"Please... stop. Stop it now. Please..."

Her head sinks to her knees, hands covering her ears trying to blot out the pitiful mewl. The wooden floor boards feel cold through the thin cotton of her nightdress and she shivers in the chill of early morning. The cries falter, there's a couple of hitching breaths and then ...quiet. She holds her own breath, trying not to hope, praying –

"Dear Lord, let him sleep, let me sleep, please..."

But her prayers are in vain. The cries resume with renewed vigour, their klaxon wail disturbing the small figure lying in the bed on the other side of the room.

"Mommee!"

She shouldn't have tried to put him down, shouldn't have wanted to relieve her arms of their hot, squirming burden, shouldn't have hoped...Frustration making her actions more perfunctory than tender, she picks up the baby again, feeling the ache in tired arms and the twinge in the small of her back. The cries are momentarily muffled as his face is buried against her shoulder then he arches and throws himself back, the muscles in her arms screaming their protest in sync with his cries as she stops him falling.

"Shhh!"

Left hand firmly clamping the baby to her body, her right hand strokes the sleep- sweaty hair of her older son, and despite the noise he quickly settles. If only the younger boy were so easy...Not wanting to disturb the sleeping child again, she takes her squalling bundle downstairs, drawing a blanket over them as she settles on the couch.

Although she had checked his diaper before she had laid him in the crib, she checks once more, not wanting anything to add to his distress. The terry cotton is warm and dry, the pin fastened. Maybe he is hungry again. Her fingers fumble small buttons and she brings the baby to her breast. Even this is not easy; his small, restless hands forcing milk-heavy flesh away although he is eagerly trying to suckle – his frustration now mirroring hers, her sobs now as pitiful as his.

First time round, it had been blissful. She remembers cradling a baby contentedly nursing and the plop of nipple leaving mouth, the milky dribbling smile. She remembers long naps and peaceful night- time feeds – mother and son in easy concert. He had been easy to live with, easy to name – Francis after her father, after her – easy to love. Sweet, little Frankie...

But Bobby... everything about him had been difficult – the pregnancy, the labour, the birth. He had finally been dragged into the world and seemed to have been protesting ever since. Even naming him had been tricky with pressure from family to give him his father's name – she winces at the twinge as the frantic mouth finally latches on and the milk begins to flow. Not a twinge of guilt, no, not guilt... but she knows she is deluding herself.

His father...her husband or her lover? The man who blew the housekeeping at the track, who stank of cheap perfume and expensive lies, who disappeared for days on end, who was never here when she needed him? Or the man who flattered her with his lens, with his attention, who held a torch for her even after she married another, who made the effort to see her even when he was stationed abroad, who fixed things for her instead of broke them? She searches her son's face for clues but all she can see is deception and more lies. In the end she had chosen to call him Robert; a common, inoffensive name that invoked no guilt but no affection either. Just shame.

Shame that she could not connect with him, shame that her actions had given him life but now ruined that gift, shame that she did not love him because of all he represented, shame that sometimes she struggled even to care...Her hot tears splash onto his forehead; a wretched baptism.

"Oh, Bobby, I'm sorry. So, so sorry..."

At the sound of her voice, he stirs and his large brown innocent eyes gaze at her. There is no satisfied plop, no milky dribble but for a brief, heart stopping moment there is a smile. She lifts him up to face her.

"Hello, Bobby."

The smile returns and a chubby curious hand reaches out, his eyes fixed on hers. She finds herself smiling in response, and her sobs are now ones of relief. It didn't matter who his father was, what she had done – there was this fresh hope of a baby, this new start...

"Welcome to this crazy world, my son, to this crazy house, this crazy family. Welcome. Ma era bella, bella davvero in via dei matti numero zero "

She sings the silly Italian lullaby, just as her mother had sung to her and his hands wave, trying to catch the words in the air, the smile never leaving his face, his eyes never leaving hers. A sudden wave of tiredness overwhelms her and she yawns, watches his yawn in response, a little hand rubbing a sleepy eye. Settling back, she draws him to her chest, her hand stroking his soft dark hair, his hand tangled in her curls. Her last thoughts as she drifts off to sleep are another prayer: a prayer familiar to all mothers.

"Dear Lord, please don't let my weaknesses and my mistakes ruin him. Let him be healthy and happy, please..."