Welcome to Baby Brain, a space where I - Charlotte, hi! - write about my life as a mother of three small children - Poppet (m, 4 years), Pickle (m, 2 years) and Peach (f, 5 months.) Those are not their real names. These are real stories from our days.
Every so often, I am asked if I would like a fourth child. It’s a question that inexplicably follows comments on how full my hands are, whether I am Catholic, and whether my husband knows what a condom is (that’s the little hat we put on bananas in year 9 isn’t it? What does that have to do with anything?) and so often leaves me feeling a bit puzzled*. Even more so when it’s suggested that a second girl would really round things out nicely, as though I have a say in such things. If I could choose the gender Karen I wouldn’t have had any boys in the first place (which is a good argument for not being allowed to choose the gender of your baby via the sciences, because my boys are the most marvellous of medicines.)
I don’t really think too much on it when asked by relative strangers whether or not I would like another child, because their reaction to whatever I respond with isn’t really something I need to worry about beyond the perimeter of the conversation at hand. Sometimes, though, my husband brings up the idea of having another baby, which is entirely different. When he asks, the idea of gestating yet another human feels like a possibility, an almost inevitability, a pending plan.
When my husband brings up the idea of having another baby, I end up looking a bit like this:
Here I am from another angle:
Horrified, in case that wasn’t clear. Like I’ve looked into the whirling vortex that is the future, and have seen some actual shit real sights.
I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. I met my husband on a Friday night in Shoreditch, and he wasted no time in telling me, five days and five thousand WhatsApp messages later, that a) he wanted to move back to the north, and b) he wanted five children once there. He had this one ex, he said, with this amazing, very large family. They’d all gather at the dinner table to converse and be filled with merriment, and ever since he’d first broken bread with them, he’d known this was what he wanted for his own future brood. Sat across from him at our little table at Pizza Express, I didn’t quite know what to say to this, but he was handsome and so I let it slide. On around our third date, he told me he’d read a study that claimed attractiveness was directly correlated to a person’s fertility. “I bet you’re really fertile,” he smized before kissing me, and before we went on to continue dating and eventually marrying, and so you could say the writing was on the wall child wise, and also that there’s someone out there for everyone because honestly, what a thing to say to someone you’re not yet calling your girlfriend. It screams either ‘I like you a lot’ or ‘I’m going to take an axe to you’ and, honestly, it could still turn out to be both.
Three babies in, the tune has somewhat changed, and the dream of five mini me’s doesn’t loom so much as it creeps, popping out from time to time like the mildly deformed spider that lived in our house for well over a year (rest in peace, Legless old pal, sorry one of us crushed you) before going back into hiding. We’ll be going about our daily lives when I’ll say “you wanted five” to which he’ll say something akin to “yes but that was before,” and I’ll nod sagely and move on with my life. Minds change, after all, I wasn’t even sure I wanted one. In the days following such conversations, we’ll inevitably begin to discuss ‘getting things sorted’ (snip snip) and, suddenly, those extra babes are back on the table: “What if we make loads of money and suddenly have the resources for a live in housekeeper and a nanny?” he’ll ask, knowing that my main parenting weakness is lack of outside help, to the point that if our cleaner were to steal from us I’m fairly certain I’d let it slide, keen as I am to avoid doing the dusting myself. “Are we ready to shut that door?”
I’ll think on it, whenever this happens, because we are partners, and this isn’t just my choice.
Every so often, I’ll even start to sway.
And then I’ll spend a day alone with my three existing children, and change my mind. They were the making of me, these kids, but I fear a fourth would be the breaking. Little Fires Everywhere taught us, after all, that “FOUR KIDS IS NOT THE SAME AS THREE BILL, IT’S NOT THE SAME.”
(If you haven't watched it, you must. The book is also excellent.)
