What I crave instead is the fast oblivion of processed white food: toast and butter made from the cheapest sliced bread, pints of full-fat milk, Rich Tea biscuits and bowls of Weetabix crusted with white sugar.

He knew, of course he knew, as soon as he saw the pregnancy test in my bag. But he hugs me, telling me it will be great, and really sweet to have another baby in the family. But it’s difficult, too, as they both know that a new baby doesn’t spell straightforward pleasure and happiness. More babies are a joy, a sweet, jolly, milky blessing, everythi

I urgently want to be not pregnant now but even having that thought makes me feel a pinch of remorse because I’m supposed to be enjoying every single moment of this.

But I don’t say any of that because a mother can’t say these things.

me. I can almost remember what my labour screams are like and I am certain they would traumatize all my children. They would make the house sound as if I was either being murdered or mustering my powers to horribly murder someone else.

The plates fall and smash all the time. I’m constantly on the run, grabbing moments to work which I feel I’ve stolen from my children. The school assemblies I missed, the concerts I was late to, the parents’ evenings I had to reorganize are the guilty price I pay: and make no mistake, it’s a price.

The galloping heartbeat sounds ancient and wild,

Parenting is hard; it’s relentless. It doesn’t give you any space. And I know that he has a point. We can’t fit into our house as it is. We can’t afford it. He’s right. But none of those arguments take away these feelings that I need to mother a baby again.’

What I want to say is this: The reason I’d do this to myself is because I want messy. And I’m greedy. And I want another one because four makes me feel neat. Neat is so unfamiliar it makes me feel homesick, but creating messiness is like making it right. Because even though there will be less of the good things, like sleep, time, sex and money, the