Julie Jay: There's more chance of the Irish soccer team getting a hat-trick than us having a third baby

The woman’s sister responds with a “That’s messed up, mum,” and the camera cuts to the husband’s face of shock before the video ends abruptly. The internet was less than divided at the time, with the vast majority of people siding with the grandma, who was probably stung for babysitting on the regular.

While her honesty was utterly brutal, I can’t help but think if we had a third child we would probably be met with a similar response from family and friends. Because when it comes to adding to your family, it isn’t really a question of whether or not you want another baby, but whether or not you could manage one.

I have always fantasised about having three children. Many of my cousins had two siblings, and it always struck me as convenient — if one sibling was getting your goat you always had another one to complain to, and when it came to casting votes on anything three kids meant an instant democracy, with no need to resort to the arbitrary cruelty rock, paper, scissors.

I know many people have insisted on only having two children for environmental purposes, but my husband and my reasoning has nothing to do with carbon emissions. We simply couldn’t cope with another one, my husband reminds me. Still, a nearly 40-year-old girl can dare to dream.

I have always struggled to let go, and when it comes to newborn baby clothes this week was no exception. I cannot believe JJ is nearly 12 weeks old, but equally, it feels like he has always been here, in that strange way time continually reminds us it is anything but linear.

As JJ moves on to three-to-six months in clothing, I can’t help but bite my bottom lip a little. The thought of putting away his tiny babygros is an admittance that I will probably never have a newborn again, and while I know this is the most likely and practical of arrangements, it still makes me feel a little sad.

The fantasy of another baby is more rooted, perhaps, in my feeling that it could be a do-over, that this would be the time I get it perfect. Obviously, this is not the most sensible reason to go again, but it is nonetheless compelling. There’s something about the universe giving you another shot at things that makes it appealing. And of course, this romanticism is rooted in absolutely zero pragmatism and takes zero account of our personal circumstances which is in no way set up to cater for a third small person. Yet it’s funny the lengths to which my shrubbery maze of a mind will go to rationalise the fantasy of another baby.

Only yesterday, I happened upon two little outfits that had somehow eluded me. They are adorable dungaree ensembles - perfect for when a newborn baby is doing some painting or some light furniture lifting.

When I happened upon them, carefully folded away into a fancy baby shop bag, the tags still attached, my heart sank a little. Two little outfits that JJ will never wear, and although it is hardly a reason to commit to financing a child for the next 18 years, it nonetheless seems like such a waste not to put these to use.

A third baby would give us another chance to be the best parents possible and remedy all our mistakes. There are so many moments I feel I failed to document adequately, so many pictures not taken and videos not filmed. Next time I would capture everything and have scrapbooks to mark their litany of achievements. I would always have baby wipes on me and finally master folding up the buggy without also folding up myself in the process.

Of course, Fred’s reasons are more than sensible as to why we won’t be reusing our newborn stash. We can’t afford it, he says. We have enough children, he insists. It is hard enough for us to work with two children, he reminds me, and he is absolutely not wrong. And yet, and yet. I can’t help but wonder if I could tempt him to get our third baby over the line.

The reality, of course, is that there is a better chance of the Irish soccer team getting a hat-trick in a European qualifier than us having a third baby — that is, close to zero.

As I pack JJ’s 10lb onesies away, I remind myself that, three years ago, when I closed up this storage box I hoped against hope we might be opening it again. And we did — we got a second run at things, and a second run is more than anyone could wish for.

I have a moment of feeling blessed, minus the irony, just genuinely lucky and happy with my lot. I sellotape the box and retreat to the kitchen, where I get a serendipitous text from a friend who informs me she is expecting her second baby. So maybe the onesies might get a third outing, after all. And better yet, this time round will involve no sleepless nights on our part.