The Exorcist Baby

Every new parent thinks their baby is the cutest thing in the world. We are blinded by hormones and love to the fact that our firstborn is a wrinkly, tomato-faced gremlin. Those first few days we are completely awe-struck, tentatively holding them as if they might shatter in our hands.

And then, at some point, we realize we are parents, and our head is torn from the clouds, our feet firmly reattached to sold ground.

For me, the realization that I was a Mum came about 5 weeks after our precious bundle's arrival. Right from the start, my husband had joked that she was 'the exorcist baby', as she spit up sticky black meconium on all her pretty newborn clothes. But we had no idea just what she had in store for us.

Picture the scene - it is a busy rush hour in London, the trains packed to bursting point with smartly dressed businessmen, an ocean of pinstriped suits and leather briefcases. We were returning from the registry office, where we had finally named our daughter, much to the relief of our parents, who had begun to think she would be known as 'Biscuits' until graduation. The naming itself hadn't gone smoothly - we ended up tossing a coin outside the office, and I lost. So I was sulking as we battled our way through the mayhem with our bulky stroller ahead of us like a battering ram, forging a path through the disapproving city slickers.

Once on board the train, I was lucky enough to grab two seats while my husband struggled manfully with the brakes on the stroller. He managed to wedge it in beside the doors, and battled his way down the carriage towards me with our little darling in her frilly pink dress, her pudgy arms reaching towards me. He sat down, and she began to whimper. We had yet to learn what each individual cry meant, so he just assumed she was hungry and handed her off to me.

And then it happened. I was feeding her and hoping she might actually sleep for a few hours when my sweet little red-faced angel suddenly turned into a fountain! She fired partially digested milk out like a cannon, hosing me entirely from head to toe. All I could do was aim her away from the crowded passengers, taking the full blast myself. It seemed to go on forever - how could such a small creature hold so much milk? My husband was suppressing a laugh, amazed at the force with which it gushed forth.

Finally, the flow subsided, and with a giant belch my daughter smiled up at us as if she hadn't just been possessed by the devil. I handed her numbly to her father, stood up, my hair dripping, and made my apologies to all the horrified men in the carriage as I forced my way through the throngs to the door well, where our stroller was parked. I dug through the diaper bag for the wet wipes and a change of clothes for the baby, wishing I had had the foresight to pack a spare top for myself. Then I pushed my way back through the crowded carriage to my seat.

It was after I sat down and started wiping at the baby's face that my husband nudged me.

"Your boob is hanging out," he told me, tears of laughter in his eyes.

Perfect. I had just walked through a room full of men like a prize-winning Jersey cow, my udders dripping with milk. No wonder they all looked like they wanted to hurl themselves from the train.

Welcome to motherhood, I told myself grimly. It's going to be quite the ride.