"Do you love him more than me?" James once asked me, half-jokingly, as I turned from his attentions yet again to tend to my beloved baby instead.
"You can't ask me that" I told him sternly, because I had no idea what to say.
My love for my babe is the kind that I used to fantasise about as a young girl who'd read too many romance novels. It's deep, fierce and consuming and it keeps me awake at night.
It's a love that overwhelms me with its aching intensity almost every single day, that makes my own selfish desires slip into insignificance and that makes me wild and happy and strong.
My love for my husband is different. Worn at the edges from over-use this love is so comfortable and constant that I barely notice it at all. It's a tried and tested love that I can tug at without it tearing and test without fear of it failing.
It's a love that I rely on without even realising it and it's a love that's shaped the very person that I am today and formed the very life that I live.
So whilst my love for my husband is not one that makes me lie awake at night just to watch him sleep or sit for hours on the floor just to see him smile, it's no less deep or important.
"I love you both the same, but differently," I told him, knowing that I hadn't come close to explaining it at all.