As a child, I loved school—not just for the socialising or the playing but for the lessons. I was that strange child who actually loved to learn. I never turned my nose up at homework—I spent much of my free time reading and writing, and from a very young age, I loved to practice math sums for fun. I can actually recall one Christmas when my favourite presents were a pocket dictionary and a reading light. I was as eager (and probably annoying) as Hermione Granger. 

As I grew up, my thirst for knowledge and naturally studious brain turned into unhealthy perfectionism. I remember crying during my year 2 SATS exams, and by the time my year 6 ones came around, I had developed stress-related psoriasis. I was adamant I wanted to sit a local 11+ assessment for a Secondary School application, even though I had a panic attack the weeks leading up to the exam date. My parents were never pushy when it came to academics or anything that my brother and I tried, for that matter. In fact, they were endlessly supportive. I was always told, ‘You can be or do whatever you want to, as long as it makes you happy,’ and it turned out that what I wanted to be was perfect. 

Through my teens and early twenties, my obsession with perfection turned into an eating disorder, and as I went through recovery, I swapped starving myself with high-level anxiety. I’ve always struggled with the unknown, and my husband will be the first to tell you I have an unhealthy need to always be in control. While yes I am many things, one thing I am not is in denial. So, when I found out I was pregnant, I did what I always do. Hyperfixate, read all the books, study all the articles, watch all the videos and enter into parenthood armed with all the information to help me become an expert in my most important role yet…

The. Perfect. Mum. 

My algorithm quickly caught on. My targeted posts switched from fashion outfit inspiration, recipes I’ll never make, and celebrity news to hypnobirthing tips, handy baby hacks and hospital bag packing lists. The world of social media made it easy for me to collect my tools for my ‘the perfect mum’ kit. I lapped up all the information – I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to learn all the breathing techniques and know how a floppy face meant a floppy fanny in childbirth. I loved looking at all the things I should have in my nursery and discovering the clever little gadgets that would help my baby sleep like a baby (what a stupid fucking saying?!).

I wouldn’t describe myself as naive to all the things that would come with having children; I didn’t ever claim I would ‘just bring the kids along’ to a late restaurant reservation or that I’d never co-sleep. I was open-minded and knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I was completely and utterly unaware of how hard it would be. I thought I could research until my heart was content, and that meant I would have the answers I needed to any questions I’d have along the way. It’s impossible to describe to someone how a baby alters your life or what looking after small children really entails, but one thing I had never considered was just how heavy the weight of raising a human being would feel to me. 

Now, it didn’t take long after having my son to realise that this was way more complicated than I anticipated, and for me to even attempt to do this perfectly, I would need reinforcements. It’s true what they say about babies and children not coming with a handbook, but they do, however, come with a mum who has more information in her smartphone than could ever fit in one book, and that, I believe, became more of a hindrance than a help.

While I did find it helpful to google what poo colours are typical for week 1 or if the weird smell coming from the umbilical cord was worrying, as time went on, the sheer volume of contradicting information and ‘maybes’ was completely anxiety-inducing. On googling, I found that Ren’s unsightly acne may be normal or a dairy allergy. The mucus he was spitting up may be normal, or he could have an obstructed bowel. The 10-minute feeds he was doing could be normal, or he could have a tongue tie and not be getting any fatty milk from the breast and, therefore, be starving. This was just the start of the absolutely exhausting ifs, buts and maybes that would keep me awake at night and the coulds or shoulds that came after.

How was I supposed to know what I ‘should’ be doing if hundreds of Instagram pages told me to do it differently? How can I decipher if my baby is uncomfortable, tired, or bored if Instagram has differing views on what these signs look like? Why is my health visitor telling me to only use a blanket tucked in the cot, but everyone I know swears by sleeping bags? Why did my mum and mother-in-law do things so differently and with such ease, but so many of their methods are now frowned upon? The questions were endless and ever-growing as the days and weeks passed. Of course, I now know that ultimately, the person who knows your baby best is yourself, and no amount of information can override a mother’s instinct or experience – but hindsight is a wonderful thing.

During the first few weeks of Ren’s life, he only wanted to sleep on my chest, something I now know to be completely normal, but of course, at the time, I thought my baby would just lie in his crib and go to sleep like he was supposed to. I knew the NHS recommended you should absolutely not put anything else in the cot with them, but all of my friends were using Dock-A-Tots in the crib, at least for a couple of weeks, to make it more comfortable and inviting. I was sleep-deprived and desperate, and so one night, I put his Sleepyhead into his sleep space. I sat awake the entire night, my face on its raised edge, checking his breathing every 30 minutes as he slept soundly. What a pointless exercise. I decided that having it in the cot was so anxiety-inducing that even though it made him sleep better, it wasn’t of any help to me. 

