At four months, baby has started to make up her own form of communication, all sorts of screeches, screams, gurgles and babbles and I love it so much I can’t help but actively encourage her.

Sometimes she has a face of real concentration as I’m staring into her big blue eyes and it’s as if she is really trying to tell me something. But my absolute favourite thing to listen to is her giggling — proper belly-laugh giggles, like the babies on the Cow & Gate adverts. It really melts my heart. The only downside is, she will only giggle for daddy.

Harrumph! How does that work? It seems a little unfair, since it’s me who takes her to Rhyme Time at the library every Tuesday and swimming class every Thursday, not to mention the hours and hours spent playing games, yet daddy’s the fun one.

While daddy is busy doing important things in the office, I provide cuddles, comfort and care on demand but as soon as she hears daddy’s voice down the hallway she looks round with excitement, and when daddy walks through the door her face lights up.

I must admit I thought I’d be higher up the pecking order. I know she doesn’t realise this, but who was the one who gave up drinking for a year, a job and the luxury of sleeping at night, not to mention my figure?

So when daddy goes away on business, I spot my chance: 10 whole days to persuade her into believing it is actually mummy who’s the fun one.

By day five I’m almost there! However on day six I get struck down with a 24-hour bug that quite literally knocks me to the ground. It’s the worst I’ve felt in a long time. Hot and cold sweats and a banging headache. I cancel my rendez-vous with the other mums and, feeling sorry for myself, resort to the sofa for a very long day that stretches into the evening, praying she doesn’t do a big poo for me to clean up. But baby has other plans. All that tickling and larking around I’ve been doing means she’s now in the mood to test me. How much did I really want to become the fun one?

It’s definitely a screeching kinda day, and I don’t mean just a little, cute screech like you hear in cafes in the distance, I mean screeching at a pitch at least three octaves higher than any note Mariah Carey can reach. And loud, really loud. Piercing in fact. As I lounge on the sofa sweating under my duvet she looks over to me from her bouncy chair to see if I’ll join in. I muster the energy to let out a few “shhhh’s” now and then. I feel a few pangs of guilt at trying to stifle my daughter’s development, but I’m dying here and just need 10 minutes of peace. When she gives up and goes quiet, I panic and have to dash across the room to check she’s OK. I spend the next four days trying to make up for it: tickling her, dancing around like a wolly and singing umpteen renditions of Jelly on the Plate. Mostly I get a “Who is this crazy woman?” look and an occasional smile. I give in.

Daddy’s back tomorrow. I’ve decided I’m happy to be the poo-cleaning, sick-mopping milk machine, open 24 hours a day. Someone’s got to do it. And when she’ll only settle after a cuddle with mummy, it feels like the best job in the world.