It's been a month now since Simon was born, and I have to admit that I am actually a terrible mother. It's taken a lot of effort from the visiting midwife to teach me how to feed the baby and generally get a grip on my new reason for existence. My world now revolves around him and this is a tough prospect to be faced with.

Simon is a restless child and constantly cries and sicks, while he functions on very little sleep. My ignorance makes it hard for me to cope, I'd expected a miracle of sorts - the miracle of motherhood perhaps, to flutter its way into my spirit and donate me with infinite patience, love and understanding. Not to be. I'm totally overwhelmed and love is not evident to me anymore.

Jack is not amused. No matter what he tries he can't seem to deal any better with the situation than I can. More often than not, he leaves me to sort it out while he escapes by going early to work or afterwards to the pub. Some days I don't bother to get out of my pyjamas, brush my hair or shower. All efforts are directed to this small, noisy human, I have no interest in anything else. Hence the reason why Jack's called in for backup.

Reinforcements arrive at Manchester airport late one night in March, in the form of Rosanna Gallo, my mother-in-law. Jack collects her and brings her home. I greet her in the living room as she bustles through the door shaking the rain from her silk head scarf. She looks me up and down in curiosity, but I'm beyond worrying about any impressions I must be giving her with my rough appearance. I've made an effort and managed to put on some leggings and a t-shirt at least.

She's dressed elegantly tonight, in a well cut, heavy coat with matching brown leather gloves. As she unburdens herself of her outer clothes, Jack tells me about the awful delays his mother endured on the flight from Pisa.

"That's not the end of it either," He says, as he hangs up Rosanna's coat and carries her luggage to the foot of the stairs. "She also had to wait forty minutes on the plane on the runway before it even took off. I mean what the hell do they need to do that for?"

His incredibility at the way his mother has been treated leads me to believe that the problem he has with his parents relates solely to his father. He puts down the bags and goes to the kitchen to grab a cold beer from the fridge while calling back to his mother. "Mamma, accomodati. Make yourself at home."

Oh no, I forgot about the language.

I curse myself for not taking the time to learn some basic Italian.

Rosanna strides over to me as I put down the baby monitor that's permanently attached to my hand. Her approach forces me to work out the best way to greet this quite stern faced lady. We decide on an awkward hug and I receive a red-lipsticked peck on each cheek. My emotional reactions are numb right now and I guess it reflects in my voice. I use the only Italian I know.

"Ciao, Rosanna."

She stares at me for a moment, then makes a comical mime of rocking a baby to communicate her one true wish. In return I mime a sleep position of hands clasped under my cheek. We look at each other and smile. Understood. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so bad after all? I leave Rosanna in the capable and caring hands of her son and retire to catch up on my sleep. In fact, this excuse has seen me through some tough moments, giving me a valid opportunity to escape the world I'm constricted to bear.

The next morning, Jack oversleeps his alarm clock. I'm up early for once, in the kitchen, making myself a healthy fruit smoothie and watching Simon through the doorway in the living room. He's giggling and rolling about in his play pen. I'm happy to be free from demand for a few minutes at least.

I notice the time, listening to Jack crash and bang backwards and forwards upstairs, while he races to get ready. Then he's in the kitchen, speaking to work on the phone in one hand and pinching my bottom with the other. A wink goodbye, and a scruff of the little hair there is on Simon's head, then he's out the door and gone.

Rosanna comes downstairs and immediately takes up the gurgling baby in her arms. She dances on the spot bouncing and swaying while singing some kind of Italian lullaby and patting Simon's back. She's rewarded with a belch and a trail of silver sticky sick down her immaculately pressed blue top. I gesture to Rosanna by using the dishcloth and a rubbing action.

"Ah, si, si."

Thanks to the miracle of international gesturing, she gets it and allows me to clear up the smelly stain. Next in our conversation of charades I act out a scene of coffee and eating.

"Grazie."

Still holding the baby, she joins me at the kitchen table and we get through breakfast in one piece. However, she continues to watch me closer than I feel comfortable with. Her penetrating glare leaves me with no place to hide. I know that she can tell what's going through my mind, probably much better than I do myself.

This kind of mime communication works fine for us for the next two weeks. Jack comes and goes, but I notice that he doesn't spend long talking to his mother and he often speaks in short, sharp sentences. She seems accepting and resigned to his manner and even shrugs her shoulders and rolls her eyes to include me as I try to make out what's being said.

