Well hello there, future child of mine.

I don't yet know whether you will ever exist, mythical child. I have a deep, yawning longing inside me that you will - sometimes it's so big that I'm surprised other people can't see it. But they can't. And I hide it because, well, it's not a very sensible desire. Nobody *needs* three children. There are a million reasons why we should not have another baby, but just one longing, lonely heart that won't go away.

I may as well be honest with you from the start, because one day you may exist and, heck, one day you may be a mama or papa yourself. It's my job to teach you truthfulness and reality. My truth is this: I am already a mama of two big boys and I know first hand just how tough motherhood can be. So this big, yawning void confuses me as much as anyone. I can't tell you why I need you to be in my life, I can just tell you that I feel it, and sometimes I am overwhelmed by it.

Sensible people have their babies, thank God that they're healthy, and then privately thank their lucky stars that all that pregnancy and birth business is over. Then they get on with raising those babies, knowing that each little step the babe takes towards independence is a step closer to getting their old lives back.

I can see the logic in this argument very clearly. I admire it. I enjoy my own space and hobbies. But I don't feel it. My boys are now 14 and and 6, they're big rough and tumble lads with increasingly adult problems. But I don't feel done. There is a gap in my life, a child shaped gap. A gap shaped like you, dear child. My brain knows that it's going to be really, really tough while you're small. That there will never be enough sleep or enough money; I will cry and despair and wonder why I decided to embark on parenthood again. I'll worry about my marriage, and I'll worry that my boys are making too many sacrifices, and that it's effecting them too much. My heart knows that I need you in my life, but it won't give up its secret. Why? Why would I do that to myself again when we're past the dirty nappies and the blood, sweat and tears? I don't know, dear child, really I don't. But I miss you.

However, yours is the birth that I have always anticipated the most, odd as that sounds. I always imagined myself with three children. Two is good; well balanced. I'm happy with two, but deep down I yearn for three. I know this may seem selfish and greedy to some, especially those who struggle to have one child. My heart goes out to those people and I wish I could do something to change the course of fate. But just because X hurts, it doesn't mean that Y doesn't.

I lost a baby when I was quite young, 21, and I grieved alone for a long time. In those lonely and dark hours, I imagined that my pain would allow me to have an extra baby, my youngest, to cherish at a time when I was able to make the most of it. Well, I'm 37 now. Not that many baby making years left. I'm saggy and tired, but I'm settled and more patient and full of love. My hands are now papery, but I'm soft and full of love. I will probably be one of those mamas who moves slowly and scolds gently - unlike the active, strident mother I was to your oldest brother. That's another thing I've learned, dear child. That you're never the same mama twice.

I know this will be the last chance of motherhood that I have. I know that the experience will be so physically and mentally challenging that it might break me or my marriage. And there, dear child, is the dilemma.

Your younger brother, David, often talks to me about life before birth. He's very intrigued about what he did before he was in my tummy. He's talked about this for some years now - maybe three? Which is pretty impressive, and a big concept for a three year old to consider. I'll be honest: I have no idea what life is like before you are born. However, David seems to think it's rather nice. So I'll comfort myself with that thought: that wherever you are, dear child, it's peaceful and comfortable.

Sleep tight, little one

love
Mama x