Most of you will already know I’m slightly fearful of the big ‘P’ word – parenthood.
It’s not that I don’t want children one day, because I do, but I’m struggling to come to terms with the fact that the reality of having a baby will one day become, well, a reality.
Not yet, I must add, because I’m absolutely scared to death of having a child, which is funny because I love kids.
Other people’s kids. I adore my nieces and nephews and genuinely get withdrawal symptoms if I don’t see them regularly enough.
I’ve learnt over the years that you have to put the time in with children from the moment they’re born if you’re ever to have any kind of rapport with them.
It’s hard work. If I don’t see my nephew Lewie every four to five days, I get a relatively blank expression from him. I’m being punished for not putting the time in. Children are geniuses, they seriously know how to work the adults and I play up to it every time, trying to tempt him into forgiving me.
I went out on a shopping trip with one of my best friends and her two-year-old daughter this week which was, how can I put it? An experience.
Her daughter is beautiful but man is she strong.
There was quite literally a wrestling match going on in the Cascades car park as my friend battled to get her bundle of joy into a buggy.
She did not want to be pushed and we all knew about it.
Then there was the constant pulling things from the shelves scenario. I thought I’d play the good guy by allowing her to hold the necklace I had bought for my sister’s birthday.
My friend looked round to me and nonchalantly said: ‘The actions of a rookie.’
I didn’t know what she meant until I had a 10-minute fight to retrieve the necklace from her mighty grip. She was freakishly strong.
Then on return to my house we had at least two naughty step scenarios on our hands and a very near-death issue involving my six-inch (brand new) pair of heels and the stairs.
And people wonder why I’m not rushing into parenthood.