When you have children, you finally fully realise what a fundamentally selfish bastard you are. Even the reasons we have children in the first place are selfish. I had children in order to experience the joy and love that comes with parenthood and probably, if I am honest, to validate my own existence. I felt the need to feel needed. However, I didn’t have even the slightest idea of how bloody gruelling it is. Some days, I would rather be on a raft at sea with Bear Grylls. Drinking my own piss and performing a DIY enema can seem preferable to staying at home all day with a 2-year-old who won’t sleep, who doesn’t want his blue shoes on, who wants another bowl of Weetabix (what kind of kid demands Weetabix instead of chocolate?!?), who suddenly remembers that he had a graze on his knee three weeks ago and is now wailing in excruciating pain at the memory (this child will be on Oscar winner in years to come). Add to the mix a grunting four month old with a floppy larynx (yep, that’s a thing), who refuses feeds and requires me to spend an excessive amount of time trying to help him poo. It can be exhausting. And don’t even get me started on the state of the house and a general lack of ironing.