In pondering the potential addition of more offspring, I’ve been casting my mind over my relationships with Poppet, Pickle and Peach, thinking on the many ways in which I love them, and the many ways in which they show they love me too - mostly by (for the younger two, anyway) refusing to leave my side at all in the first few years of their lives. This closeness, this dyadic relationship that transforms us into one and the same, is and has been wonderful. And yet. And yet… It can be quite tiring, gentle and attachment parenting three fiery individuals, and I fear - in a moment of naked honesty - that I wouldn’t have the emotional capacity to do a good job if my heart was divided once again. I fear** I’d end up dropping the ball on all four of them, and souring the beautiful relationships we’ve built thus far, relationships that are entirely secure in their place in my life, to the point that Poppet’s mother’s day drawing for me this year included a tiny Peach on my chest, for this is where she lives, and he is happy that she’s there, because he knows there’s still room for him too.
Peach is the circle. The joy when I saw this was so much that my heart about broke in two. My neck didn’t, despite what the drawing would have you believe - apparently this is just what I look like when I sleep.
(**I also fear twins. I fear twins most of all.)
All of this comes up for two reasons.
1/ We have been spring cleaning, and clearing the house of the baby bits we’ve held onto since before Poppet was born, which feels like a big step - one that leads to questions such as ‘are you sure you don’t want…?’
And
2/ People keep asking me what I plan to do after maternity leave is over, and “I’d really like to be on the PTA” isn’t appearing to satiate anyone’s thirst on the topic of my post baby future
And it comes up, let’s be honest, because people keep asking me, with a wink and a laugh, if more are on the way. To which I say I don’t know.
And never say never.
And no.
*Some nice things people have said to me lately about my children, because the commentary isn’t all bad:
While I was sat writing this post in Costa, eating (yet another) hot cinnamon bun as Peach napped on my chest: “You look beautiful sitting here with your baby, there is no replacement for a mother’s love”
While I was trying to stay calm after a manic session at soft play, walking my three overtired children home: “You’re amazing, I’ve been watching you walking with three kids and I was thinking ‘could I do that?’ *slightly manic laughter* And I COULDN’T! Great job!”
While I was taking a moment to window shop: “Big families are wonderful, your home must be so full of love”
When my husband’s best friend heard of Peach’s birth: “Three actual miracles. Magics. Oh my god.”
This week:
I’m enjoying my new shoes, from the North West's own The Edit. I saw two other mums wearing these, and I had to have them. How else will everyone know I am a mother if I'm not wearing the local uniform, after all? (Aside from the one to three children I always have by my side, I mean)
We have finished binging Succession, and I have thoughts. First of all, I liked it but I didn’t love it, and there were so many loose ends that, to me, at times it felt a bit like when Heroes (save the cheerleader save the world) had a writer’s strike and no-one knew how to wrap up any of the more minor storylines. Here are some of the things I was dying to know: What was Marcia doing before she appeared in Paris, and was it linked to why she was immediately aware that Shiv was having her investigated? Why was Roman’s sex problem never properly discussed, and why did his siblings appear to be aware of it? Why was first pancake Connor’s mother sectioned? Why the F did Greg give up millions to work for an uncle that clearly didn’t respect him, for a news network he wanted no part of? And why was everyone fine with Shiv knocking back scotch whilst mit bebe? Wild.
A few things I did really love were Kieran Culkin, Tom and Greg’s relationship, and the way the sib’s awful mother described eyes in the finale: “I don't like to think of all these blobs of jelly rolling around in your head, just, face eggs.”
My husband thought it was “the perfect show,” in contrast. We are different people.
And, last of all, I am embracing flash cards. As a trained baby yoga and (almost trained) kid’s yoga teacher, I am fully aware of the power of namaste’ing the screamer demons out of little ones - by which I mean, teaching them about self control and self understanding in order to help them through their bigger feelings - and yet am guilty of not doing yoga with my children as much as I feel I should. Last week, I reintroduced baby yoga into Peach’s life, resulting in a truly, mind bogglingly explosive poo that made us miss our baby signing class (c’est la vie), and have just bought some yoga flashcards to help put together routines for the older kids. This way, I can guide them through a routine without screens, which are as distracting for me as they are for them, and without trying to memorise a set which, let’s be honest, is nigh on impossible in my current cognitive state. The flash cards I went with are these ones, and I love them. We’ve also got some phonics cards on the way, because reading is cool.
Until next time 🧘🏻
A mum of three is a SuperMum <3
I thought having three was the tipping-point, because you can no longer play man-to-man, you gotta’ play zone - four is unfathomable to me (although I have three siblings, so, intellectually, I know it happens).