Warning: rant pending.

This is a little pep talk for everyone expecting (or one day hoping to expect, or friends with someone who is expecting) their first baby. It is called DON’T LISTEN TO THE STORIES.

You know the stories I’m talking about. The “You Will Never Sleep Again” stories. The “Your Breasts Will Sag Forever” stories. The stretch-mark stories and the projectile vomit stories and the no-sleep stories and the nappy-contents stories and the traumatic birth stories. Especially the traumatic birth stories.

My advice is this: stop listening to them! These stories will not help you but they will probably scare you. And there is so much GOOD about having a baby, and so much practical stuff that you NEED to know, why would you bother with the scary, unhelpful stuff?

It’s like a trigger flips inside grandmothers and mothers and aunties and sisters and cousins and friends and complete strangers that makes them want to spill their most intimate and, in many cases, their worst labour experiences to expectant mothers.

I don’t get it! Are they thinking expecting mothers need to be taken down a peg or something? I imagine their inner monologue goes something like this: “Hey pregnant woman, you are clearly expecting everything to be soft and gentle and loving like a baby powder commercial, and I am here to tell you the hard truth.”

Whereas in reality, the pregnant woman is probably already plagued by nerves and fear and the unknown, alongside her excitement and anticipation, not to mention exhaustion and sleep difficulties and professional and financial nerves and a to-do-list that is getting out of hand. The last thing she needs is your doomsday prophesy.

I remember when I was a good eight-and-a-half months pregnant with my first child and we had gone out for a quiet dinner at the pub after work. There I was sipping my mineral water and eyeing other people’s glasses of sav blanc with longing when the waitress, quite a young woman, approached our table and began regaling me with the story of her sister’s recent labour.

If even half of that story was true, someone will be making a mini-series about it some time soon. It seemed to last for days (both the labour and the story). At one point I swear there were spy-thriller spotlights pinning the poor woman to her hospital bed. At another, some kind of water-jet that suggested they were trying to pressure-hose that baby out like old paint off a brick wall.

Mr B kept walking away from the table, ostensibly to warm himself by the open fire but really to get away from the Labour From Hell story. I could see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter even though his back was turned. Then he would return, realise the story was STILL GOING, and head back to the fire. Unfortunately I was trapped, both by the near-impossibility of maneuvering my enormous belly away from the table and between the tightly-packed bistro chairs, and by the deep-seated social constraints that made me smile and nod politely even when she got up to the bloody bits and the screaming bits and the frankly anatomically-impossible bits (“the baby was coming out sideways”).

Later in the car on the way home, we roared with laughter. “What about the bit with the water torture?” Mr B gasped, red faced and wiping away tears. “How could you have left me there alone!” I shrieked. “She just wouldn’t stop!”

Recently I was at the zoo with a friend who was expecting her second child. Another woman overheard us talking about it, and began to share the stories of her recent miscarriages. It was so sad. That poor woman. We both realised how raw and heartbreaking those experiences were for her, and how clearly she just needed to get them off her chest, to share her sadness and anger at the universe. Neither of us begrudged her this need, because neither of us could imagine how difficult such a situation must be.

But of all the strangers with whom to share her sad, sad story, did she really have to pick the pregnant one? A rounded belly, it seems, is as much an invitation for uninvited stories as it is for uninvited touching.

So, the point of my rant is this: don’t listen to the stories. You don’t need them. Deflect the conversation away, if you can. Sometimes, I point-blank told people, “Don’t tell me that, it’s not helping.”

Because this is your pregnancy, not theirs.

And your baby, not theirs.

It will be what it will be and the one thing that is within your control is freeing yourself up to enjoy it. Let’s face it, it’s a lot easier to anticipate happy things if your mind isn’t full of tales of woe.

ps. That belly? That’s Madeleine, at eight and a half months.

ps2. Here’s another resource: the handy “pregnancy food card” I made when I was pregnant, if you’re that way inclined

This post is slightly off-topic but it seems a lot of my friends have fallen pregnant lately, and some of the questions and comments they’ve been sharing are pretty familiar. And I thought if they were raising these questions and I had raised these questions, then quite possibly a lot of other people would have these questions too. So I thought I’d share what I discovered in case you or someone you know might find it handy.

So first of all, hey Mama! Congratulations!

And secondly, arg! How annoying is that ‘pregnancy elimination diet’!?! That gigantic list of things you’re not supposed to eat when you’re carrying around a little one inside you, that miraculously as soon as you CAN’T eat them you really, really want to? Yeah that one.

