You never thought you’d have a big family. Maybe a husband, possibly one kid, and you would consider that the perfect situation.

Four kids later with another on the way and you’re eating your words. Really, it isn’t your fault. Simon is the true perpetrator here. What if we just had one more? he’d always say when he saw a bundled up baby sleeping in your arms. Love, look. I found this onesie. It’s a skeleton, he said one day after a trip to the store. When you responded that that wouldn’t fit any of your children, he argued that was easily fixable.

And now here you are with a fifth bun in the oven and a skeleton onesie waiting to be worn. Your children, aged one, three, six and eight babble about in the backseat.

“Love, I’m going to drop you at the front. I’ll park and walk up with the kids.” Simon says. You are three seconds away from pissing yourself and can’t wait.

“Mummy, I have to wee, too.” Your eight year old says.

“Me!” Your six year old whines, needing to do everything the same as their older sibling.

“Okay, little ducks. You can come to the loo with Mummy.” You say.

You all take care of business, a painstaking task, and walk back out towards the front, only to see the rest of your ducklings waddling over. Simon pushes a trolley with one hand, his other holding your one year old’s hand. Your three year old holds the toddler’s other hand. The two of them are quaking happily, a tactic you and Simon taught them so you both can hear them if you can’t have eyes on them.

Simon pulls the stroller from the trolley and sets it up. “I didn’t want to do this in the car park. Too many stupid drivers.” He grumbles, setting both toddlers in the two seats. It’s easier than chasing them both round the store.

“Stupid is a mean word, Daddy.” Our eight year old says, holding the other side of the trolley to help.

“Yeah, Daddy!” The six year old says. “Stupid is a mean word!”