The trial and error you face when getting to know your baby is why I don’t enjoy the newborn stage. For a control freak who wants to know everything at all times, it’s a nightmare. I find deciphering the cries and figuring out their unique wants and needs so stressful. I constantly questioned whether I was doing the right thing and beat myself up for not instantly ‘just knowing’ what he needed. It took me a good couple of months to discover his own little rhythm and likes and dislikes, and while I wasn’t short of advice from other new mums around me, my family and the internet, none of them had MY baby. What worked for them didn’t work for me, and vice versa.

Yes, there are books you can buy, podcasts you can listen to, or Instagram reels you can favourite, but none were created for the baby in your arms. And while you can enter motherhood with all intentions in the world, until you meet that little person born with a unique set of desires and personality, you really don’t know what you are in for or how you will play it. And you certainly aren’t going to be able to do it perfectly. It was a confronting reality for me.

As Ren moved through the stages of infancy, so did my anxiety. For every phase that passed, a new one with new sets of questions arrived in its place. I hate to talk about sleep; I know it’s so dull, but we’re all so obsessed with getting enough of it that I have to mention it. Ren was never a good napper. He fought sleep with every fibre in his being. Until 5 months old, he took almost every nap on me (which I loved, by the way), in the car or the buggy. The cot was his enemy. He never napped longer than 32 minutes until he was over 9 months old, and he completely dropped all naps before his second birthday.

Now, at 3.5, he still needs us to lie with him to sleep at night. He did, however, sleep through the night from 4 months old. My friends constantly told me, ‘You’d rather it that way round!’ or ‘If it doesn’t affect the night, don’t worry about it!’ but I was consumed with getting him to nap longer. Why? Because everything I saw online said he ‘should’ be getting around 3-4 hours of day sleep for his age. This, to me, would be ‘perfect’, but I would be lucky if he got 1.5 hours. I could not shake off this feeling that I was doing something wrong, even though he slept soundly 12 hours a night. I would stand rocking him in a dark room for hours on end, trying to extend a nap. I would push him in the pram with the hood down while I lapped the park, and he screamed, trying to get him to go back off. Now I wonder, had I not seen any of that information on the internet, would I have just been happy with the 30 minutes of sleep he had gotten and gone about my day? Probably. 

This was just one of the many ‘shoulds’ I let consume me the first time and one of the things I have let go of with my second. Although he slept through the night, it took me 45 minutes to one hour of rocking Ren to get him to fall asleep. I remember one day, while in a spiral of ‘what am I doing wrong’, having a conversation with my mum about self-settling. ‘He should be self-settling by now’, I would say. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Well, because he should.’ I replied. ‘Says who?’ ‘Well, everyone online,’ I said, confused. ‘Well, I rocked your brother to sleep every night until he was about two. There is no should, Shannon; you can do whatever you want – you’re the mum.’ She said. I can’t explain the weight that lifted off my shoulders at that point. That conversation felt like the first time I had been given permission to do what felt instinctively right for me and my baby. From then on, I gave up trying to get him to self-settle and just enjoyed our cuddles before bedtime, and eventually, at 14 months, he did. Do I regret holding my baby so much to support him to sleep? Not one bit. Did I let the outside noise of the internet make me feel like I was failing at the time? Yes, for far too long.

The sad thing is, in a world of social media, sleep is just one of the hot topics on a whole laundry list of things we’re fed information about and often give ourselves a hard time over. Many sleep accounts will tell you what sleep training methods you should be trying, how long they need to be awake before they’re overtired, how self-settling is the be-all-and-end-all, and that you are resigned to a life of misery and sleep deprivation should you not ‘teach’ your baby to do so. Weaning accounts will show you perfectly presented before and after plates of balanced protein, dairy and fruit and vegetables, which have been devoured by their non-fussy child, and make you feel like absolute shit for the plain pasta and one lick of a grape your child has eaten that day. I tried batch cooking, spending hours making Annabel Karmel meals my toddler hated, leaving me with a freezer full of wasted ingredients that would never get eaten. I will admit that Ren is a very adventurous eater and always has been, but I know this is down to genetics more than anything, and now, as a pre-schooler, he can go all day with barely anything but a packet of crisps. It’s true when they say you can have the most perfect eater as a baby, but they’re all eating McDonald’s chips off the floor by the time they’re toddlers. 

Then, there are the play idea pages. Personally, these were the worst for me, and the ones that fuelled my mum guilt the most when Ren was a baby and toddler. My friends will read this and laugh, as they often called me the 24/7 children’s entertainer. If I wasn’t taking Ren on extravagant daily outings to fill his sensory tank (even as a baby), I was creating at-home activities with odds and sods around the house, setting up play stations with bouncy balls and muffin trays, reading books, doing flashcards, drawing, crafting and the list goes on. Once, when Ren was about 2 months old, I set up an at-home sensory space complete with foil blankets, ceiling lights, maracas and music. Did he enjoy this? For a couple of minutes. Did I enjoy it? Some of the time – but definitely not all. I’m not saying I wouldn’t do any of this again, but I think the issue lies in that I was doing these mainly because I felt like I was doing him a disservice if I didn’t, rather than connecting in ways that felt more authentic and enjoyable for me.