Of course deciding what you will and won’t eat while you are pregnant is completely your decision, and I’m not here to judge. But in case you found this entire field as tricky to navigate as I did, I thought I’d share this handy printable list I created, to help you out.

Basically, the key reason it’s recommended that you avoid certain foods while pregnant is because of the risk of consuming a bacteria called Listeria monocytogenes. The risk of Listeria infection is low, assuming you eat properly prepared and stored foods. So a lot of people don’t worry too much about it. I get that. But if you DO happen to consume Listeria, even a mild infection can cause your baby to be born prematurely or be very sick when they are born, or even cause miscarriage or stillbirth. As a chronic worrier, that was something I wasn’t going to risk, so I was all up in the faces of the FOOD DON’T lists.

I found the most difficult time to follow a “pregnancy safe” diet was when I was eating out. Which happens to be a lot. You could almost guarantee that there would be at least something on any menu item that was on the DON’T list. So I created myself a little check-list, the size of a business card, that I carried around with me. Wherever I was, I could look up the food on my list to see what was safe to eat and what wasn’t.

(Embarrassing confession: this list came in especially handy with all the cheeses – simply saying “no soft cheese” wasn’t enough for me because there are so many cheeses that half the time I didn’t know what they were called. I’d think I was reading the name of a mushroom or something.)

Alongside Listeria, the other thing the health experts recommend you limit when pregnant is your mercury intake, which can damage the foetus and is found at high levels in some fish. This isn’t a big risk because you’d have to be eating these types of fish quite regularly for the mercury to build up in your blood (and it is recommended that you do eat fish during your pregnancy), but I included the high-mercury-content fish on my list, just to be sure.

My food card is a kind of amalgam of the NSW Food Authority list of foods to avoid when pregnant, and a similar list from the Victorian Government Better Health Channel. Bear in mind that my list is by no means authoritative, and you should do your own research and/or check with your doctor if you are unsure. Also, I erred on the side of caution in most cases so if the lists said “don’t eat unless you have done X, Y or Z,” I just put it on the “don’t eat” list, because honestly that was easier to remember!

>> Here is my Pregnancy-Food-Safety-Card. It’s business-card sized, so you can simply print it off then stick the sides back to back (or just print it double-sided if you have that kind of printer). I laminated mine so that it would survive nine months in my purse.

>> If you want to adapt the card to your own food-choices, here it is in Word format so you can edit it.

I hope this helps! xx

Do you have any handy tips or resources from your own pregnancy that you can share with other mums to be?

Treasure Island,

X marks the spot.

DAGGER IN THE BACK!

Blood running up,

Blood running down.

Blood running up,

Blood running down.

Crack of an egg!

(Spiders and bees).

Cool breeze?

[Whisper]: Tight squeeze.

{From my bloodthirsty childhood, to theirs. What was your favourite game?}

But already I can see Madeleine taking more pleasure in dolls than I ever did. She uses them for role-play, mimicking the mother-like actions that she sees in me, as she cares for her own little “Baby Suzy.” Madeleine and her Daddy Pig doll go to work together. “Busy Mummy, very busy,” she informs me with weighty authority. Then later she’ll put Daddy Pig in the little toy pram and announce that they are off to the tea house together.

When you are the mother of a girl, dolls can be a fraught subject. Once considered a simple and innocent pastime, it seems dolls these days are loaded with gender stereotypes and social politics, and carry the weight of a girl’s future profession and confidence and self-worth on their often all-too-bony shoulders. But what can you do about it? The fact remains that a lot of girls (and a good number of boys) simply like playing with dolls.

That’s why I love the ideas behind emerging company Girly Girl Doll Company so much. They recognise that children like to play with dolls, and that some little girls want to be princesses. There’s nothing wrong with that, they say. Let a girl dream. BUT let’s show her how to dream even bigger! Give her options, broaden her horizons, encourage her to explore and play and innovate, and teach her empathy and compassion for others.

I can see this being fantastic for Madeleine. Because I really don’t want Barbie to be her role model. But at least right now, Madeleine has zero interest in super heroes. If I tried to interest her in a superhero doll, male or female, she’d be unlikely to go for it. She’s just not a lycra-lovin’ two-year-old. The girl likes pink, and the girl likes tutus, what are you gonna do? Show her that pink-tutu-wearing girls can do great things and have great adventures too, that’s what!

