Dot writes: it’s not good to glance at the snowsuit from which you have just extracted your sweet, milky son and see blobs of bright, fresh blood. Especially when you’d callously ignored his crying as you shoved him into said snowsuit and into a car seat in the rush to arrive (late) at your first session of mother and baby yoga. Fortunately the blood was mine – I was having a nose bleed. But a gossamer veil away from happy contented motherhood there lurks, always, sheer ghastly terror, and yesterday I got a stab of it.

The yoga was quite fun, though Prawn decided to be the class bad boy and insist on being picked up so I couldn’t join in the relaxation session. Actually I felt proud of him. Of three baby boys aged twelve, eleven, and just shy of ten weeks he was the youngest, and he was the one who kicked and coo’d and watched with interest while the others were snuffly and sleepy. I also thought he was much the best looking. But then, I am his mother. I wonder if anyone runs father-and-baby judo classes? I am sure Ken and Prawn would be up for it…


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