I must admit as weird and constricting as it is having to share our compact home with another woman, it's certainly a load off my mind to have someone so gifted when it comes to caring for Simon. The woman is a natural. Simon dotes on her, sleeps for her, eats for her, everything I find such a struggle to accomplish. I should be jealous, but I'm too relieved to be so.

We spend Easter Sunday April 12th with my family. Gran shows us into the dining room, dressed up in her Sunday best. I can see that she's been to the hairdresser the day before, to be extra ready for her stylish Italian lunch guest.

Jack sets to work freeing Simon from his outer marshmallow winter suit, without waking him. The baby is oblivious to his father's efforts, asleep in his portable car seat.

I go to mum in the kitchen, anxious to get away from any baby task that could be required of me.

"Hello there, Jill, how's the teething going?"

It's an on-going discussion between us about how to soothe aching gums and get Simon to use a bottle rather than take out his gummy frustrations on my sore body. Breastfeeding did not help my situation, but I knew I'd feel like a failure if I gave it up.

"Okay for now, do you want a hand with anything?"

"All under control. Can you bring in the gravy for me, please?" Mum's got her hands full of plates of delicious Sunday roast dinner and makes her way to the dining room.

"No Harry today, Mum?" I ask, then wink at Gran as I follow Mum through into the room. Gran smiles and pours out glasses of wine for Rosanna and Jack. This is something else that's on-going, a joke between us about Harry the Aviator's intentions. We both think he's been hanging around Mum rather a lot recently.

The table is set up nicely for the occasion, with the best white lace tablecloth and Mum's fancy willow patterned plates. Choral church music is playing in the background on Dad's old 1980's stereo unit, it takes up half the wall of the dining room. A technological dinosaur that's too well loved to be replaced. My memories revolve around this unit, Dad playing his Sinatra records, tapping his foot and reading the paper. Mum tuning into her favourite radio station, while doing the ironing. Gran teaching me to swing dance as her Glenn Miller record played.

Rosanna, who's sat next to Jack with their backs to the kitchen wall, nods and smiles her approval at my mother for the choice of music. Noticing, Mum responds in an ultra precise and slow manner, probably hoping it will help Rosanna to understand better. "Yes, it's lovely isn't it? I do like to celebrate a religious day in the proper way." Turning to Jack she asks, "What do Italians call Easter?"

Caught in mid glass raise, Jack stops and puts it back down again. "Pasqua, Pauline."

Rosanna clasps her hands together and repeats happily, "Si, Pasqua!" Then she points at Jack and myself in turn and shakes her head in disappointment. "No chiesa, no luna di miele, ma drink, si."

We are all astonished by her production of an English word, and smile with appreciation and encouragement. The meaning behind the word sliding away. Jack wistfully twists the stem of his crystal glass, watching the red liquid as it rises and falls to leave arches of clear patterns around the glass like the tideline on a beach.

From my place at the head of the rectangular table, near to Jack, I nudge him and ask, "What did she say?"

Coming out of his revere, he translates for us all, his voice low and sullen. "She said that we had no church for our wedding, no honeymoon, and that I drink too much."

I swallow dryly, this is not a conversation I'd been looking forward to. Gran is nodding sagely in agreement with Rosanna. Thankfully, my Mum is staying out of it as she knows that we didn't want to get into any religious disagreements over our choice for the wedding, Jack being a catholic but hardly a devote one.

He watches his mother thoughtfully before adding, "It was a shame about the honeymoon though, one night at the hotel next to where Jill worked wasn't enough really. I wanted to give her more."

Mum then talks directly to Rosanna, seemingly convinced that the Italian lady will be able to comprehend her every word in some miraculous way. "They really ought to go to visit you in Italy, Rosanna, it's the perfect opportunity, don't you think?"

Strangely, Rosanna does appear to be on the same wavelength. "Si. Toscana. Agosto. Loro - Simon - con noi. Luna di miele, si."

We all throw a questioning glance at Jack.

"She wants us to come to their house in Tuscany in August for a honeymoon. Me, you and Simon."

Mum and Gran clap their hands together in glee and I get the feeling that I've been bombarded into a trip without my prior consultation. This is the last thing I'd expected from my mother-in-law, I'd been led to believe that her son wasn't that welcome over there, from Jack's point of view anyway. He reaches over for more wine, Rosanna wags her finger at him and tuts. She then raises her own glass and makes a toast. "Buona Pasqua."

"Bwena Peska." We all reply in terrible attempts at the language.

Rosanna, glowing with self-satisfaction, looks down at her plate of England's finest Sunday meal with distaste and says, to my dismay, "Ma this? No!"