My urge is always to sleep when I feel stressed, and the urge is even stronger now I worry that any anxiety will trigger another seizure. Consciously accepting that Christmas will be ruined by having my overdue book hanging over me means that I want to take to my bed immediately. When I receive a shitty work email, cancelling a job I’d been really looking forward to, I don’t even make it off the sofa, but just wrap myself in a blanket and lie down with heavy eyes.

The babies turn it into a bedtime game, tucking me in and giving me extra cushions, fat-bash kisses smudged on my cheeks and forehead. The smallest one slaps me on top of the head and babbles a song in my ear. I think: Maybe I should commit to this. Give up writing altogether and just hang out with these guys, my mind fully on them for once. 

Then I realise I’ve been ignoring the last few minutes of their plans as I try to think of the exact words to capture their cream-cheese-and-sweet-soil scent, and think: I couldn’t give it up, even if I wanted to.