New(ish) mum Samantha Dooey-Miles is charting her life in doodles. This week, she’s umming and ahhing about baby number two. As is her dad.
From the minute I presented my daughter to the world, people were already asking when the next baby would be on its way. This seemed bizarre to me. When you’ve eaten a big meal you don’t immediately pop down the Pizza Hut buffet – you give yourself time to get hungry again. That’s right: I’m comparing my child, and potential future children, to an unlimited supply of sweaty salad and mounds of pizza.
The problem is, if I’d last eaten when I had Iona I’d be dead by now because that was 16 months ago. Is it time for number two?
One person who thinks it is, is my darling daddy (I am 31 and call my father ‘daddy’; deal with it), who has four of us. A job he makes look very easy by being the most chill guy ever. Yet even he wants me to get cracking.
Not that he wants me to know that; he saved checking until he was alone with my husband. It took a day or two to shake off the unpleasant realisation my father was checking if his daughter was regularly getting shagged without protection.
For my dad, the idea of more children is no big deal. I am reliably informed by people with large broods that once you have more than three children you don’t notice a huge difference in your life when number four, five or 10 comes along.
Not that I know anyone who has 10 children. I imagine they don’t have much time to socialise with hip, carefree parents of one like me. The second though… the second is rumoured to be an incendiary bomb reducing to rubble the new life you carefully built after the first child appeared. As you can see in this week’s doodle, it’s quite the life.
See Samantha’s previous doodles here.
Sam is a first-time mum doodling and blogging her way through teething, nappies and the constant struggle of never quite being sure whether she lives in Essex or London. Find her blog at anewessexgirl.com.