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

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

the pulse so much more real than any of the watery scans I had at twelve, twenty,

is an experience that’s endless, holding me stiller and stiller as my belly tightens, a huge, hot, heavy presence that accompanies me everywhere and that’s really not that much fun. I had been worried the baby was too still, hiccupping less, rummaging around inside me with less insistence.

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’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, 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.

It’s more wonderful and extraordinary and strange than I could have imagined.

My breasts, with a tracing of blue veins like deep-water rivers pressed against the white skin,

as the schools start breaking up, the sunshine days join together like a string of bright yellow beads.