On the journey back from my weekend away (which was bloody marvelous, by the way), I began to feel sick - a heavy nausea that lay on my stomach and made me clench my hands with the desire to not throw up.
I racked my brain for possible causes of the sickness: I had consumed very large quantities of food and drink the night before - well who doesn't do that on a mini-break? And, I had over-indulged in the pancakes and syrup earlier that morning. But then gluttony normally has no more effect on me than a very small amount of guilt.
And then, usually, I get over it and go for a run.
As the day went on, the nausea faded. But of course, I couldn't help wondering: what if. What if, by some strange fluke, I was pregnant again. For the third time in three years. If you'd taken a microscope to my skin you might have seen small prickles of sweat emerging as the image of another nine months, another labour, another new born, another child dizzied my head.
Oh. Um. Flip.
We're still reasonably young so there is a chance, albeit a small one, that in three, four or five years we may decide to try for a third. Or, we may be so content with our lifestyle - two boys no longer in diapers, able to get in and out of the car and eat dinner unassisted, sleeping through the night, able to travel abroad - that we can't fathom the idea of going back to the beginning and doing it all over again.
Oh oh but then I could be like Angie, all glamorous with her armfuls of kids!
Oh but wait I don't have her money or resources. Scrap that.