So year three of our marriage after just an eight month courtship brings baby number two, Baby B. Life gets even busier for Daniel and I with this new baby boy in the mix, a two year old running around and trying to do renos on the house.

Daniel has taken a different job, he’s now working steady days, Monday to Friday. He seems content with our family, finally. He’s got the baby boy he’s always wanted. He’s helpful around the house and with the kids.

He rarely cares to go out drinking with his friends. We are finally enough and this happiness carries us for a couple of years.

The millionaire family, a girl and a boy.

But now I want more. I don’t like things to be perfect. It’s always been unsettling to me. I don’t like earrings that match sometimes. I don’t like dishes that match, socks that match. Or even numbers.

A boy and a girl is just too perfect, something will curse it. I decide I want baby number three. We discuss it. He’s not in agreement. We argue about it. I’m angry. He relents and we ‘try’ to get pregnant. A few months later and it’s still not happening.

So I give up. I won’t force things or go against nature. It’s not meant to be. We are to be a family of four. I decide it might be okay, I can finally focus on myself a bit. Get in shape, join a gym, grow my hair.

We are happy, Daniel is finally focusing on us, on what’s going on in the four walls of our house. We are finally enough for him. He’s content to stay home most Saturday nights.

And then I find out I’m pregnant…