All couples with a baby have exactly the same arguments - it is a real novelty when a new subject flares up

Never mind getting on each other's nerves, C and I have spent the week getting on them and then dancing a jig. I won't tell you what is wrong with him (that is unethical), but ... actually, I'm afraid I can't tell you what is putatively wrong with me either, since what C said was wildly inaccurate. I would probably be defaming myself.

Halfway through a car journey of epic discord, T started gargling away in the back. I hadn't forgotten he was there or anything, but I had forgotten how boring it might be, staring at the back of a car's upholstery, listening to incomprehensible yet stressful noises, with nothing to distract you but the inane expressions of the toy that calls itself Woozit. "We shouldn't be arguing in front of him," said C (if I can give you the shipping forecast on our row, his tone here was poor, becoming moderate later. Mine, of course, was fair, becoming good).

Yes, in an ideal world, you should never argue at all. But if you do argue, you shouldn't hold it all back until your offspring is out of earshot. They are sophisticated machines, these children. Think of them like one of those movement-detector burglar alarms. Give them a bit of information, such as what a cat or a dog looks like, and they will get a sense of proportion. Give them no information, and they will pick up a bad vibe and needlessly go into full alarm.

I do not share this with C, since by uncanny coincidence, my verbose analogising is one of the things that has been getting on his nerves. Instead I say, "We're allowed to argue, so long as we model successful conflict resolution at the end of it." "OK," he says. "We have reached our destination. Shall we stop arguing now?"

I don't know if this modelling is successful enough. I wonder whether we should buy some Peruvian pipes, or practise one of those hugs of peace that Yasser Arafat used to do.

I'll tell you why I mention this row; I think it's the first time in eight months that we've had an argument that isn't exactly the same argument as everyone else with a baby exactly the same age has just had.

Cast yourself back to the moment of birth. A wonderful miracle has just happened. A minute ago, there were three people, now there are four. "Feel free to ask the midwife to leave you and your partner alone, so you can rejoice in the new life you've created," it says in the Miriam Stoppard book. That's a brilliant idea, Stoppo, except my boyfriend is in the corridor on his mobile like some kind of teenager. He pretty much left the scissors dangling off the umbilical cord.

C's version of this is that he'd been marvelling and rejoicing for ages, and he stepped out to text our collective parents. What did I think he was doing, playing Tetris? The only person I know who didn't have this argument is a friend who said she was waiting until they got home so she could argue properly, without having to worry about what the midwives thought. Then when she got home, she was so tired she forgot. Perhaps with this article I could jog her memory and relight their flame of discord.

Soon after, there's the Freedom of Movement argument; I've gone on about that one already. Then there is the "Did We Pack The ... ?" argument. "You mean me. Why not just say, 'Did you pack it?'" "Just a figure of speech, light of my life." "I'll tell you why! It's because if you said 'you', you'd have to admit it's me that packs everything. Whereas if you say 'we' it sounds like we both did it. But it doesn't sound like that! You're kidding yourself!" "It's just a figure of speech, beloved." "Then how come [hopping mad!] it never figured in your speech before?"

Last (just for now) there is the "I've been holding/changing/feeding the baby for you" argument. "How is that for me?" "Well, you know what I mean." You can probably ad lib my bit from here. They're all the same, that's what bothers me. What other phase of your life could you name, when you and any other given couple are having the exact same row, with the very same words? Even in Ikea, every couple scrap is as unique as a snowflake. Imagine my relief, then, to find that it was temporary; C and I are now back to annoying one another in our own particular ways.