When I was about 36 weeks pregnant, my workmates threw me a little goodbye party on the last Friday afternoon before I began maternity leave. There was cheesecake and Twisties and everyone else downed brimming glasses of sparkling wine. I remember being so relieved that I’d made it through eight months of pregnancy while working. The vomiting, the constant need to wee, the pain of being regularly kicked in the ribs and bladder from the inside. And I was proud, because even though any little error I made was instantly attributed to baby brain by my colleagues, I didn’t think I’d actually been any less on-the-ball than usual, just a bit out of breath at times, and very, very tired.  

I saw the day I finished work as a triumph, an oasis, and I couldn’t wait for it to arrive. And then all of a sudden, in the midst of a conversation at my going away party, it hit me: tomorrow my job will be stay-at-home mum.