Shit on my hands

MH

The second child is sometimes conceived while the parents are still fully occupied in feeding, burping and wiping the small bottom of the firstborn. That sneaky shag, miraculously undertaken in a half-comatose state by a couple mistakenly relying on breastfeeding as birth control can, and often does, result in another pregnancy. The mother may notice a sudden addiction to processed cheese singles (in which she’s had zero interest since she was in grade 2) and experience a greater sicky feeling than usual while her in-laws discuss the digestive troubles of their geriatric Beagle. A pregnancy test is bought just to rule out the unthinkable possibility. But, Holy Crap! There’s that second blue line. 

While perhaps not an ideal scenario, at least these parents can console themselves that Number Two was an accident. There is no similar comfort for the couple who willingly PLANNED a second child. Why on earth would a woman who endured nine months of incubating Number One, followed by 13 months of night feeds, and up to three years of nappy changes actually think it a good idea to do it all over again? And why would her long-suffering partner happily join her in jumping back into this river of tears and shit? Just like post-birth amnesia, post-toddler cluckiness is pure biology at work. Parents may say that they want a sibling for Number One, or the opportunity to raise a [insert gender opposite to Number One], but really they are not motivated by such rational thought. No, only propagation madness can explain the preparedness to suffer a double stroller.