Our growing family

London

I am now well into my second pregnancy. Having conceived through IVF the first time, we were fortunate to have another embryo stored away in a freezer. It is incredible that a tiny cluster of frozen cells, already a life, can survive, suspended in time for years. The science behind the process continues to amaze me.

This second pregnancy is very different from the first, partly because I’ve been battling morning sickness. I’ve never had it before and now feel like I’ve been swaying on a boat for months. Although the second pregnancy is less consuming than the first, I still lie in bed trying to detect a heartbeat. But I don’t compare the size of the baby with items in my fruit bowl each day (yes, there is an amazingly popular app that does that). And I don’t stress over the pepperoni I had on my pizza last night. My two-year-old ensures I don’t have the time for any of these things.

A growing family means a need for more space. Our flat is on the market and we are house-hunting. We seem to be losing out in frenzied bidding wars on houses I’ve already mentally moved into and redecorated, imagining our family gathered around the kitchen table or playing in the garden. I have mixed emotions about leaving the little space we’ve lived in for so long. I’ll have lasting memories of us moving in as newlyweds, building our first home together and having a baby. Yet I’m equally excited at the thought of the next stage. Meanwhile, our dachshund, Budgie, is bound to be unimpressed. Not only are we uprooting her territory, but there’s a new family member on the way and she can sense it. She’s become far too accustomed to getting all of my husband’s attention and she treats me like her personal assistant.

In December, I took part in a concert celebrating Elvis Presley and the American idea of Christmas at St. Paul’s Knightsbridge for the Chelsea Pensioners Outreach Programme. I had to read after brother and sister Freddie and Emilia Fox – tough acts to follow. I read Helen Steiner Rice’s “A Christmas Poem”:

For when I send a Christmas card
that is addressed to you,
It is because you're on the list
that I'm indebted to.

Feeling quite ill from the aforementioned sickness, I hoped I’d be able to get through my reading, and I did. Phew! After that, the Elvis tribute artist Rob Kingsley sang in a voice so close to the real Presley’s that it was uncanny. Then “Blue Suede Shoes” met Red Felt Coats after Elizabeth McGovern pulled the pensioners from their seats for a dance at the altar.

Having parents and in-laws spread across four separate homes means clocking up the miles at Christmas as we travel across the country to see everyone. This year, we finally returned home on New Year’s Eve: exhausted, in bed by nine, only to be awoken by a petrified Budgie at the stroke of midnight. She hates fireworks. We saw in the new year comforting our little dog, afraid she’d have a heart attack, until the bangs stopped at 3 a.m. Perhaps we should have gone out after all.

I tried to take on new projects last year, which I hope will bear fruit this year. I took a writing course in rhyme and meter to help me craft the short stories I’m writing. I also began a project with my sister, Isabella: a podcast called Lessons from Our Mothers which launches on UK Mother’s Day. It’s a series of conversations with people about maternal influence in their lives. So far, we’ve had wonderful discussions with guests such as Mishal Husain and Kate Winslet. As mothers ourselves now, it’s been useful for Isabella and me too.

Last year will always be marked by sadness for our family, though. We’ve moved into 2025 without my sister Pandora, which has been unsettling and strange. She died last year following a long battle with cancer. There’s a fear that as the months roll by, people move on. But I hope her name comes up in more conversations and that people will be reminded of her. She’s still here in so many little things — her favorite songs, a phrase she always used to say (“You’re as mad as a goose”), or the way I approach decisions, imagining what she would have thought. On the one hand, the passing of time separates us further, but I take comfort in knowing that I will continue to carry her with me. She guides me in every aspect of my life — and always will.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s February 2025 World edition.