This week, when I was reading End of the Party, a new book on Tony Blair, I was struck by an anecdote where he had come back from some particularly gruelling conference only to find four-year-old Leo was in bed with Cherie. Desperate for rest, our then PM apparently squished himself into Leo’s tiny toddler bed in the nursery. I never thought I’d say this about someone whose war I marched against, but I can relate.

We’re a co-sleeping family. When O moved to his own room at six months old, but still woke up once during the night, it was just easier to bring him into bed with us and breastfeed him back to sleep.

We were warned that he would never take to his own bed properly, and that it would have a negative impact on our relationship in all sorts of ways, but M and I found this to be absolute bollocks and enjoyed the closeness and better sleep we got from doing it. Now we’ve got E, and our flat is really not made for a family of four. Our bed is massive, our wardrobe is massive, and we’ve not got round to swapping things around to make room for the bedside cot we bought as a way to co-sleep without actually sharing a bed. So, we’re sharing a bed. Again, it has its benefits – there’s nothing more relaxing than watching a four-month-old sleeping right next to you, and the smile you get on waking up is a tonic like no other – but, I must admit, it’s not always a good idea.

We’ve just had three weeks of being terribly ill – first with flu, which came with conjunctivitis for four; with a gastroenteritis bug right on the back of that.

When O is ill, he wants to come into bed with us, and four feverish individuals sleeping beside each other, no matter how big the bed, just doesn’t work. M slept in O’s bed, I slept at the bottom of the big bed like a dog, M slept on a fold-down bed, O slept on the sofa, E slept in his crib, O slept curled up on top of me, E slept curled up on top of me, M tried to sleep curled up on top of me but was swiftly pushed off again… and this was just one night. We’re well now, but my Dad is SO coming over next weekend to help us move the furniture and get the cot up.

M and I are in serious need of some ‘us’ time as well. Having E between us when we go to sleep isn’t conducive to, err, a wee cuddle after a hard day. And, again relating to Tony Blair (eugh), running a family of four isn’t too far removed from what I imagine running a country is like (obviously aware this isn’t true whatsoever, but it’s how it bloody feels). I’ve got the eye-bags to prove it. Apparently Tony used pancake make-up to hide the fatigue and strain on his face and people were shocked when they saw him without it. I’m tempted to write to him to ask for the brand he used. For I am knackered.

There’s constant washing and hoovering and bathroom cleaning and bill paying, cooking and wiping and sorting and picking up random bits of crap off the floor. It’s fire fighting, and it’s stressful, and there just isn’t TIME to plan for the future, to think about hopes and dreams of where we’d like to be in five or 10 years’ time. We get about 20 minutes adult chat before we fall into a TV coma at 8.30pm and that’s usually spent going through the latest bit of household admin that’s arrived in the post, or looking at our finances. Not in the least bit marriage nurturing.

Weekends are hard work too, because of all the stuff that can’t be dealt with when alone with two small children during the week. It creates an unscalable mountain of super gluing, locating, filing, cleaning, shopping and everything else.

Last weekend, though, we decided to have a lazy day of DVD watching and chatting about those elusive ‘future plans’. Much of this really quite important conversation was held with O beating M about the head with his giant Incredible Hulk hands. “So do you think we should try to move this year?” HULK SMASH! “But should we maybe wait until I’m back working full-time?” HULK SMASH!

Still, you could wish your kids’ lives away romanticising what it’s going to be like when the breastfeeding and sick-bug-ridden years are over. I have a theory that life is amorphous goo. It simply oozes into the space you have for it. You NEVER have enough time. Best to just enjoy what you’re doing and not sweat the small stuff. She says, attempting to convince herself as much as anyone else. HULK SMASH!