And the obvious reason is because of the season....

SPRING IS a dangerous season for me as I tend to go a little crazy. You see I love spring. Of all seasons, it is my most favourite and simply it’s because everything looks so much better when you wake up in the morning and the sun is shining.

The last few days of blissful sunshine have had me in my element. Having a week’s holiday from work means that me and the wee man have been able to get out and about, him ensconced in his new Winnie The Pooh (or Winnie Ma Pooh, as my niece calls it) car and me looking every bit the proud mammy pushing him along.

My other half and myself have gone for long drives to the likes of Kinnego Bay and I swear I’ve had a wee bit of sunburn. Couple all that with drinking a few glasses of ice cold Chardonnay in the evening knowing that I don’t have to get up for work in the morning and it’s been sheer, unadulterated bliss.

But spring has a rather more worrying effect on me too. You see, I tend to get broody. As, in the words of those Seven Brides for Seven Brother, “Ma nature is lyrical with her yearly miracle”, my mind wanders off to thoughts of cute wee booties, baby gros and bobos.

All thoughts of the pain of labour, childbirth and the utter exhaustion of the last 13 months (well technically, 22 months as pregnancy was not a ball of fun for me) are being pushed to the back of my head as I see mammies pushing their new babies in their prams and see that even the sheep have got in on the act as wee lambs frolic through the fields.

However, not being utterly and totally insane, I am trying my hardest to push the broody thoughts to the back of my head while trying not to look like a mad baby-snatching type woman as I go ga-ga over the wee eeny pink Little Roo outfits in Tesco (I’ve had a blue baby, next time I demand one of the pink variety).

I’m trying instead to focus on the fact that one of my oldest and dearest friends has just become a mummy again to a gorgeous little princess by the name of Elizabeth who arrived safely on St. Patrick’s Day. My poor husband has been driven to distraction as I ooh and aah over the pictures of the little mite as he knows once I actually get a chance to cuddle the wee toot, he will have to adopt sensible husband mode and tell me there is no way on God’s good and green earth that we are having another baby just yet.

The thing with broodiness is that it creeps up on you and while one week you are staring at the destruction your toddler has caused in your living room and swearing “Never again” and the next you are trying to think what baby names would go well with your existing child (For the record I love Oscar and Grace and my husband and parents think that I’m demented for even considering those names) and gawping at nursery furniture and the latest looks in prams. (The ladies at the Pram Centre will be rubbing their hands with glee!)

But I’m well aware that this is a seasonal broodiness. It has arrived because the days seem brighter and somehow easier to deal with and because it has also coincided with my wee man getting rapidly more independent and not needing his mammy just as much.

You would think his independence would make me jump for joy. After all, it’s a blessed relief not to have to spend two hours over a feed with a colicky or get up 5 times a night to tend to a screaming ball of arms and legs.

But I feel sad that time has passed so quickly and I know that he will never be dependent on me in the same way again. Someone should really warn us mammies about that. It’s a shock to the system to go from providing everything for your child while pregnant to see them bum shuffling (for as yet, Joseph Allan refuses to walk preferring the bum shuffle method) at high speed across the floor to play with their favourite toy or grab a cup of juice.

Perhaps, when thinking about it, it’s not that I’m particularly broody for another baby, more for my existing wee toot to revert to that stage where he happily cuddled his mammy and didn’t try throwing himself off the sofa or bed mid nappy change. (A flying poo at 3 in the morning is not fun).

And , if I think about it, dealing with the mythical baby number two (This time it’s serious) while having to deal with the bum-shuffle king of old Derry town may not be the easiest thing to contend with.

So I guess, Ma Nature you can keep your miracle for this year thank you very much and I promise not to change my mind when I get a huge cuddle of ickle tiny gorgeous little Elizabeth….honestly!