|You might think it’s a random clutter of cake furniture, but you’d be wrong. It’s a carefully arranged tableau created for Boy Two by his little brother.|
|Having his cake and eating it.|
Eleven years ago I was in a ward at the Royal Alexandra Hospital, Paisley, and I couldn’t sleep. I was probably quivering with those intense hormones that come with babies.
I remember sitting on the windowsill amid the flowers and well-thumbed gossip mags. I watched a busy fox dashing about in the monochrome moonlight and vanishing in the shadows around the A&E department. Addled by motherhood, I was sure she was rushing to care for her cubs, cosy in their den.
My baby was snoozing happily in his perspex box. He was the most beautiful boy – huge blue eyes and rosebud lips. Even the U-shaped forceps bruise on his head didn’t detract from his perfection.
This baby was for me. I had to share Boy One – a collective and joyful family possession – but for those few days in the maternity ward Boy Two was all mine.
Happy birthday Boy Two.