I've been motionless for a full fifteen minutes, propped up on my pillows, my baby asleep face down on my chest. It's 3am and this particular night feed has spanned two and a half episodes of Mad Men. I'm feeling the tiredness in my marrow.
I gently lift one of her arms and let go. It falls like a dead weight and I know that she's out cold at last. I lean across and turn off the iPad before edging her down into the nook of my arm.
I reach over and remove the hot water bottle from her bedding. Slowly and oh so very carefully I start to roll to my left so that the arm cradling her rests on the bed next to me.
The first part of the manoeuvre is complete and I hold the position for a minute to make sure she hasn't stirred. My back is aching while my weak post partum stomach muscles protest at this unnatural stance.
Now the crucial bit, make or break. With excruciating care I inch my left arm from under her body and cover her with the warm blanket. I sit up relieved I can finally go to sleep.
But two wide little eyes, as big as saucers, are staring at me from the blankets. "No sleep til Brooklyn, mum" they're saying. "No sleep for you."