Three months of Freya. Three months of outrageously obnoxious nappies, three months of wrestling with buttons or tiny socks or doll sized singlets. Three months of giggles and gurgles and smiles and pouts and frowns and farts and screams and oh my god she’s going to explode and three months of gentle happy sleeps on my lap. Three months of accumulating housework, of overflowing office turned junk room. Three months of frozen dinners and frozen milk and frozen little feet – where are those socks?! Three months of walking lightly in happiness, of hand knitted beanies and ingenious soft toys, of soft welcoming rugs and little hands now curled up, now batting at butterflies, now gripping a toy, now using toy to bat butterflies.

I tickle Frey’s neck. She gives a serious concerned expression as if unsure of something: what’s that hairy guy up to, she seems to wonder? A few seconds later it computes - all seems to check out, he’s just being silly and she grins, a toothless gaping grin which spreads from ear to ear and across the room until we are all grinning together, sharing a joke, a moment of hilarious unity.

I get home from work. Kath is tired, juggling life and yawning hungry baby girl and feeling a sniffle becoming a cough become a weary bone ache and she needs to rest. I take over, tidy the lounge,  prepare some nappies for later, get dinner going, feed Freya from a bottle and rock her off to sleep while Eddie on the telly asks the $10,000 question. It’s D you fool, lock it in!

“You should go on that show”, says Kath and I idly wonder what I would do with $250,000. Sure, the money would be great but somehow the idea of it isn’t quiet as exciting as it might have once been. We already feel rich.