I had never been afraid of newborns*. Until, I had one of my own. I’m sitting in an armchair, the Christmas tree is twinkling in the middle of our living room. She breaths irregularly, faster quick breaths, two squeaky baby dinosaur grunts followed by a deep sigh. Her legs are drawn up to her tummy, head tucked in between my breasts. Bottom sticking out in a little frog position, her whole tiny body rising on my chest every time I take a breath. But I can hardly breath. I’m so anxious and happy and sore. We just brought her from hospital and this is her second day of life. I’m exhausted but I can’t summon the energy to get up and go to bed. It’s her second day of life. She’ll never be two days old again. Sleep seems like a waste of time. Time I’d rather spend looking at her in awe, wondering why I’ve ever worried whether I would feel that she was mine from the minute she was born. I stroke...