I’ve always hated packing. I don’t really know why as it’s usually associated with good things: long weekends, summer holidays, moving to a new place, the arrival of a baby. But when the time comes to make my bags, I turn into the equivalent of Thévenoud before he files a tax return – striken with “phobie préparative”. Having kids has only made matters worse. Whereas once I needed only worry about myself, now I have to make sure that I’ve packed appropriately for a baby, a toddler (with very specific views on fashion) and me. Nappies, bottles, milk, dummies, toys, shower gel, portable cots, clothes… the list is tedious and no item can be left behind for fear of the apocalypse. Once you have actually managed to pack it all into a great number of bags, stacked neatly and voluminously by the front door, the next horrible challenge emerges: packing the car. Enter my husband, to whom this task is like a subtle game of Tetris, where each bag has a nominated place in the boot so they can all fit in seamlessly. Moving said bags could quickly turn the situation into a Jenga contest gone wrong. I have to say we have improved significantly since having Oscar, somehow the car seems equally as full with two kids as it was when there was only one. Maybe if we had 5 all the bags would magically disappear? Not sure I’m prepared to find out!