There are very few times when it’s acceptable to preface something with “as a mother”, but I’m about to use one of the exceptions now. As a mother, I can assure you that the idea parenthood makes you better in any way is laughable. Rationally, of course it should fire us with a transformative zeal like no other. So should a lot of things. Every headline since 1914, for a start. But things don’t work like that.

When you fall in love with your child (which, BTW, can take ages, but that’s a column for another time), you act in exactly the same way as you do at the beginning of a new relationship. You become an inward-looking, selfish little unit of two for whom the rest of the world falls away. The only difference is this state lasts pretty much the rest of your life instead of for a perfectly reasonable first few romantic months. Plus you’re permanently knackered because children are even more work than partners (and I invite you to dwell on this fact longer than you are inclined and only then see if you’re ready to chuck out your Microgynon yet).

“Enough of this parent worship”: Lucy Mangan on the dangers of parental point scoring