I was desperate for my second baby.
I couldn’t wait to get pregnant and enjoy all that squashy babyness.
Everyone told me that a three year age gap between my children was a ‘good one’.
It was at first. I could just sit and feed the baby whilst I talked to and played with his older brother.
Now the Little Little Man is Two. The Big Little Man is Five.
And by God do they wind each other up. Each antagonising the other. When one realises the other is getting attention, they won’t let anything lie until they have muscled in as well.
There’s times I sit and look at them, thinking ‘If I’d stopped at one, everything would be easier. Simpler. QUIETER’.
Then I remember that ache for another baby, certain that I would enjoy the second time (I did). Feeling that a family of three wasn’t quite a family, and that a family of four would be perfect.
And it feels complete now. Especially when they insist on kissing each other good night, and arguing over whose turn it is to have their teeth cleaned first (what difference 3 minutes makes, I have no idea), or when ‘Mummy Monster’ chases them up the stairs to bed and they run screaming together, cackling their little heads off.
This is our family. This is right. This is perfect for us. I just need a mute button for one or other of them at times. Or maybe a pair of ear plugs.