Just The One

Catherine Kennedy-Hawkey - 9 Nov 16

There are already, approximately, a billion Mummy blogs out there so let’s be honest, writing another feels like a very odd decision. But in the spirit of Mumboss/Make it work for you/Just do it/Focus on our dreams and every other Instagram’d quote I’ve liked on a Sunday evening, I’ve decided to do just that. The fear that if I don’t engage my brain at some point soon it may well actually disappear, along with my pelvic floor muscles, is also a pretty big incentive.

We have one little boy, Archer. ‘Just the one’,’ in a somewhat apologetic tone, is always the answer when people ask how many I have.. He’s two and a total legend. He was about as unplanned as they come (work affair, empty meeting room, a real ‘Mummy and Daddy loved each so much they had you story’ sort of.) But miraculously it all worked out, we’re married now and we love every minute with Archer. Well, almost every minute. Not such a fan of the minutes between 5 and 6am.

On which note, about ten minutes after he was born, the midwife started talking about having the next one. I lstudied her intensely, trying to establish the outline of where she most certainly must be mainlining crack under her uniform. Lady, having just pushed 8lb 13ounces out of a part of me I was once very fond, and proud of, I’m not massively keen on chat around anything else going up or down there right now thanks. And, on a less brutal note, my heart had just exploded with love at this little baby in my arms and I was certain there wasn’t a scrap of me left that could love anything else as much.

Fast forward over two years and we still have ‘just the one’. Apologetic tone very much in place. One child can seem wholly unplanned, a fluke (OK, it was, fair point, but let’s brush over that.) Two feels like serious professional parenting stuff, with some kind of impressive army manoeuvres schedule that brings me out in a cold sweat even beginning to imagine the logistics. I digress. I do that often.

There were fellow Mum’s, insanely in my non judgemental opinion, who were already preggers with their second one before the first one’s birthday. Umm, nope, I’m alright thanks, with my just about recovered boobs, lack of sleep deprived mental-ness,(ish), renewed and lets be honest, stronger than ever love of wine. I’ll stick with just the one. Then by the time he was 18 months, it felt like pretty much every other Mum was preggers with their second one. Umm, still no thank you, this is getting easier and definitely more fun.

Comments start to creep in about making sure there’s not too much of an age gap. Just like everything else in the world of parenting, everyone has a theory as to what the right age gap is. Then there are the veiled comments around how good it is for them to have a younger sibling, ‘Oscar is just so lovely and good at sharing now we have Rafferty…’

So, with mounting pressure, we act like teenagers and cave in. Let’s have another. With masses of reassurance to the other one that the next one will be just as awesome. NB. We both know we are lying to each other and ourselves at this point. But I’ve discovered that’s parenting pretty much most of the time. We’re constantly trying to make ourselves feel ok about our decisions and actions. It’s totally ok that they’ve eaten beans three days in a row and it’s sort of ok for a two year old to watch Toy Story a billion times isn’t it?. Shows he has a good concentration span surely? (Not all in one go and definitely not all in a day, just to be clear, before social services is called.)

Getting pregnant the first time was a little too easy so this’ll be no problem. We are obviously fantastic baby makers. We’ve always been secretly smug about how fertile we are. Sex is back in a big way. I’d forgotten just much fun you can have if you’re able to resist slipping into unconsciousness the moment your head hits the pillow (fricking hard resisting this when you’ve done a casual 17 hour stint).

Month 1 of baby making is all fun. Your period arrives. That’s ok, we’re probably not quite ready anyway. Month 2 is more fun. Your period arrives. Tad disappointing. Then it becomes months 7/8/9 Less fun. (Mr H debates this, what a run, he no longer has to spend every evening grinding on your leg.)

With every month the wanting and the disappointment grows. And along with the disappointment is a whole host of guilt. Guilt for Archer that he’s going to be an only child. Guilt for Archer that you’re disappointed at not having another when he’s so damn awesome you shouldn’t even want another. Guilt for those who don’t even have one child and are trying, how ungrateful can one person be?

Then next to the disappointment and guilt is the worry, is something wrong? Something has to be wrong. Are we going to need IVF? I’ve known so many marriages break up once you take that path. Could we even afford IVF? Will we need to re-mortgage? And on and on. I absolutely excel at worrying.

Until one day. We are pregnant. But as the writing appears and I show Mr H, I just know something isn’t right. Seven days later we’re recovering from an ectopic pregnancy. It was sad, scary, and bloody painful. But the strangest thing of all is, at the end of it, we’re OK. We’re better than ok, we’re really very good. As a two, and as a three, we’re better than ever. And I’m going to stop worrying about making it two because ‘just the one’ amazing little boy is pretty damn lucky.

Catherine Kennedy-Hawkey

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