At the end of last year I developed a pathological aversion to going to my local supermarket, owing to a garish sign in the window counting down the number of ‘sleeps’ until Christmas. The twee Americanism was grating enough, but I had another reason to feel queasy: I was heavily pregnant with my first baby and my due date was Christmas Day.
Of course, my husband and I were longing to meet our much-wanted son. But as the day drew inexorably closer and I dived ever deeper into the ubiquitous ‘exposés’ on early motherhood, I began to feel afraid. Is it any wonder? To read pretty much any book, magazine or internet forum about becoming a mum in 2025 is to be told that it is an ordeal to be dreaded. If you are lucky enough to escape your body and soul being torn apart by a horrific birth, the fate awaiting you is the total erasure of your ‘pre-baby self’ through the drudgery and isolation of caring for a newborn.
Well, if any pregnant women are reading this, let me write what I dearly wish I could have read last December.
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