She's arrived. She came screaming into the world (or was that me?) just in time for lunch on a snowy March day. The last few months have been like swimming upstream in melted Mars Bars - hard work but ultimately rewarding.
I am not a yummy mummy. I am a vomit-wearing, bottom-sniffing, lullaby-singing cliche. I can talk for hours about the consistency of my baby's poo, but find myself too distracted to watch anything on television that doesn't feature feuding families or a lie detector test. I march to Tesco in my trainers with bags slung over the handles of the buggy while my baby gives strangers dirty looks, and I meet with other mums in cafes to discuss nightime routines and the merits of different types of nappy. My brain seems to have left my body at the same time as the placenta, so if you'll excuse me I have a voyeuristic Channel Five documentary to watch before getting into my maternity pyjamas and going to bed at nine.