My Wild and Sleepless Nights: The brave, raw Sunday Times bestselling memoir

In that moment the whole kaleidoscope of motherhood shifts.

He’d take them to stay with his parents for some weekends and part of the holidays, but the work and the fun of bringing them up fell almost entirely to me.

I know exactly what it’s like to want to escape into the enticing world of getting high. And I’ve been Jimmy’s age. I always thought that when this moment arrived, I’d have seen it coming and anticipated it. I thought I’d be prepared. Cool, even. Not snotty and furious, mocked by mascara panda blotches.

and the sight of a fragment of a green shirt my mother dressed me in as a baby will make me cry, and even the chance to lie down in a dark room without anyone pressing small, sticky palms into my face, or asking me to find their lunch box, will make me cry.

He knew, of course he knew, as soon as he saw the pregnancy test in my bag. But he hugs me, telling me it will be great, and really sweet to have another baby in the family. But it’s difficult, too, as they both know that a new baby doesn’t spell straightforward pleasure and happiness. More babies are a joy, a sweet, jolly, milky blessing, everythi

But I don’t say any of that because a mother can’t say these things.

I’m moving away from him and over into the outer reaches where this car and the road and the mist are unimportant, and perhaps don’t really exist.

I know, too, that motherhood can bring a sort of violent, overwhelming love that feels like being encased in metal and dropped into a deep silent sea. This mother love can feel as raw and rare as cutting through the soft dark crimson of uncooked liver, and as unsettling as that, too.

Pregnancy now makes me feel like a more defined version of myself, as if someone has drawn around me in black felt-tip.