Shortly after I had given birth to my third son, I went up to the local post office to collect a package.
I was at the counter with my three- and five-year-old boys, and my newborn asleep in the pram.
Just quietly I was feeling pretty freaking proud to be out, with THREE kids in a post office (which, if you ask anyone who has had three under five, is no mean feat.) Life was good.
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“Is it a boy or a girl?” The lady serving me asked, eyeing my two boys and the pram.
I proudly drew back the muslin wrap to reveal my beautiful bundle and said: “This is Tom!”
The look on the woman’s face was pure disappointment. She grabbed my hands in hers, looked at me with big sad eyes and said: “Don’t worry, you are young, and you can try again!"
I immediately looked down at my two older children. Two beautiful creatures who were standing by their new baby brother, with a fresh look of doubt in their eyes.
I don’t know what they were thinking, but their faces looked like they were wondering if, maybe, by all being male they had failed me.
I proudly told my new friend in the post office that having three of a kind was special, and that I had always hoped for three boys.
It was true. But I felt rattled.
That moment was seven years ago now.
Two years later I had another son, and I now proudly live with five males and one giant female Groodle puppy in a three-bedroom semi.