The concept behind Girly Girl Dolls is that children can customise a doll of their own, choosing hair and eye and skin colour etc, letting their natural creativity take the lead. A portion of proceeds from every doll sold is donated to girleffect.org, an international movement working to include adolescent girls in education, health and economic investment. In addition, any accessories purchased for the doll will have a corresponding social mission. So clothes purchased for a doll will also be used to fund donations to international orphanages. A medical kit for a doll will help fund medical care in at-risk areas around the world.

Girly Girl Dolls are part physical product and part interactive experience. After the child customises the physical doll to make it their own, a series of interactive apps and accessories guide them through a labyrinth of experiences, meeting other characters from other cultures along the way.

Don’t you think this is a lovely concept? It takes the focus away from looks and turns it, instead, onto adventure and imagination and empathy. Because tomboys are not the antidote to princesses. Little girls (and little boys) should be allowed to be either, or both, or anything in between. But let’s bring up tomboys and princesses who are globally aware, creative, bold, adventurous and compassionate.

If you’d like to get behind this idea, Girly Girls is running a crowd-funding campaign right now in which you can reserve a limited edition (one of 500) doll for just $1. Ultimately the cost will be $125. Take a look around their website to learn more.

* In case you’re thinking play has no relationship to a child’s future choices, Sam actually did become a vet.

When I carried Madeleine into her playroom at 6.30 on the morning of her second birthday party she breathed “The park!” in wide-eyed wonder. I put her little sock-feet down on the grass where she was used to feeling floor-boards and she slowly spun around, taking in my dodgily-drawn toadstools, wonky painted fir trees and floppy crepe-paper grass. “Wowwww. The park!” she whispered. And just like that I felt like Picasso.

Winter in Melbourne means Madeleine will probably always have her birthday parties indoors. But she loves – she really loves – the park. So we created the a picnic-in-the-park party for her in our home. It wasn’t that difficult, or that expensive, and I imagine you could make this bringing-the-outside-in scheme work for all kinds of woodsy party themes, like a teddy-bears’ picnic, a fairy kingdom, or a woodland creatures party.

1. On a budget

Most of our decorations were home-made for just the cost of cardboard, paint and some masking tape; or found around the house:

* A back-drop of fir-trees painted onto butchers’ paper

* A green trim of crepe-paper grass around the skirting boards

* Red and white toadstools painted onto cardboard and stuck around the room

* Cardboard cut-outs of bees, butterflies and ladybirds, also stuck around the room

* Blue and white cardboard clouds, strung from door frames and other high places

* Red and white polka dot paper cups and plates

* Red and white paper bunting, on loan from the lovely lady at Mint Jelly

* Autumn leaves, collected from the park with Madeleine several weeks earlier

* A picnic rug

* Two fibre-glass toadstool stools, on loan from my Mum

2. A little bit more

If you can spend just a little more, helium balloons will always be well appreciated by little ones. We (and by we I mean my generous parents who wouldn’t let me pay them back) purchased a helium kit from Spotlight. I chose to use only yellow balloons as I wanted to create a “sunny sky” effect and blue would have made the room too dark (that’s why the clouds were partly blue instead). I dangled some of the bees, butterflies and ladybirds I had made from the balloons, to make it look as though they were flying around the room. As you can imagine, these were very popular.

3. Your one extravagance

Our one big splurge was three sheets of 1m x 3m synthetic grass, and we went back and forth in the lead-up to the party as to whether or not we would go there. Originally, I thought my idea to use the synthetic grass was genius. I figured that off-cuts would be a super-cheap, easy way to create a “wow factor” in the room (I REALLY wanted to earn that soft “Wow” from Madeleine), and make it a snatch to clean up. I was right about the wow-factor, and the easy clean-up. But this grass is surprisingly expensive. At one point, we were thinking it would be cheaper to just lay real turf in the playroom!

In the end we decided to go ahead and get the grass because we would use it afterwards in our courtyard, to create a bit of a softer, ‘garden’ area for the children to play until we could afford to pull up the tiles out there and landscape (that could be years).

So there you have it. Madeleine’s “winter woodland picnic” themed birthday party. Games were mostly parallel play (because have you ever tried to get a bunch of two-year-olds to do the same thing when you want them to?), with a bit of stop-start dancing and a mini treasure hunt thrown in. Add some cake and chocolate and surprisingly-popular healthy snacks into the mix, and your party is done and dusted, right there.

A couple of months ago, our lovely friend Pascale gave Madeleine this simple wooden toy, that her own almost 15-year-old daughter (who happens to share the same birthday as Madeleine) had played with when she was little.

