You swore you would never, ever become that woman. You said you would rather die. You were convinced that this was the action only of awful, mumsy women with no regard for basic social conventions. The type who thought that the fact that their darling son or daughter had snot on their chin, and seven different types of dried puree plastered to their cheeks, was actually somehow cute rather than merely disgusting.

Yet somehow, without warning, you have become her. You are the woman who holds their baby aloft and sniffs their bottom. In front of other people. Possibly people without children. Possibly people without children who have no intention of ever having children, and possibly people without children who are also eating or drinking at the same time.

‘I think Jasper has pooed’ you then announce loudly to anyone present, and with no shame, as if anyone else gives two hoots. Because either they haven’t noticed the smell of fresh number twos wafting across the table. Or they have noticed, but are just too polite and British to do anything other than hold their faces very slightly at an obtuse angle.

Either way you are now engaging in activity that pretty much puts you on a par with the average chimpanzee. I guess that’s what having babies does to you though.

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