It’s so strange, revisiting childhood memories. Reading Beatrix Potter to Bubba is so strange and yet so familiar at the same time – I remember so much and so little of it all at once. And the language! – I don’t recall it being so archaic. Looking back, I just used to hear the stories, unphased bt the fact Potter used words like ‘perplexed’. I think modern publishers would run a mile if they saw a good, meaty word like that in a children’s book manuscript.

I think I had one of the world’s happiest childhoods* and in as many ways as is possible, I’d like to recreate that for my own little worm**. I worry though that I’m doing it for myself and not for her – that I just want to dissolve all my new, scary responsibilities in a big stew of nostalgic books, quilts, and tiny clothes. When it comes to reliving the past, where is the line between selfishness and selflessness? Is there even one?

In other news, I haven’t washed my hair in days and we’re about to go out. It’s scary, but I’m hoping that bub will enjoy the car as much now she’s in the world as she did when she was in me***.


*Until I started school, which I did not like. Not only could we not watch Sesame Street at lunch time, but I was forced to be sociable and interact with other children – something I never enjoyed. It used to drive me mad when I was happily playing by myself in my own little corner of the playground and the school grown-ups would come over and try to make me join in football with the other kids. Interrupting my games of being a knight, or a dragon, or both if the mood took me, is probably what started my deep hatred of what is referred to by my husband and others as ‘the beautiful game.

** When wrapped up in a blanket, Bubba looks worryingly like a worm.

*** Don’t even get me started on how weird that feels. Knowing that somehow, impossibly, 50ish hours of pain led to this small little worm-monster absolutely boggles my mind. I’m wearing all my old clothes again already – if it wasn’t for the stinging reminder of however many stitches they gave me, I would swear that the whole thing was just one bizarre dream. Afterall, babies come from Sheffield Northern General Hospital (it’s where my brother came from and until now, he’s my only experience with infants) so all this nonsense about pregnancy and labour can’t possibly be real…