No, my baby hasn’t ruined my life — let’s stop bashing motherhood

It’s been four months since my son and I met for the first time. Which is to say that a surgeon cut through several layers of fat, muscle and uterus to lift him free of my body and exclaim “he’s got really big feet!” before placing a red and blue, swollen goblin on my chest.

Since then, a lot of people I know — and some I don’t, because having a baby seems to embolden strangers to pose insanely personal questions, including the woman who enquired when I might start trying for a second four days postpartum — have asked the same thing. What has surprised me the most so far?

“EVERYTHING!” I want to cry (big feet included). And is it any wonder? Sixteen