Ren never had any awake time when I wasn’t entertaining him somehow. He is exceptionally bright, spoke early, and was far ahead of his expected milestones. All of this hands-on play perhaps helped in that, but maybe not. I certainly didn’t need to focus so much on filling every second of our time with organised fun. Now, he struggles to play alone at any time and constantly looks for the next thing to do. He is used to an insane level of attention because that’s what I taught him. Of course, some of this is age-appropriate, and all children love their parents to play with them, but we have continuously poured so much of our efforts into play that this is what he always expects. We’ve set a bar so high for ourselves that it’s almost impossible to uphold. And the cycle of guilt goes round again.

I found that in my pursuit of perfection, I started to do things that either weren’t enjoyable or didn’t feel natural to me, purely because Instagram made me feel like I should be and that if I didn’t, I was a bad mum. Ironically, on Instagram, I saw something around family-centred parenting, whereby the parents engage in activities that are fun for both them and the child. This means the whole family is enjoying themselves rather than partaking in play that feels tedious. It really struck a chord with me. I love to draw with Ren, do puzzles, read, tell funny stories, put on silly voices, play board games and build with Duplo or Magnatiles. We have dance parties and karaoke sessions all of the time. We cook together most days, and he is my little helper for washing, the dishwasher and other tasks around the house – we both get so much enjoyment out of these simple, little moments. I do not enjoy play fighting, smashing action figures against the floor, or squeezing my bum onto bikes, which I’m too big for, so I won’t join him in those. And I’ve realised that it is okay. 

As he’s grown, I feel like I’ve unlocked new levels of parenting that I never considered and have no idea how to navigate – I learn on the job through each new one that arises, but I still find the unknown of these can send me spiralling. As he is now 3.5, there’s more need for discipline, and this is, by far, is the most challenging thing for me to overcome in terms of perfectionism. In particular, I feel such an intense amount of guilt around gentle parenting and cycle-breaking learnt behaviours in myself. I know I am a patient mum. I am very good at validating his feelings and helping him calm down, and I wouldn’t describe myself as shouty. Still, I do lose it, way more than I’d like to  – and the shame and guilt I feel afterwards are mainly fuelled by the things I’ve seen online about how shouting, rushing and telling your children off can set them up for a childhood steeped in trauma and unhealthy behaviours. I am consumed with making sure he never feels less-than, knows how loved he is, and has time and space to be a child, including tantrums, having outbursts, and showing rage and upset. I let him feel all the big feelings, and the majority of the time, I handle these situations with as much care and kindness as I can muster, but sometimes – I just can’t fucking take it anymore. 

I have seen so many parenting accounts that tell me I shouldn’t be telling him to ‘be careful’, as this will instil fear in him, that I shouldn’t even be saying ‘good boy’ when he achieves something as this puts too much focus on the result, rather than the effort. Others say that I shouldn’t have a big reaction if he hits me, as this fuels the behaviour. Instead, I should tell him ‘kind hands’ and step away. I’m not supposed to rush him out the door because it will cause anxiety. I shouldn’t tell him the behaviour is naughty because I will make him think he’s bad. I’ve seen and read all of the scripts we apparently ‘should’ be reciting to our children in these moments – instead of telling him to get down, I’m supposed to say, ‘Does your body feel safe at this moment?’ I mean, really? Try as I might, I can’t seem to get on board with some of this rhetoric.

Honestly, I get into bed most nights and lie awake, berating myself – my mind swirls with everything I did and said wrong that day, and I worry that I’m failing him as a mum because of it. In my heart, I know I am a good mum; I know I am kind, patient, and considerate. I give him all the tools he needs to learn, grow and flourish – I leave space for his independence and encourage him to try hard things, but step in when he wants my support. I say sorry. I never tell him I know best simply because I’m an adult. I explain, and I take my time. So why am I constantly beating myself up night after night once I’ve closed my Instagram app? It feels like a form of self-harm that I can’t get away from.

Although I’m back in the baby phase with Nova, I no longer agonise over every decision. I know I’ll reach this same place as she moves into toddlerhood, pre-school age, and beyond – but I’m not there yet because these stages I’m going through with Ren are all new to me, and I’m bumbling my way through the best I know how. But as I re-experience the moments I have already gone through once before, I’m confident in my decisions in a way only a second-time mum can be, and I know, ultimately, all I can do for her is my best. I don’t have to be perfect, nor can I be. I let go of a lot of mum guilt and the pressure I felt when I realised it would be impossible for me to give Nova the same level of attention I gave Ren because my time is split now. When the next child or children come along, you have to learn to split your time and tend to each child’s needs in the best way you can.

I’m a constant work in progress, and I’ve gotten to a place where I can admit – I’m not the perfect mum. I never will be because I’m human. Now I believe, If it feels right for me and works for our family, then ultimately, it’s the perfect way for us – no matter what Instagram says. It might look very different for you and yours, which is okay too. I do know that I will always show up for my children in the best way I know how, and I hope that one day, they’ll look back on their childhood fondly and be able to say – 

“My mum loved us so much.’