You have two healthy children, born two years apart, and you thought your family was complete. Until The Accident. When you lost it very early on, you were sad, but that doesn't make you my friend.

When you felt how upset you were, you decided there'd be a number three. Several weeks later, you were pregnant again. I bet you pissed on a stick. I bet you believed it.

You aren't allowed to lament your loss of innocence in pregnancy. You aren't allowed to speak of being afraid. You are an innocent. You don't know the meaning of fear.

Please do not simper, or whine, or lay your hand dramatically against your forehead every five minutes, as if this will make me go out of my way for you. And let me tell you, when you relate your heroic birth stories - with the ceasarian sections, and the bit where you had to stay in hospital and how the pain killers kept making you sick and oh! what you have to go through for these children! - you sound just like a little kid. A little stinky preschooler who wets her pants and cries to mummy.

The truth is: you suck. You can't play with us, and you will not be invited round to my house after school.

See also: Pregna Donna.