Yep, that’s the magical moment when my little man finally made his way into the world.

Just one day behind schedule, he must have known he was late, because he came whooshing into the world at high speed: I arrived at the hospital around 10pm, and by half past eleven I was cradling my little pud in my arms.

Like all newborns, he was purple, skinny and wrinkled, but to me he was still the most beautiful thing in the world. Utterly besotted, I spent an age drinking in his deliciousness: the tiny, tiny toes, his miniature fingers with their incredibly long nails, his little rosebud mouth and his soft, downy hair.

My mum had made it just in time to hold my hand for the last, intense throes of labour; the Baby Daddy arrived shortly after, and we sat, marvelling at this little being and his tiny perfection.

But my reverie was short-lived. Just three days later, while friends were visiting, my little bundle suddenly became quiet and unresponsive; panic filled my heart and within thirty minutes we were back at the hospital. The little man wasn’t getting the nutrients he needed: he’d lost too much weight and had slumped into a hypoglycemic torpor.

From enjoying our first golden days together, Bub and I were abruptly plunged into a series of tests, checks and nourishing top-up feeds. Watching them put a feeding tube up his tiny little nose almost broke my heart. His little body went rigid as he screamed and turned red and purple with rage and indignation.

I’d chosen the tube over a bottle, as they told me that bottle fed babies may not return to breast milk, with all its health-giving properties and powerful antibodies. Since it’s so much easier to get milk from a bottle, they simply can’t be bothered to battle with the breast once they’d had a taste of the easy life.

But watching his little face racked with pain, I felt like the worst mother in the world. My little man had had three days of being treated like a prince, his every whim catered for, and suddenly he was being poked, prodded and tortured. He must have wondered what on earth he’d done to deserve it.

Big, fat tears rolled down my face and onto his little limbs as I held him still, complicit in his agony.

To give him his due, the Baby Daddy was absolutely brilliant, running errands to collect the bits and pieces we needed for our stay, taking his turn at waking for the nocturnal feeds and nappy changes (even when Bub exacted revenge for his harsh treatment by squittering liquid projectile poo in his direction) and being generally very supportive.

Two days later, we were finally allowed to take a fattened-up Bub home again.

If my little man had had everything he wanted before, he could now count on being thoroughly spoiled – feeding exactly when he wanted, for as long as he wanted, and being smothered with endless cuddles, kisses and snuggles.

Before his arrival, I imagined that a mother’s love for her child was incomparable. But I wasn’t prepared for the feeling that I would literally die to give this tiny human being everything he needs.

Even when he poops just moments after I’ve changed his nappy; even when he vomits all over his freshly washed sleepsuit; even when he wails inconsolably until I surrender my breast, in my eyes, my little cherub can do no wrong.

Precious beyond compare and utterly delectable, he may be just a tiny wee fella, but I think I’ve finally found my ideal man.