I have something to tell you. Dom and I are going to have another child, another brother or sister to join our family. I can't tell you how much I love you both and although I hope this won't change anything, I know it will. Not my love for you, but it feels inevitable that things will be a little more hectic, perhaps a little more stressful, another child will no doubt create more instances of conflict, more need to share the toys and our time. Love is not finite, it just gets bigger and bigger, expanding in your chest like a peony in the sun, so beautiful you could cry. I will only love you more, but I admit I'm scared. I want to do right by you but I have no road-map, no model to follow, no experience of three children, no idea of the condition of the middle child, nor what it is like to be the eldest, nor what it means to be the last of three.
Before I knew I was pregnant (a mere 4 days ago), the idea of three children was perfect; I felt that if it didn't happen there would be an unknown loss in our lives. An absence in the cozy muddle of our home. But now the pregnancy is a reality, I admit I wasn't expecting to be this scared. It's hard to sleep at night. I'm worrying about every aspect of this tiny blastocycst, it's health, it's schooling, it's Christmas presents. I'm worried about being judged by those, like myself, who are concerned about the world's swollen population. I'm worried about being able to do it, about being the mother I want to be. I'm worried about change, about managing it, about laundry and cooking, about getting back to work, about getting back to the UK, about getting old.
Perhaps, when (and if) we hit the 'viable' 12 week mark I will have found some equilibrium, to stop the racing of my mind. If we reach full term I'm sure I will be ready. But, rightly or wrongly, I wanted to tell you how I feel and, at this emotional junction in our lives, tell you again how much I love you.