A few months ago, during a usual busy evening with the exception of being heavily pregnant, I was huffing and puffing, folding clothes, picking up toy cars up off the floor and rushing to get dinner ready when I heard Georgie talking in his room. Loudly. It was 8.30 and he was supposed to be in bed. Manically, I made my way up the stairs, fired up to give him a scolding. But then I stopped. As I came closer to his bedroom door I realised he wasn’t talking. He was reading.
