The parent trap

On February 23 last year, England beat Scotland by 119 runs at Hagley Oval in Christchurch to record their first points of the World Cup.

It was an unremarkable match, but it holds a special place in my heart as the last game of cricket I was able to watch uninterrupted. Around 24 hours later, with more than a month of the tournament still remaining, my son was born.

My memories of the next few weeks are hazy at best. We were still in hospital when Chris Gayle scored an astonishing double-hundred against Zimbabwe. I remember scanning the scorecard on my phone between congratulatory messages and wondering whether I was hallucinating.

The baby had trouble sleeping early on, so my wife and I would take it in turns to sit up and hold him. Luckily the time difference to Australasia allowed us to keep the TV flickering away in the corner.

When England took on Sri Lanka in Wellington, I kept nodding off and waking up to the clatter of stumps. It was all over before the sun came up.

When James Anderson was last out against Bangladesh, finally confirming their humiliating group stage exit, I laughed manically, unsure whether I was awake or asleep.

By the time the final came around, starting at 4am UK time, I was properly losing my mind. When Mitchell Starc bowled Brendon McCullum in the second over, I experienced a sudden rush of irrational anger. When Steve Smith hit the winning runs, I felt a wave of overwhelming sadness.

Naively, I thought things would carry on as normal. I started the new season with my village team, playing three Saturday fixtures, but deep down I knew it wouldn't last.

When he was just two months old, I took the boy along to what would turn out to be my final match. I picked up two cheap wickets and peered over to the pavilion, hoping for a sign of approval. He was either asleep or bored senseless.

When I came off the field, basking in the glow of a rare victory, I discovered he had filled his nappy. Something had to give.

I packed my kitbag away in a cupboard, cancelled the Sky Sports subscription and stopped buying cricket magazines.

The Australians arrived for what would turn out to be a thrillingly topsy-turvy Ashes series, but I find it difficult to recall the details.

When England went 2-1 up at Edgbaston, my wife and son were sheltering from the rain in a tent in Cambridgeshire as I grappled haplessly outside with pegs and poles.

While Stuart Broad was taking 8 for 15 at Trent Bridge, we were holed up in a Cornish cottage with the baby's grandparents. My dad and I hid our phones under the dinner table, exchanging jubilant glances with every update.

There have been a few plus points. I've rediscovered the joy of Test Match Special on the radio, while my knees, hands and self-confidence are glad of a break from the weekly humiliation of 3rd XI league cricket.

Now 16 months old, my son is starting to show some cricketing potential himself. Not only can he shout louder than anyone else, a must for the enthusiastic appealer, he can throw with both hands and would give Mike Gatting a run for his money in the lunch-eating stakes.

He may even have a future as an umpire, with his habit of solemnly raising his index finger to indicate the next thing he wants to eat, smash or bang his head against.

Starting a family is a joyous experience, but I miss cricket. Just last week we went for a stroll through a National Trust garden, a favourite strategy to break the monotony of cleaning, arguments and temper tantrums.

I spotted a cricket match going on in a nearby field. We lugged the pushchair up a grassy bank, only to find the gate was locked. We could have gone round to the other entrance, but decided against it. In that moment, I realised how much my life has changed.

My wife recently told me she is expecting our second child. The kitbag might have to stay locked away for a while yet.