Already, that made it a special and rather lovely gift.

I wasn’t sure how safe it would be to give Madeleine marbles but, during this heatwave I struggled to find enough things to keep her entertained inside day after day, so I pulled it out one afternoon.

Instant hit, my friends! Seems the tactile pleasure of cold, coloured glass in the hand, and of watching something make its way along tunnel or tracks, is timeless. I’ve long had a thing for marbles, ever since my father gave me three he had kept from his childhood. They became the key symbolic component of my novella Airmail.

It was so lovely to see Madeleine develop a fascination for these pretty little glass beauties, too. Of course, she wasn’t exactly happy when it was time to pack the toy away.

“Little Things” is an occasional series about the stories behind some of the little things you’ll find around my home. Are there stories behind the little things in your home? I’d love you to tell me about them! Or if you’d like to join in and write a post like this of your own, don’t forget to share a link to it so I can read it.

ps. Another reader of this blog, Ailsa from Topaz Magpie, wrote the sweetest things about Airmail last week. You can read her words here, if you’re interested.

ps2. If you’d like a copy of Airmail I’d be happy to send one to you for free. More details on this page.

Day 1, Good Friday

7am: Have woken up thinking about my sister Emily. Daddy said she would be here when I woke up. Must go check. Need to get out of this cot pronto. Mummmy! MUMMMMYYYY!

7:03am: Mummy, you took ages to get here. Is Emmy here? She is? Hooray! She got in at 2am? Well then I imagine she will be ready to play by now. I’ll just run down to her bedroom and check. Emmmy! EMMMMYYYYY!

7:06am: I’m a bit over playing the “let’s pretend to sleep” game, Emmy. Think I will eat some breakfast instead. Is it Chocolate Egg Day yet? Mummmy? MUMMMMYYYY!

7:07am: Oh listen to that, Harry’s awake. I wonder who woke him up.

10:30am: We are going for a walk in the RAIN. This is very exciting. I will wear my rain coat. NOBODY HELP ME I WANT TO CARRY THE UMBRELLA ALL BY MYSELF. Why are complete strangers ducking and weaving away from me?

2:30pm: Hot cross buns are my favourite.

4pm: We are painting eggs. RED! I WANT RED PAINT! Wait, Daddy has blue. That’s it, BLUE! I WANT BLUE! Emmy, what colour do you have? Green? THAT’S THE ONE I WANT. I WANT GREEN. Mummy, stop trying to help, I can do it myself.

3.15pm: THERE IS GREEN PAINT ON MY HAND HELP HELP GET IT OFF GET IT OFFFFFFF.

Day 2, Saturday

12pm: Grace and Kiera are here and we are having an Easter Egg hunt. I don’t know what that means but I am VERY EXCITED. Aaaaargh this is very excellent, I am going to run as fast as I can on the spot and yell “yeah.” YEAH.

12:05pm: We are in the courtyard. There are chocolate eggs here. OH MY GOODNESS THERE ARE CHOCOLATE EGGS EVERYWHERE IN THE COURTYARD I KEEP FINDING THEM EVERYWHERE I LOOK THIS IS THE BEST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME.

12:07pm: FRENZY! FRENZY!

12:10pm: Chocolate Easter eggs are my favourite.

12:11pm – 3:30pm: Chocolate, toys, games, friends. Grace is 11 and she lets me boss and drag her around everywhere I think I will kiss her. Lunch, toys, games, friends. I will drag Grace into the hall and make her pretend to be a puppy with me. Peppa Pig! I SKIPPED MY NAP. BAHAHAHA. Dessert, toys, games, friends. Grace is tired, I wonder why? I will sit on her lap and call her mummy. Chocolate!

4:05pm: I am feeling a little bit delirious. Think I will do a spot of spinning in the lounge room in front of all my friends. I keep falling over. I don’t care. Delirious! Frenzy! Frenzy!

Day 3, Easter Sunday

7:03am: CHOCOLATEEEEEEE. The Easter Bunny left chocolate in my bedroom! I am so happy. This is the best morning of my life.

7:08am: WHYYYYYYYY? Why can’t I eat my chocolate for breakfast? This is the worst morning of my life.

10:20am: We are walking so that Harry can sleep in the pram and Mummy can get coffee. Why does she always say she needs coffee? I don’t understand.

12pm: Mummy and Daddy found the Taco Truck, I found a park with swings and a slide. Harry is still asleep. We are all very happy.

12:03pm: Oh look! I found more Easter Eggs hidden at the bottom of the slippery slide! Hooray!

