I had my first child, Daniella, at 25. Before her, I’d had a mobile disco — a business as glittery as a mirror ball and twice as busy.
It had included children’s parties, which meant I’d always had a miniature audience to charm and exhaust. With my own child, there were mermaids to marvel at and karaoke duets for me to sing to.
Daniella, or Danny as she preferred, was a pint-sized marvel — a firework in the shape of a child. Life became a permanent source of fun, an unending string of confetti-covered moments, usually cut out and scattered by Danny.
