will probably be eating by himself just fine, not needing his idiot parents to make ridiculously hammy acted chewing actions and loudly exclaiming ‘MMMMM’ whenever he puts a crumb of toast near his lips.
We would be more prepared this time around – it’s surprising how much you learn without even knowing it. For example, I know that baby sick is a daily gift, and that it can come at any time, place or angle. I know that putting trousers on a baby is the hardest thing an adult can do, and I know that socks, though practical in a heat conserving sense, will always fall off a babies feet, especially when you’re out the house.
Whether we do or we don’t, I’ll be happy with whatever happens – albeit slightly more prepared than last time. At least this time we won’t need to go to Asda every week to buy bloody onesies.
Oh wait, we will, because Ned pooed through all of them.