12:04pm: WHYYYYYYY? Why can’t I eat food I randomly found on the ground of a deserted and slightly derelict-looking park?

2:30pm: I’m not even tired I definitely don’t need a nap. Oh wow, Daddy is cuddling me on Mummy and Daddy’s bed! This is so much fun. Daddy wants to sleep but I will never sleep. I am going to play and make him laugh, it will be so much fu– zzzzzzzzzz.

4:30pm: Mummy why are you waking us up? I don’t want to get up. Ooh a bottle! I will let you give that to me and read me a story while I drink it, if it makes you happy.

6pm: We are going out for a night-time picnic. And Emmy is coming too. This is CRAZY good. We are outside, walking, and it’s dark! I can’t believe my eyes! It’s dark! I must keep reminding Mummy how amazing this is. I will say “Night night!” every few seconds, to make sure she doesn’t forget. Now I will tell Emmy “Night night” too, in case she hadn’t realised.

6:20pm: The park! The park! I love the park, and now we are in the park. At NIGHT. The park, at NIGHT! Wowwwwww!

7:01pm: We are on our way home. In the dark. At NIGHT. In the dark. We have been in the park. At NIGHT. This is the best night ever. I am never going to sleep again.

ps. Madeleine’s previous diary entry

Anyway, this collection of favourite things may not be the healthiest I’ve ever made, but it suits the mood around here. And it sure was fun to do.

1. Cupcake ATMs

Cupcake ATMs are popping up everywhere. This one is in New York. Ahoy there, Sprinkles: in Melbourne, we REALLY LIKE cupcakes too. Just sayin’…

(Photo via East Midtown on Flickr, licensed under Creative Commons)

2. Piñata yo face

This DIY on Photojojo teaches you how to make a piñata out of somebody’s photo. They suggest it could be a lovely gesture for, say, a birthday. I put it to them that bashing a picture of somebody’s face as hard as you can with a stick until it bursts open isn’t exactly a traditional sign of love and affection. On the other hand, all that candy goodness to tumble out would be pretty sweet (pathetic dad-joke pun intended).

3. Sweet Paul book

Sweet Paul has gone from online magazine to print mag and now to book (called Sweet Paul Eat and Make)! If you don’t know Sweet Paul, it’s all about delicious food, beautiful craft projects and clever home tips.

4. Don’t be rude to food

I have bookmarked this post so that I can refer back to it when Madeleine and Harry are old enough to say “Yuck!” about trying new food. I think it will help.

(Photo is of Madeleine being distinctly not rude to a piece of chocolate cake she made herself. Question is, does she extend the same courtesy to broccoli? I think we all know the answer to that.)

5. Teddy-bear bread rolls

And just like that, you will never say no to carbs again. (Look at that little face. How could you say no?) Here’s the recipe to make them yourself.

(Seen via the Frankie blog)

How was your weekend, friends? Mine was pretty average, to be honest. I am happy it’s over and ready to start the week fresh.

There were some good parts, especially catching up with some lovely friends who dropped by on Saturday afternoon. But mostly, it was taken up with sleep deprivation and taking care of an increasingly-sick little girl, culminating in a visit to the hospital in the early hours of Sunday morning. She will be ok, but right now she is SO sick and SO miserable. Poor little Harry has been incredibly patient and sweet. I am just praying that by some miracle he won’t catch whatever Madeleine has.

On Sunday night over a late dinner with both kids finally asleep in their beds, I looked across at Mr B and the bags under his eyes just about reached the table, as did mine. I felt a surge of love for him. You have never met a man who works as hard as this man. He is phenomenally dedicated to his job, which by the way happens to be a job that helps thousands of hospital patients every year get the care and treatments they desperately need. At the same time, he is also phenomenally dedicated to his family, so we get all his love and all his loyalty and incredible levels of self-sacrifice. There isn’t much left for him after all that, and the exhaustion of these past few months with two children so very young has taken its toll on his health. He seems to be catching every little thing lately, just like Madeleine. We had both been awake since 2am that morning and, at at 4am when Madeleine’s fever still wouldn’t come down despite taking both Panadol and Nurofen, he’d taken her off to the Children’s Hospital. After they returned, he spent most of the day with a sweaty, vomit-smelling, unhappy little girl asleep on his chest. Then after dinner he made the two of us the famous Bulger Family Chocolate Pudding as a treat. All of this was despite the towering piles of work he had intended to do on the weekend, meaning the alarm went off at 5am today. Again. And it will probably continue for the rest of the week. I really need to think of some nice things to do for him.

