"Hush," I muttered, rocking my four-month-old son Bobby distractedly. "Come on, go to sleep. Please. For the love of God. Your mother and I are both exhausted. Come on, little dude. Get some sleep for Daddy."
Amazingly, as if he had heard and understood the pleading in my voice, Bobby's high-pitched yells started to soften into grizzling. Apparently my beseeching had achieved what multiple breastfeeds, a bottle of formula, two nappy changes, a dose of colic medicine, several story-books and about an hour and a half of walking up and down, rocking and singing could not. In time, the grizzling settled into snuffling, and then suddenly his breathing slowed into the rhythmic pattern that suggested sleep.
Very gingerly, I placed him into his cot. He twitched slightly as his head touched the pillow, and I felt a pang of dread at the thought of yet another night like the last few weeks...but then he settled down again, his little hand clutching my finger. I felt another pang, this time of love. I was quickly discovering, as all new parents inevitably do, that it is much easier to love your kids when they are fast asleep.
Holding my breath, not daring to hope too soon, I crept from the bedroom and closed the door, then made my way through to the living-room. Annie looked up from her magazine as I came in. She had become an avid reader of those mother-and-baby glossies lately. I'd looked through one a while ago and was, personally, unimpressed. They all seemed to be full of perfect, groomed parents with flawless, chubby-cheeked smiling kids.
"Hey, Jim," she said. "It says here that babies who fuss at night like Bobby does may not be stimulated enough during the day. Perhaps I should think about taking him out more – you know, to mother and baby groups, that sort of thing. Or we could get one of those jungle gyms..."
I was about to go off on one of my rants about over-priced baby tat and ridiculous pressure from the media and the medical profession to be a 'good parent' at all times. But then, for the first time in weeks, I looked at my wife properly – and compassion silenced me.
She was dressed in a baggy T-shirt and pyjama trousers, and her auburn hair was pulled back from her face in a scrunchie, making her look younger than her twenty-five years. Her pale skin was even more so from lack of sleep and her eyes had big dark circles under them. She looked so cute and vulnerable that I couldn't help myself. I went over to her, knelt in front of the sofa where she sat, and encased her in a huge hug.
She snuggled into my shoulder. "This is nice," she sighed. "It feels like I haven't been able to get near you for ages."
"Tell me about it," I said. We'd had sex twice since Bobby had been born, and both times had been half-clothed quickies which we had persevered with even through his howling. I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually had the chance to fully appreciate my wife's body – and although she constantly complained about saggy skin, stretch marks and weight gain, all I saw was the woman I loved and desired over all others.
Suddenly I felt her lips pressing into the base of my neck. My hold on her waist tightened reflexively. She had showered about an hour ago and her hair was still damp, and smelt of the coconut shampoo she used. God, how badly I wanted her. Her mouth was exploring the length of my neck now, playfully nipping my skin, and her hands were grasping my hair.
"Mmmm." My mouth found hers. "I've missed you."
It was a weird thing to say on the face of it seeing as we lived together, but I think she knew what I meant. For a long time we made out like teenagers, relishing the sensations that lips and tongues could produce. In fact it wasn't until her questing hands found my crotch that I even realised how hard I was.
