Last night I dreamed that we had a burglary. Funnily enough, all the robbers seemed to be keen on was baby clothes. Plus the car seat, the cot, the breast pump and the baby monitor.
To say I am slightly panicky about the prospect of having another child is an understatement. It’s not so much the birth – that’s all decided and cared for. It’s the prospect of not being able to leave the house anymore, not being able to get the 2nd one into a routine and thus throwing the 1st one off her usual schedule. It’s the prospect of not making it to ballet lessons, not being able to do the groceries, cook a meal, wash my hair, let alone write blog posts for this blog or that one. Don’t even mention the sequel to my novel…
Breastfeeding is going to be interesting – with a three-year-old who wants a lot of attention and entertainment. Secretly, I almost hope for it to be a painful experience. Only to have a reason to throw the towel in. If it’s going to be anywhere as easy as it was with little L, there shouldn’t really be any excuses. Don’t get me wrong; as soon as we got out of the two-hourly feeding hell, I mostly enjoyed breastfeeding. But I didn’t have much else to do back then, happily surrendering my self to being topless for great parts of the day (and the night, coming to think of it).
No matter how I look at it, it becomes obvious that I will need help. I know that I am capable of a lot, but I also know that I am not going to manage to keep writing, spend some alone time with my older daughter, continuously breastfeed the new baby AND keep my sanity.
I need to get a nanny. And bigger bolts for our window frames.