'Why a third child is like ordering dessert.'

This article was originally published in the substack My Family and Other Manuscripts. It has been republished here with permission.

It's nearly five years since I had a third baby, the third of three boys. And over those years, many people have asked me 'What's that like?'

Some with thinly disguised horror, some with palpable longing, but always with a curiosity I never experienced with my first or second babies. And the only satisfactory answer I could offer was that it's like ordering pudding. Allow me, then, to introduce my metaphorical restaurant of childbearing…

Watch: WELL | The Transformative Joy of Babies. Post continues after video.

Starters/Firstborns.

You know the drill. You and your friends arrive at the restaurant and sit down. To begin with, you're just drinking, and then everyone takes a while pondering the menu and ordering their starters (this is the first round of babies). When the starters arrive, it's very exciting, because you're all ravenous and have been eyeing other people's food going past. There might even be some covert comparing of whose starter is the best.

Expectations.

You thought you knew what to expect from your starter, because you researched the restaurant online. In fact, your starter is nothing like how you imagined. No matter! You're thrilled anyway. There is often somebody at the table whose starter arrives late. This is always difficult, although they will say it's OK.

Main course.

By the time the main courses arrive (second children), everyone is thoroughly settled into the restaurant and the whole business of having dinner. You will all be much less interested in each other's food, because nobody is hungry anymore. Now you can finally start talking about something else.

Approaching capacity.

Towards the end of their main course, your friends start to say they're full. Not you. You haven't forgotten the sticky toffee pudding you saw on the dessert menu. You don't broadcast this though, because you don't want to seem gluttonous. But then….

The waiter clears the mains.

…and your friends lean back contentedly. They are stuffed. (This is when all the second children are in nursery, and people start selling prams). Then the waiter says…

"Would anyone like to see the dessert menu?"

Nearly everyone at the table says 'No, thanks,' immediately, without pausing or looking at each other. You're a little surprised. Pudding would be so delicious! And you don't feel quite finished… or balanced… it's all been a bit… savoury… (This is when you try for a third after two kids of the same sex).

Hmmmm….

You're definitely tempted. What if you regretted not trying the dessers at this restaurant? Sure, you'll have to go to the gym. But at this point in the evening, do you care? And then you catch a friend's eyes and realise that she hasn't completely ruled out dessert, either. So you say, a little giddily, 'We'll just have a look.'

Image: Supplied.

The thing is, you aren't sure you can actually fit a whole pudding. But you also know, deep down, that you aren't ready to leave the restaurant (this is not throwing out the newborn sleepsuits). And you can delay going out into the cold, dark night by ordering another course.

Obviously, there are downsides to the restaurant. It's too loud, and a lot of your fellow diners are incredibly annoying. But you also appear to have developed a kind of Stockholm syndrome. (This is the way you resent making pasta every day at 5pm, but also don't want to go back to an office full-time).

So when the waiter returns and it's a choice between a tiramisu that might give you reflux and leaving the restaurant for good, you say….. 'Oh go on then…'

Pudding arrives.

Strangely, even though everyone said they were too full for dessert, when yours arrives, they are very interested. Much more than they were in your other courses. You are suddenly aware of your status as social-outlier/hero/rebel /hedonist. You are so glad, now, that you threw caution to the wind. A little smug, even, when you see your friends' wistful faces. Not so smug you won't offer them a spoon. You could do with some help.

The bill.

WHAT?!! You can't believe how expensive this meal has been! But then there were the cocktails, and the white wine and the red wine, and the bottled water, and the mint tea you needed to digest the pudding… (This is all the kit you have to buy to accompany babies).

Afterwards.

Oof. You never want to look at food again. Yes, that chocolate torte was yummy, but now you could walk past another torte without a second glance — and you love torte. You actually feel quite sick. What were you thinking? Oh well. You'll just have to take Gaviscon and face the consequences. It was worth it, though. Never mind that you can't move. How does anyone manage a cheese course (a fourth child)?

Getting home.

When you stagger into bed at 1am, it hits you that if you hadn't ordered pudding, you'd already be in bed, like all the sane people who got the bill after their mains. (This is having to potty train a toddler when everyone else's youngest child can swim unsupervised, while their parents read).

In retrospect.

But the next day, when you post photos of your feast on Instagram, the smug feeling returns. Ok, you didn't need pudding. But you wanted it. Three courses just feels right. Nicely abundant. Whereas a cheese course is slightly obscene.

Extras on the house.

Has the kitchen sent you a little something? Perhaps a slice of cake, for your birthday, even though you've already ordered pudding? Yikes….you're having twins.

Pre-dinner nibbles.

Did you eat a lot of olives and crisps before your starter? That's being an aunt. It gives you an idea of having children, the same way that olives give you an idea of having dinner. Not a very accurate one, though.

Ordering 'just a salad', to come alongside everyone's mains.

Only child, born to older parents. Don't expect the salad to be the lighter option. That goat's cheese is very… demanding…

Ordering the set menu.

These are the freakishly decisive couples who know they want Eton Mess (three kids) before they've eaten anything, and book holidays a year in advance.

Asking for two spoons.

When one member of the couple isn't quite sold on the whole extra baby idea…

Loads of 'small sharing plates' to pass around.

Blended family. Sometimes feels modern and lovely, sometimes feels complicated.

The tasting menu.

Trad wife.

To read more from Francesca, you can find her Substack here.

Feature Image: Getty.