This is how I start my day

I am woken up between 6 and 7am by the squawking of our golden-haired treasure. At this point, R leaps out of bed and gets her out of her little sleeping bag. Despite being by nature a morning person, I can’t muster any acceptable level of enthusiasm for being awake just yet. The prospect of 12 hours of incessant baby care and the warm pull of the duvet are too much for any leaping about. I stay put; a small mountain of linen and duckdown.

R gives me Emma to feed in bed while he has a shower. I only breastfeed twice a day these days. I would have stopped completely, but she won’t take a bottle. Then R takes her into the kitchen where he makes me a cup of tea and she rolls around on the floor and gurgles to herself. She is always in a very happy mood first thing.

My cup of tea is important, and my husband’s daily production of it is something for which I continue to be stupidly grateful. The terms are strict: it must be English Breakfast, not Earl Grey, nothing fancy, must contain caffeine and must be throat-scaldingly hot. It must be in a mug, a chunky one. No porcelain. It must be the colour of 20 dernier tan tights. Within two sips, taken under the covers carefully so as not to scald, I am awake. I stay in bed, though: I stare at the wall and think thoughts, usually not very deep ones. Like “Which area of the North of England is Linda Barker from?”. Sometimes I don’t even think, I just stare; imagine a computer on screen saver. Very little in the world would compel me to move in any way until my tea is finished. When the last drop is drained, I’m ready for anything.