Since the moment I went public with my pregnancy, people have been asking about the ‘next one’. I endured the baby question through nine years of marriage and genuinely hoped that, through falling pregnant, people would consider my duty done and let me be. It’s just not that simple. People feel a sense of duty around the need to procreate to the point that one person’s advice was, ‘Just don’t think about it, just do it.’ Helpful? I think not. Perfect strangers will ask how old my son is and immediately offer advice on how far apart I should have my children to birth methods for the next.

I feel a great sense of relief when I chance upon someone who is stopping at one.  A kindred spirit for no other reason than that their desire to have only one translates into a willingness to expand their social boundaries. People who have a second, third (and sometimes fourth), because they feel their first needs a friend or because their first is becoming too spoilt, are not only delusional (because there are no guarantees of either being resolved), but are also saying, ‘I’m not bothered with looking outside of my family unit for companionship for my offspring as they are better off getting it all from within the ‘unit’.’

I am slowly beginning to realise that this question is not meant as an affront about my abilities as a non-mother but is perhaps the only question mumsy mums can muster – the only thing they feel they have in common with me now that I have joined the ranks.

As a reader of my outwardly expressed inner thoughts, don’t take it personally if you have/want more than one … and I’ll try not to take it personally that I am expected to have/want more than one.