A Road to Damascus moment. Isobella was crying her air raid warning cry. Her bottle had leaked all over me. I hadn’t slept a whole night through since Kennedy was assassinated. It was 3.20 a.m. And it suddenly hit me: this is the EASY bit. She can’t crawl yet, can't throw food around the place. Nor can she stamp her feet in the supermarket aisle, demand expensive trainers, take drugs, have innappropriate boyfriends with motorbikes and piercings or scream (to a volley of slamming doors) those six magic words “I didn’t ask to be born!”
Felt, bizarrely, despite the hot-knitting-needles-in-my-ears intensity of my daughter’s screams, a little bit better.
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