EVERY now and then I suffer a parenting panic attack. It has nothing to do with guilt about how my working will scar my children psychologically, or whether they would have been geniuses if I hadn’t had the odd glass of wine during pregnancy.
I don’t wake up in a sweat imagining my five-year old daughter smashed off her face with the wrong crowd or picturing the three-year-old having an ASBO slapped on him for breaking into cars. (Although I probably should be worried in his case – he almost hotwired my car with the tennis club keys the other day.)
No, the fear that grips me with such force as to make me choke in my glass of Chardonnay, is the terrifying thought that I don’t have a life – beyond being a mum.
It usually starts after over-exposure to the suffocating world of mumsiness – you know, play dates, summer fairs, the school run… (non-humorous mums, I’m not in the mood for sulking letters, OK).
I think everyone has a tombola saturation point. Personally, if I have to stand in one more queue to buy endless tickets for worthless prizes that my children never wi
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"Another great article Chene. Well done !..."