When sleeping together kills – or the death of co-sleeping.

Jonah was born with the aid of private midwives – we were more flash for cash  in those days. A home birth. I was a martyr. But I was also a snob, and Homerton Hospital’s award winning facilities weren’t good enough for princess 24 year old me. Oh no.

I got my comeuppance. With no painkillers, and gas and air that ran out, it hurt like hell. Jonah may have even suffered mild oxygen deprivation – he was blueish on arrival. His head was cone shaped, but I, although mentally scarred for life, had, at least, intact privates. And for that, at least, I am grateful.

My private midwives were steeped in that semi-white witch tradition of homoeopathy, drinking wine through the labour pains (I vomited), unblocking my milk ducts with cabbage leaves – works, stinks – and co-sleeping.

Being young, impressionable, and type A, I did all these things. Jonah dummied my nipple through the night until he was nigh on six months old, by which time, I had metamorphosed into a harridan.

Trying to put Jonah into his own cot after that cosy introduction to the world was akin, as far as he was concerned, to leaving him in a cellar filled with rats given the complaints he made about it. The cosy attachment of co sleeping had set his expectations too high. He was too attached to me, and he didn’t wanna let that go.

It’s a nice idea and all, if you’re lonely and really want a cat, but co-sleeping with babies is the devil’s work, and make no mistake.

Ava was in her own cot on day one, and never knew any different. We bonded, arguably better because she wasn’t a tit limpet I couldn’t scrape off. She remains cuddly and well adjusted to this day. Jonah still screams the house down when he doesn’t get what he wants.

You pays your money and you takes your choice, I say.