We left the hospital the next day, all the unpleasantness, guilt and drama of bringing another baby into my parents’ house dissipated. There was only Maria and Steven – and our time together. We were a family of three, now. Steven took to his sister immediately and, even at seven years old, was a huge help. He was, and is, an excellent big brother. I’m so proud of him.

The four months at home with Maria were sheer bliss. She was an easygoing baby who slept a lot. When she wasn’t sleeping, she was attached to the boob. I loved every minute of being at home with my children, and dreaded the day I’d have to find another job. That day came, though, as inevitable as the taxman.

Now I had to leave my two darlings at home every day to travel by train for an hour to a crummy job with, honestly, the craziest woman you could ever hope to meet in your life. All my previous bosses paled by comparison. I’m terrified she’ll read this and sue me, so I will say no more. Except that she should have installed a revolving door in her building, the staff turnover was so mind boggling. I lasted six months before I threw in the towel. Which were five-and–a-half months longer than anybody else before me.

Six months of expressing breast milk every lunch break (can I hear you say Moo?), then racing home after work to catch Maria before she fell asleep to give her evening feed, spending two hours with Steven before he went to bed, squeezing in homework, supper, bath time, quality time, randomised nagging. Six months of stress, anxiety and exhaustion. I was trying hard to find that miraculous balance all those smug working mothers brag about. Balance? As far as I’m concerned, balance is for skinny, double-jointed women wearing spangled leggings. Do you see any bloody spangled leggings here? I think not.