So I'm blogging again.
I'd given up after child number two.
They say that one is hard, two is hard and it gets much easier after that but I've no intention of putting it to the test.
Don't get me wrong, I love my girls but nobody told me how bloody hard this ride was going to be.
No one tells you about the immediate sense of responsibility and intense guilt that you feel as soon as you conceive children, never mind giving birth to them.
All the Miriam Stoppard books in the world can't prepare a woman for motherhood - no matter how maternal and how much of a domestic goddess she might be.
They might document how to blend bland purees and give you the ability to spot chicken pox a mile off, but what the books don't tell you is how you will feel a gnawing anxiety for the rest of your life, wondering whether your offspring are healthy, happy, thriving and will grow up to be outstanding pillars of the community.
No one prepares you for the lack of time, money and energy you will now endure, as well as the invasion of brain space, privacy and an all but permanent stop to your previously active - and enjoyable - sex life.
But, hey ho, shit happens.
