Smell their head, they say.
You look at them strangely. Why on earth would you want to smell a baby’s head? That’s just weird. All you wanted to do was cuddle their baby, not smell their head.
But they insist, and so you humour them. You take a reluctant sniff. Something catches you, and you have to go back for more. You take a deep breath and you are overcome with a feeling. It’s like nothing you’ve ever smelt before. Like nothing on earth; it’s heavenly. And you are immediately convinced that this is actually what heaven smells like.
A baby’s head.
Before you become a parent, other mums and dad’s don’t entice you to join their ranks by telling you about four-year-old defiance or two-year-old tantrums, or even 8-month-old fevers and accompanying clinginess, no matter how endearing it is. No. They lure you in with that damn irresistible smell. That smell of rainbows and unicorns and butterflies and heaven.
So at the end of a long afternoon, an evening of battles, tears and tantrums; yours and theirs; and 2 generous glasses of wine, all us parents can do, is remember that smell. Someone seriously needs to work out a way to bottle that stuff.