Ted is two today, which means that I must have entered some sort of space-time vortex since giving birth to him because I can genuinely say, without a hint of over-exaggeration, that it seems like only last month when I bought him home from the hospital.

I can still remember the argument that was happening in the hospital reception when I arrived to book in for my c-section, I can still feel the sting of the Clexane injections I was given post-operation. (The anti-clotting Clexane injections were, for me, one of the worst parts of c-section recovery. Self-administering injections when you’re also trying to work out how to breastfeed a hard-gummed, furiously hungry newborn is just no fun.)

But here we are, two years down the line, and young Master Ted can say “bum bum”, “poo poo” and quite a few other useful words and phrases. To me he still looks just like a baby – still has the fine, wispy hair, the round face, the funny little walk – but to everyone else I’m pretty sure he would be classified as a Proper Little Boy.
I mean he puts his feet up on the footstool to relax, for goodness’ sake. When he’s pacing he jams his hands in his pockets, he strokes his chin when he’s thinking; he’s one step away from smoking a pipe and wearing a monocle. He’s two going on eighty!

And I don’t like the idea of being without babies. Being a “person with babies”, or “a person with very ...