This limbo, somewhere around 9 weeks, where nobody knows save him and me and a couple of medical/allied folk. This limbo, it’s almost like the baby doesn’t exist. All smoothly rolls; I’m a little tired, nothing noteworthy. Nobody would guess. Sometimes, not even me.

Until this morning.

This morning, when my eldest advises me of a project due TODAY involving printing pictures on vaguearama topics: his culture, his aspirations, as well as the usual family and friends happy snaps. (I can’t find a picture of all four of us more recent than 2009.) The first computer cracks a spaz. The printer refuses to cooperate. I cough on a mouthful of muesli and choke with sudden nausea. Everyone is late. We have no bread. My back aches, and I dread how it could feel with another 10 kilos hanging off it. My breasts ache, as always. I am blue, and angry. Making the boys’ lunch, I try to snap Saladas in half, and they shatter. That’s when I start crying. One son disappears down to the chickens, the other pats my arm, confused.

I can’t do this.

My old body is not up to this pregnancy.

My mind is not ready for the depression I’d forgotten comes freely with pregnancy hormones.

I am not the person to do this. I didn’t enjoy being pregnant the last times: I suffered some depressive episodes both pregnancies, plus PND after #2. I am scared shitless of losing the wonderful positive mental frame I’m in right now.

I lost about a litre of blood with the birth of #2. I am a bleeder. I don’t want to die giving birth.

I don’t even like babies much. I gag changing nappies. I’m not really into kids, either: I don’t like all children, just like I don’t like all people, or I don’t like all dogs.

We can’t afford this.

I will be 65 when this child turns 21. (Daddyo will be 69.)

We were quite content and comfortable as we were. How are we even going to fit a baby into the house? (I’m going to lose my new bookshelves!)

It’s not fair to do this to my sons. Maybe it’s not fair to do this to this unborn little one, either.