I dreamed of being a parent when I was young, and the fantasy looked very different from the reality. Sure, I pictured chaos and piles of laundry, but I certainly didn’t predict postnatal depression and a catastrophic mess. I imagined home-cooked wholesome meals and a tidy, organised play room. I could not have been more naive.

I often get this paranoia that people are thinking ‘what does she do all day?’, particularly from my non-parent friends. I’ve developed an anxiety about it, frantically sorting and cleaning before guests arrive. Which is almost absurd with a toddler in the house. It’s undone more quickly than you can achieve it. I’m caught in a vicious cycle of anxiety and housework and agitation and low self-esteem and feelings of failure. Society has presented an image of the perfect woman. Successful career, super mother, immaculate house, cooking from scratch, an attentive wife. And here’s me, struggling with trying to balance it all, too many balls in the air.

I’ve had to alter my expectations of myself. I will always strive to be the best parent I can and sometimes I’ll feel that I could have done better. The postnatal depression will continue to hinder me there, but I don’t need a spotless home. Who needs gleaming surfaces? As long as the food prepared on them is fit for human consumption, that’ll do for me. I can throw some cleaner down the toilet and light a fragrance candle before guests turn up.

There’s too much pressure on us mothers to do it all, to achieve it all, and to be wonderful at it. But you know what? As long as we love our children, keep them safe, warm and fed and make time for the people we love, who cares if our beds aren’t made?!?