

I was 25 years old when my first son was born. By all accounts I was wildly ill-prepared. Being the first of my friendship group to have children I had basically no insight into what life was really going to be like once my little man was earth side. But it’s incredible how much I thought I knew. I was pretty much an expert on parenting, before I had even parented anyone.
Having spent a great deal of time with my head in books, I believed my psychology degree gave me a greater insight into raising kids than the average Joe. Past-tense me really was an idiot, because let me tell you, no amount of books and exams can prepare you for real-life motherhood.
Unless there were some really good drugs handed out at the birth, I don’t seem to remember them giving me a manual on baby-wrangling and it’s safe to say, those first few months were hard. Really hard.
I wouldn’t have believed it back then but five years later and I’m here expecting baby number four in only a few months time. I’m by no means an expert, in fact in many ways I spend each day evaluating the ways I’ve failed my kids, but I have learnt a few things along the way.
