I’ve always been a planner. As a teen, I would pack my bag the night before school. As a Uni student, I would take extra paracetamol and tampons on trips in case my friends forgot theirs. Being organised filled me with a sense of calm and control. So, when I got pregnant, it wasn’t a surprise to anyone when I began to compile my hospital bag , months in advance – and booked two nursery tours.
Both times, I made mental checklists. How did the reception staff greet us? How did the nursery manager, conducting the tour, interact with the toddler’s around his feet, interrupting his words? What was on the menu for today, and what kind of toys were out in the garden? I was concerned mostly with the feel of the place. Was it happy? Was it nurturing?
And then our daughter arrived and all the cliches about maternal instincts and fierce, frightening love came true. My priorities shifted in an instant. I rebooked the tours and this time, with her in my arms instead of my belly, scanned for dirty playmats, sharp corners, rickety highchairs and miserable cries.