Anyway, while nursing Harry in the midst of all this blah on Sunday afternoon, I saw this video on a friend’s Facebook profile (thanks Matt!) and, call it exhaustion or whatever, it brought tears to my eyes. It was a little moment of happiness and goosebumps in my sad and sickly weekend, so I thought I’d share it with you, too. I hope it makes your Monday joyful!

And now for the video:

Harry has been crying. “What’s up little man?” I ask, bending over his cot, and tears instantly transform into an enormous, gummy, open-mouthed smile. “Hoo!” he laughs, “Ahoo!” and I turn my head aside so he can’t see me smiling, because it is night-time and all the books say not to engage babies in play during the night, so that they can learn when to sleep.

A frantic scuffling is heard and I turn back around to see Harry now grinning fit to burst, head wiggling from side to side and both legs kicking around like socks in a washing machine. Cotton blankets and muslin wraps are flailing everywhere.

“Now look here, it’s 4am,” I tell him, though I can’t help smiling too. “Ahoo!” Harry responds, never taking his eyes off mine. It is a laugh exactly like his sister’s at the same age. I ditch the books and pick him up and cover his dimples with kisses. There is nothing, nothing in this world, like the smell of a baby. They should find a way to bottle it and distribute it and there would be no more war.

“Oh my god,” breathes Mr B drowsily from beside me in the bed. We look from Harry to each other and back again, both overcome with wonder. Neither of us can quite believe that we made this chubby, cheeky, loving little boy. It just doesn’t seem real that he is ours. That of all the parents in all the world, we and only we get to be his Mummy and Daddy. That the universe has trusted us with the task of loving Harry and protecting Harry and teaching Harry for the rest of our lives.

:  :  :

I am making Madeleine’s lunch when she interrupts me and asks to be picked up, little hands reaching, beseeching. I take her into my arms and she rests her head on my shoulder, the way she has done since she was one week old. Then she tilts back until she can look me in the eye. Places a sticky hand on either side of my face and pulls me in for a big, hard, sloppy, on-the-mouth kiss. Then another, and another. Madeleine is kissing me almost fiercely, gripping my ears to make sure I don’t get away. As if I would ever want to.

I can’t. I can’t even. There are no words. What did I do in this life or 100 others that was so good as to earn this reward? To be loved by Madeleine? To be her Mummy? How is that even possible?

:  :  :

Harry is crying again. This time the sun is up and he is wiggling in his rocker in the playroom. He is hungry. But before I get a chance to pick him up and feed him, Madeleine takes control. “Harry!” she cries with glee. She wobbles over and rests her head beside his in the rocker. He stops crying. She stands up and faces him and when their eyes meet, both of them smile at each other. I feel a blast of pure happiness that is almost painful. “Harry! Harry!” Madeleine cries again, and then she twirls and tap-dances around his rocker and around the room, to entertain him. His eyes never leave her.

:  :  :

The house is steeped in rare quiet. Both of my children are asleep upstairs, and so is Mr B. I am alone in the lounge room, reading, and it is surreal and precious and quite beautiful because I am almost never, ever alone these days.

There is a baby monitor in Madeleine’s room and it is not emitting a peep. There is another monitor in our room, where Harry sleeps in his cot beside our bed. Through it, I can hear two soft snores in tandem: both Harry and Mr B are dreaming.

A lump forms in my throat and I am so filled with love for these three that it takes me quite by surprise.

I think of all the little things I’ve been complaining about and dwelling on lately. The kids have both been sick. Mr B has been working a lot of nights, leaving me to handle the dreaded bed-and-bath hour alone. Money is tight, until I can get back to a bit more work. I am tired all the time. Bone tired. An aching, dragging, brain-fog weariness that never lifts. I am approximately three hundred and eighty-four years old. And I look it, too. My body feels like I am pushing through mud just to walk from room to room. I forget almost everything, and confuse the things I do remember. I’m snippy and impatient with Mr B, though he doesn’t deserve it.

But on this night, all I can think of is how insanely lucky I am. How those three sleeping upstairs are my FAMILY. I can’t quite comprehend how that came to be. This much love. I didn’t even think this much love existed.

Absent-mindedly I rub my aching feet, curled under me on the couch. This perfect family, it’s like I’m looking in at someone else’s life. The realisation that this is MY life and MY family doesn’t come easy. I don’t feel deserving. Surely someone else would do all this much better than me? I feel like I won the lottery.