At age 31 and obviously pregnant with my first son, I remember a creeping sensation that this new life stage was very open to public scrutiny.
Colleagues tried to touch my belly and remarked on my newly rounded appearance, while I read and heard much commentary about what I should and shouldn't be doing. I tried to do all the right things – eat well, rest and exercise – but it always felt like I could do more.
In the lead-up to the birth in 2010 and then for a couple of years after becoming a mum, there was a lot of joy, but the trenches of my early motherhood experience felt heavy with judgement and guilt.
There was the fact I had a c-section birth and only breastfed for six months; the shop-bought pouches of food, the random nap schedules or the disposable nappies... The list goes on and on. And these small decisions and other people's opinions about them all seemed so important.
Until one day, they didn't.
My sons are now aged 12 and six, and I can't remember when someone last asked me how they both exited my body.
Both my boys are loved and seem to do well at school. They have hobbies and friends and still (at this stage) love me back. Their teachers have not once correlated their performance in the classroom with whether I bottle fed after six months, or the fact I cuddled them to sleep in front of the TV because I was binge watching Midsomer Murders.
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