It is with a pounding heart that I realise the test I took an hour earlier is not actually negative after all. I feel my legs start to shake.

I scan the packet for details. Discard the test after ten minutes as results may not be accurate it says. A reprieve. Although we planned on having four children, in theory I would do almost anything to put off the prospect of all-encompassing sickness; the kind of sickness where any action or event become a major hurdle and avoiding throwing up in public consumes every thought.

The second test of course is positive right from the start. The faintest of lines, but positive.

I am woken that night at 3am by my coughing, still-poorly son. After twenty minutes lying awake I finally remember, the knowledge too new to remember any more quickly in such a sleep-deprived state. Fait-accompli, I think. I am pregnant, ergo I will be sick. By the morning I have got my head around it a little. I feel a flutter in my stomach, excitement. Another baby. Four children: a proper tribe. I calculate I have perhaps a few days before I start feeling really nauseous. I have too much to do, I think. I remember my January resolutions to take care of things better. I make another plan to plan better. Not only have I let things slide but now I have only a few days to catch up on months of domestic-slackery.

And then the sickness will start.

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