I’ve always been someone who performs better under pressure. Maybe it’s because I used to work in the pressure cooker magazine industry, where meeting deadlines and profitability tended to override a lot of things, such as editorial integrity and thorough research.

Lately, I’ve been maligned by thoughts of having another baby. I use the word ‘maligned’ because 1. we can’t afford another baby and 2. my last pregnancy was horrid, with lots of bleeding/spotting and an early delivery at 30 weeks. 3. we already have no time for ourselves 4. I’m 33 and will probably never recover, physically, from the ordeal (read: get even fatter) 5. we just cannot afford another baby.

Of course, I have brought this subject up with Lokes, He Who Has Sworn Not To Have Anymore Kids Even If It Means Having To Tie My Tubes Himself.

Oh, I’ve tried all sorts of arguments. The supposedly very sensible “having three children is no different from having two, you know?”. The persuasive “don’t you want a boy?”. The glib “imagine: another cutie pie in the house?!”. The inviting “we both came from two-children households. Aren’t you curious how having three kids would be like?”. And the most desperate “don’t you want to carry on your family name?”.

So far, it’s been far from promising. But this morning, a breakthrough. Over breakfast, Mr Two Poopy Diapers Away From Having a Vasectomy finally relents and says, “If you can get yourself published, and make us lots of money…” and then he hesitates, and chokes out the words, “…h-how many do you want?”

“Just one more,” I say, sipping my coffee ever so calmly, pretending to read the papers.

“IF you make us very rich. IF!” he replies sternly, his brows furrowing to show me he’s very serious.

I squeal and throw my arms around him and kiss him fervently.

So now, I have the ‘motivation’ I need to get cracking.

Sweet.