Whenever Baby has one of those let's-see-how-frequently-I-can-wake-mum-up nights, I swear that she's going to be an only child. I cannot imagine how anyone who's already been through child-rearing once could possibly volunteer to do it all over again for a second child.
But here's the thing. Remember that day we almost left Baby with one less fingertip? Well, after we'd put her to bed with extra cuddles and a dose of Pamol, the boy and I were sitting back on the sofa trying to un-tense our neck and shoulder muscles. And then the boy popped the question. How did I feel about us having another baby?
The all-consuming tiredness that comes from never getting more than six hours of sleep at a time (and usually just three or four), wasn't quite a distant memory yet.
I explained that, while Baby is surely the most gorgeous wee creature on the planet and I was joking every time I threatened to take her back in exchange for one that sleeps, I wasn't sure I had it in me for a repeat.
But the boy would like a son, no doubt a feisty wee nipper whom he'll play computer games with and teach how to hold a knife in a fight. What could I say? I told him to ask me again in six months.
And you know what? The next day, while I was walking Buggy around in the buggy for two hours in a fruitless attempt to extract some Z's out of her, I found that thinking up boy's names took my mind off that long, steep hill back home.