Over the last 18 months, I’ve noticed how quickly progeny can turn to prodigy. Last week, at a singing group, I had to stifle a snigger as we sat round on the floor, waiting for a sing-a-long to begin. ‘What are you doing?’ a mother asked her baby son as she dangled him by his armpits in front of her and he bounced on his bandy legs, much like any other baby. ‘You’re not supposed to be walking, you’re only six months old!’
I should probably stop here when it comes to relaying baby-boasts, as I wouldn’t wish to offend anyone by singling out the genius of their own child. So here is a boast of my own. A few days ago, I went to my daughter’s nursery to have a conversation about her progress. I perched on a miniature chair at a miniature table and her keyworker presented me with a fat folder: ‘Elizabeth’s profile’, she stated, making her sound more like an inmate than a toddler.