I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t competitive. I like to overachieve at work, win board games, and I’m still sulking that the boyf has a far bigger brain than I do on Big Brain Academy, an accolade he achieved by taking advantage of my pregnancy befuddled brain. However, when I took up this motherhood mallarky, I expected caring and sharing, not entering into an 18 year long marathon with women who attack their roles of motherhood as a cross between professional mum and rehab member.

Like thousands of women around the country, I took out a National Childbirth Trust (NCT) membership and paid to take their antenatal classes. It’s supposed to be great for meeting people who are going through the same experience as you from the same walks of life. It’s basically a mothering club for the middle classes when you break it down… The initial get-togethers were quite funny, bitching about being huge, too big and tired for sex, and feeling like you were constantly showing off your va-jay-jay to complete strangers. As they all popped and my baby stayed in its warm little oven rather stubbornly, I admit to feeling my only tremors of competition as I realised that despite being due second, I was in danger of popping last…

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