The baby was making sleepy mewling sounds. Not quite awake, but she would be soon and then the snuffling noises would grow louder and stronger until they turned into ragged howls. But six-thirty wasn’t so bad, yesterday it had been much earlier, while it was still dark outside. In the double bed beside the cot, the baby’s mother and father lay at its furthest edges, their limbs escaping from under the covers in attitudes of exhausted abandon. Celia was the first to wake. David slept on. He had promised to share all the work involved in caring for a new baby, including nappy changes and night feeds, but the complication of switching between breast and bottle made it seem absurd. Why use a breast pump, a bottle warmer and sterilizer when all Celia had to do was lift the baby to her breast and give suck? But she loved David for at least being prepared to do it, for offering. And yes, it tended to be her that did the nappy changes too, especially the spectacularly smelly ones, but she so hated to see him suffer – didn’t like to see the revulsion he showed the one time he did it.
