I never planned for my son to be an only child.
When he was around two, the 'so, are you going to have another one soon?' comments began. People in the street, strangers in supermarkets, would ask 'is he your only one?' I was constantly bombarded with questions and comments about my fertility; was I trying, did I not want more, was I having 'problems'.
The mums of toddlers the same age as him began smugly announcing their second pregnancies. I forced smiles of congratulations as my stomach contracted with knots of both jealousy and longing.
I desperately wanted another baby. Two more babies. Perhaps even three more babies. I loved being pregnant. I loved being a mummy. There was only one thing standing in my way; the baby making process and its absence from my relationship.
I often wonder if my son might be different character-wise if he'd had siblings. Or if our relationship would be less intense, less close. Would I have parented him differently if there were other children? The reality is that I will probably never know; I am 37 and semi-detached. My ridiculous living arrangements dictate that my child-bearing days are behind me, that my time as a 'mummy' is drawing to a close as I get older and my son grows up, and I instead become a 'mother'.
It's heartbreaking if I over-think it. I try not to. Instead, I focus on the little voice in my head that sometimes pulls me from the doldrums with a whisper of 'never say never'.
What do you think?
Has your dream of having more babies been shattered by your separation or divorce?