You’re standing by the front door, baby on your hip, nappy bag strap digging into your shoulder, while Simon wrestles with the boot like it’s personally offended him. He’s opened and slammed it shut three times already, each time getting louder and more dramatic, but the suitcases still won’t fit right. The travel pushchair wheel keeps popping out, and he’s muttering to himself, hushed swears and complaints

“How does one tiny person need this much stuff?” you hear him grumble, followed by a soft thud as he tries to shove the travel cot in sideways. It doesn’t work.

Your one-year-old daughter, meanwhile, is having the time of her life. She’s discovered that pulling your hair produces a delightful reaction, and she’s squealing with glee like she’s just unlocked a new level of fun. Her sun hat—bright yellow with little ducklings—is already on her head, though you haven’t stepped outside yet and you’re still in Britain. Somewhere in the process of getting her dressed, her left shoe disappeared. You had it a minute ago. You think.

“Do we really need the travel cot?” Simon calls out, louder now, as if volume might change the answer. He rests his forehead against the boot like it’s the only thing holding him upright.