The heartache of always wanting just one more baby
aFTER nearly a decade of motherhood, the sight of a tiny, milky newborn baby still sends shockwaves of longing through my system. Recently, when I visited a friend who had just given birth to a beautiful baby girl, I was giddy with excitement about seeing the infant and congratulating my friend. But instead, when I arrived at her home in London, I took one look at the baby sleeping in her crib and burst into tears.
These were not polite tears but proper excuse yourself, go to the bathroom and sob your heart out tears. It was then that I knew I had a problem: I was addicted to babies.
After not one, not two, not three but four babies of my own, I cannot let go of the aching desire to have another. I know I am being greedy and my shame i s only compounded by the fact that I am also aware I have been extremely fortunate.
While many women spend heartbreaking years and small fortunes undergoing gruelling IVF treatment, I was lucky enough to get pregnant easily and am now the doting mother of Isaac, eight, Beatrice, five, Florence, four, and baby Celestia, who is just 11 months old.
I have always liked children — as a child myself I used to cut out pictures of babies i n catalogues and stick them on my wall — and t he baby stage is t he most adorable. I know some mothers long for their children to reach those all-important milestones — to sit, walk, talk and come out of nappies — but I find babies much easier to look after than older children.
When they spend most of their time eating or sleeping, their demands are simpler and less prob- lematic. As long as you get into a routine and learn how to feed them, shush them to sleep and change their nappies, life is quite straightf orward. And once they sleep through the night you even have your evenings to yourself.
Toddlers, on the other hand, are prone to throwing tantrums and answering you back. And once they get to nursery and then school they need you to referee playdates, monitor homework and answer endless questions.
I even love giving birth. I don’t like the pain, but escaping to the hospital on a mission to give birth is the most wondrous thing in the world.
Of course, there are many other, more relaxing ways to have a break from my children, but I don’t think I’ll ever tire of the magic of bringing a new life into the world. Gazing at a baby who is just hours old in the hospital crib is a moment of undiluted joy.
I know it i s not rational or sensible to keep wanting more babies, but as soon as my youngest turns one, something seems to happen to my hormones and I become desperate to replace the baby who once slept so helplessly in my arms, but now wants some independence, with another.
I was 26 when I gave birth to Isaac after meeting my husband, Charlie, a garden designer, in 2006. I loved motherhood from the very first moment — I used to gaze at Isaac for hours in his Moses basket — and immediately wanted more siblings for my firstborn.
When Beatrice was born nearly three years later, I told myself this maternal instinct would wane. I used to say that I never wanted to combine night feeds with wrinkles and grey hair. But here I am at 34, nearly 35, still as crazy about babies as I was ten years ago.
If anything, my experience as a mother has heightened my longing to have more children. Put simply, the more babies you have, the more you know what you’re doing (even if the baby is a difficult one) and, as a result, the more you are able to enjoy them.
My family, however, all want me to stop. Every time I bring a newborn baby home I know it’s not just my body that feels the physical strain: so, too, do the rest of the family. Everyone’s sleep is interrupted when an infant cries in the night, and family finances are stretched.
I stopped working for several months after each birth and although there is no less love to go round, I have less time for my older children whenever I have a baby.
I am the eldest of three children and my mother also loved babies. Sadly, however, she lives a threehour drive from me in Gloucestershire and is not close enough to help with the children as much as she’d like to.
Even she baulks at the idea of me having more and has told me ‘there are only so many hours in the day’.
Sadly, Charlie’s parents are both dead and I don’t have a nanny. So although he is number three of five children, he says we have to stop at four unless I engage the help of a coterie of staff — which I don’t want to do because I like to be hands-on and to be the one the children turn to when they need something.
Charlie feels we are already at capacity. His job involves a lot of travel to meet clients. If I imposed another pregnancy on the family, he would be severely stretched and I don’t want to cause a rift between us.
My last pregnancy was not an easy one. I had morning sickness and headaches and was diagnosed with a low-lying placenta — a condition that limits your mobility and means lifting children is out of the question. With my three others to care for, it was a struggle.
Not only that, but I know most people stop at three babies these days. Three is considered a lot; still manageable, still financially viable, but any more is seen as a bit excessive. People can get their heads around three, but f our is anathema.
Babies are expensive, deprive you of sleep, get in the way of your social life, require financial planning and may even mean you need to move house.
Now that we have moved out of London we do have the space for all these children — but, as my husband says, it would be quite nice to have a spare room and have the occasional family with (typically) two children to stay now and then.
And then there is the issue of holidays. While we would love to be able to take the children away on holiday, we have ruled it out until Celestia, our youngest, is three. We made this decision on our last holiday abroad the two years ago.
Then, our youngest child at the time, Florence, contracted gastroenteritis. She was too ill to fly home, which meant we had to prolong our ‘holiday’ by another week.
The hotel kindly put us up — but there was no guarantee of a flight home, as it was the Easter holidays, and at one point we were worried we might be there for another month. To make matters worse, it turned out I’d taken out the wrong travel insurance, so our extra costs weren’t covered.
If I did have another baby I know I would be delaying the time when we could all go away on holiday — a sacrifice my children would have to make to meet my desire.
I have tried to curb this obsession. Some people have suggested having more dogs instead of more babies, and we did get a gorgeous chocolate labrador called Seymour earlier this year — but he is no substitute for a baby.
I have tried to convince myself that less is more. After Florence was born, leaving a 21-month gap between her and my eldest daughter Beatrice, I was so adamant that I mustn’t get pregnant again, I booked in to have the contraceptive coil fitted. I was absolutely exhausted from the demands of three young children.
When I went for my check-up, the nurse took a sharp intake of breath. What on earth was i t? Was I pregnant? No, she said, shaking her head. The coil had come out.
‘Your body has rejected the coil. Your body wants to breed!’ she exclaimed enthusiastically.
But while her sentiment may have been spot on, it is an urge I must continue to fight for the sake of my health, my f amily and my marriage.
‘I will never tire of the magic of giving birth’
‘Your body wants to breed,’ said the nurse