I’ve been sitting here tonight daydreaming about going to Christchurch in a little under a fortnight, and snuggling my new baby niece. She’ll be nearly three months by the time I get to meet her but she’ll still have some of that ‘fresh out of the wrapper’ loveliness that newborns have.

And this is where I get a little panicky ripple up my spine. Because it wasn’t so long ago that I was really motherfuckingly clucky. Like really. Like I had just this minute popped out the second one (it was almost a ‘pop’ it only took three excruciating hours) and I was talking about a third. And I had always imagined me with four teenagers round my kitchen table so ‘just one more babe’ didn’t seem too unreasonable. A girl. I have two boys, now it’s time for the girl.

Everytime I brought up the issue the grumpy Dutchman got pale and said ‘Really?’ gesturing around our rubbish dump house, that had previously – pre kids – been so immaculate. He can’t for the life of him understand why I would want to bring another sleep sucking, money sucking and life force sucking creature in to our finally-sorting-itself-out little family. Just when our youngest is SO close to starting primary school, thus ridding us of our $400 + fortnightly bill. He doesn’t ‘get’ my want of lots of teenagers (his least favourite age group) and he is terrified of the thought of having a daughter (cave man dad=protection and female innocence ideas all cramming to the front of his brain when he thinks of ‘pink’ offspring, no amount of ‘babe she’ll be my daughter and therefore pretty badass’ consoles him).

In the past four years I have come to terms with this and am eventually getting to the point where I agree with him. To an extent. It makes no sense to get preggers while Deaning for one thing. I can’t take time off from my girls, the inconsistency of pastoral care will fuck the balance and I have finally gotten all 270 of them working pretty well as a cohort. But the bit that has turned my mind the most is my foodtard-ness actually.

I really enjoyed being pregnant. I know that sounds weird but I really liked not having to fake a waist. I really like ‘dressing the belly’, and playing with tight clothes that I wouldn’t normally wear (picture a skin tight leopard print baby bump and bright red lips). I had heaps of energy, my skin cleared up and people were really lovely to me. I had the perfect excuse to eat literally ALL the time and it was also a really good reason to sit on my ass if I felt like it. The GD thought it was really sexy. But the first 12 weeks weren’t great. I was one of the lucky ones (who don’t throw up)  but just felt a bit ‘meh’ the whole time. I have heard horror stories since and I know in comparison it totally didn’t suck that bad. Well my first trimester turned me into a horrible bitch and only junk food made me happy. All the delicious, calorie laden, deep-fried junk food that I am not allowed to eat now.

If I got pregnant tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to eat mountains of cheesy pasta, really good deep fried fish and chips, Lasagna, Hamburgers – all the gluten-y, dairy filled goodness that I craved. I would have to make do with ‘mymite’ and avocado on toast, oak baked beans and other ‘safe’ stuff for my tummy. Bleurgh.

The thought of being pregnant now is a little scary to be honest. I know I would still enjoy the pregnant thing, I fucking LOVE newborns and I am like a dairy cow when it comes to breastfeeding – I made enough milk to feed all the babies on the street believe me – but now I’m older and my gut is broken. I wouldn’t be able to veg out on junk food. I am scared that my old age would mean dropping the ‘baby weight’ wouldn’t be so easy in my late thirties. That’s vain but it’s real. Also – it’d be another big gap between the kinder. Two in primary school and a newborn.

Knowing my luck I’d probably get another boy too. (you know I love my boys right? good)

So I have to suck up all the goodness and ‘fresh out of the oven’ smell I can from other people’s newborns. I can’t breastfeed them – that’s creepy – but I can make delicious food for their Mums. I can snuggle. I also have a kitten who I call Baby. Ha ha.

If I woke up tomorrow pregnant I wouldn’t be devastated. I’d be surprised – it is a week night after all – but I’d be ok. Don’t ask the GD what he thinks though.