Really – I was grateful for all the help and care I received from friends, family and perfect strangers. I didn’t mind second-hand. People had shared with me out of love and generosity (and maybe a little smug superiority at times, but I can’t prove it), so what did it matter if some things were a bit old or faded?

The second-hand cot was all set up and awaiting its little passenger. I was so proud of all this paraphernalia. Other moms will understand. It made everything seem more real somehow, even though I still struggled to get my head around the idea sometimes. I’d be getting dressed or shopping or having a shower and suddenly it would hit me that a real little person was in there, a real little person getting ready to come out, to meet the world and check out what kind of mother he’d been saddled with.

I had moments of terror, times when I was paralysed by the thought that there had been a terrible mistake. Whatever gave me the idea that I could be trusted with the life of another human being? Clearly, when they sent this poor child to be looked after by me, somebody up there wasn’t doing their job – I couldn’t even put a nappy on straight, though I’d been practising on dolls for months. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I’d read all the books, but I still didn’t believe I’d be able to figure any of it out once it all became real. I knew, just bloody knew, that I’d be the only mother in the history of the world who’d never figure out which end of the baby was up. Sooner or later, the administrative error would be noticed and corrected, and somebody in authority would swoop down and whisk my poor child off to his proper parents, saving him from a lifetime of saggy nappies and parental idiocy.

I had many such What-The-Hell-Was-I-Thinking moments, but I found obsessive-compulsive reorganising of baby toiletries most beneficial and calming. I’m convinced they put some kind of mood-altering substance in Elizabeth Anne’s baby shampoo – it always made me feel better, no matter how low I was. I know I can’t be the only mother-to-be to sniff enough of it to pass out.

I craved smells rather than food. Besides my Elizabeth Anne’s snorting habit, I also developed a thing for the nostril-melting aroma of subway disinfectant. Hey, some women like pickles and ice-cream – I liked Jeyes Fluid. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

Besides the second-hand goodies, I did have a brand new pram – my pride and joy. My granny bought it. She’d bought the prams for most of her grandchildren, and now she did the same for her first great-grandchild. To be included in her personal little tradition made me happy – I felt like we belonged, my baby and I.

Shopping for the Right Pram is a time-consuming business, but after hours of searching, we eventually found just the thing. I spotted it in a tiny baby shop and I wanted it immediately. It may just as well have drifted down to me on a radiant, gossamer cloud to the glorious accompaniment of angel song. Oh, it was beautiful. It was a dark-green Posh Baby pram with splashes of cerise pink and buttery yellow. Very nineties. Of course, these days Posh Baby is not so posh anymore – it doesn’t sound nearly Italian enough, and, not being tastefully understated in khaki or navy blue, completely fails in the modern elegance department. But back then, I loved my Poshie. I took it home, then marvelled at it every day. Some things are just special, inanimate or not. I imagined the walks we’d take together along the beach (baby and I, obviously – not just Posh and I, okay? That would have been weird.), visits to the park, playdates with babies as yet unmet. I pictured mothers’ coffee mornings, feeding the ducks, even taking baby to visit my old friends. In my mind’s eye, I could see them fussing over this little novelty, impressed by my maturity, maybe somewhat jealous of my happiness and purpose.

A bit ambitious, probably. Considering that I hardly saw my friends once I’d left school, it was silly to think they’d have time for me and my baby-restricted lifestyle in their busy teenage social calendars. But I was a little stung by how easily they seemed to forget me, as if we hadn’t been friends since primary school. You can’t have everything, I suppose. I had other things on my mind and most of the time it didn’t bother me terribly. I knew it was better that way. I was happy, but occasionally I caught a glimpse of my old life and it was strange that there was no room for me anymore.

Just how far we’d drifted apart became painfully apparent one January afternoon, when I decided to meet my friends at the school gates, just to say hi. I was nearly seven months pregnant then and way past the stage of trying to hide it. I couldn’t have, even if I’d wanted to. I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed by my belly – by now it was just part of me, and I was often surprised when I spotted people staring. It always took a couple of seconds to realise what the hell they were gawking at. Ah yes, that would be me.

At the school gate, lots of people came up to say hello. Most were friendly, a few were not. It was nice to see my friends, but after the initial hugs hello and some tentative belly-rubbing, we stood around awkwardly, fresh out of anything to say to each other. We waited for a polite interval to elapse before we said our goodbyes and then bolted, all of us relieved. I realised I didn’t want to hang around there any longer. I thought I’d be sad that it was so uncomfortable, but I actually wasn’t. I think I needed to prove to myself that I was okay without them.