Boredom is leading me to suffer from post-40 'I want a baby' syndrome

We are bored of our husbands, our children have no interest in us and we can’t be arsed to have an affair – all that buying of new knickers and sending sexy texts saying ‘I’m just in a negligee’, while you’re actually taking the bins out. Another baby is the obvious answer

The number of women giving birth in their 40s has trebled in the last 20 years, according to the Office for National Statistics (Getty/iStockphoto)

Earlier this week, husband#1 and I lay side by side in bed. It was 11pm. Down the corridor child#1 and #2 slept peacefully. I rolled over to husband#1, who smiled in pleasant surprise. It was neither Christmas nor his birthday. “Darling,” I whispered, “Lets have another baby.” Any part of his body that had been standing to attention immediately collapsed. His face contorted, as if struck by a catastrophic stroke, and a stream of panic and terror vomited from his mouth.

Words like “you’re old”, “I’m 52”, “what the f**k????” and “wet wipes”. I didn’t take any of this as an immediate no. Husband#1 often says no to things he then goes on to enjoy – for example Gossip Girl or shoe shopping for the perfect autumn kitten heel. A third baby would be little different. And it would mean a sharp spike in our sex life, from bi-annually to bi-weekly. Every cloud.

His reservations though are understandable. I am a little past 39 years old. At 10 and nine, our children now barely speak to us, unless to ask where their phone is or to demand food. This morning the nine-year-old made a fried egg sandwich on his own. The armoury of buggies, car seats, highchairs, wet wipes and nappies have long been given to the charity shop.

It is conceivable that sometimes at the weekends whole hours pass where we are not summoned by a child. Like the halcyon days of pre-parenthood, now we can sometimes have a Netflix binge uninterrupted, or sleep in until nine or 10 on a Sunday morning. Grown-up life has slowly but surely come back.

But with it, there is for me a sense of loss. I miss the neediness of the baby years, the cuddles and tantrums of the toddler years. The statement hot pant may once again fit my non-pregnant arse, my boobs may once again be perky, but part of me yearns for a BabyBjorn and a breast-feeding bra instead of a peephole one.

Child#1 and #2 are ecstatic at the prospect of #3. #1 says she will teach her about fashion and hair from an early age. (Or him. Child #3 will of course be gender-neutral.) Child#2 says he will teach him football and, worryingly, “carry him around in my Man City holdall.”

Neither child is to be taken at their word. They expressed similar excitement and promises of commitment to the (incontinent) dog. After one walk and an unfortunate incident of a loosening of bowels over child#1’s Ariana Grande rug, the dog has been largely ignored by the children – the same experience I fear would be shared by the new infant. (Though the rug has since been replaced with Justin Bieber, who, as a point of interest, hides stains better than Ariana.)

I am not alone in my whimsy for a mid-life baby. According to the Office for National Statistics, the number of women giving birth in their 40s has trebled in the last 20 years. I understand it completely. We are bored of our husbands, our children have no interest in us and we can’t be arsed to have an affair – all that buying of new knickers and sending sexy texts saying, “I’m just in a negligee”, while you’re actually taking the bins out or wiping down Justin Bieber again.

Another baby is the obvious answer. No need for new knickers and bras. Ever, in fact. After this baby, rest assured that no man will ever look at your breasts again and the only knickers you’ll have to buy will be incontinence ones. Your breasts will gravitate downwards until they spill onto the floor alongside your prolapsed pelvic floor and you may well have sex with your husband but you won’t know, as you will never feel it again.

While your friends will be out at the cinema or eating in nice restaurants with their mute but un-troublesome pre-teens, you will be down the mini-rascals-mini-music-mini-b*****ks-class pretending to be a tree and surrounded by 20-something young mums in crop tops. But who cares? You will have a baby!

Husband#1 is now strangely reluctant to take part in lovemaking, as if the very act will fast-forward to a baby suddenly crowning from my vagina, while he cuts the cord with his Mach3 and child#2 swaps frying an egg with frying my placenta. “Don’t worry, darling,” I say as I secretly slip out my coil “there’s always Brazil.”