I don’t know when I started doing this but at some point after becoming a mum, I apparently decided my daughter should get all the good strawberries.
You know the ones. Perfectly red. No weird squishy bit. PERFECT leaves (even though we don’t eat that bit) Elite strawberry.
Hers. All hers.
And I’d eat the slightly questionable one. Or the abandoned bits that were too close to the leaves for her.
Obviously this is not actually about strawberries (that would be a strange email!)
Because I started noticing all the other tiny ways I did it too.
Make her food first.
Give her the nicer bit.
Buy something for myself and immediately wonder whether I should have spent the money on her (new bras, I’m looking at you!!)
Why are we like this? Even if someone offered to help me, I’d say I was fine.
And I don’t think I ever consciously decided to do any of it.
Nobody sits you down after birth and says: “Right. You’re Mum now. Everyone else gets the good strawberries.”
It just sort of happened. It totally snuck up on me.
And for a long time I think I thought that’s what being a good mum looked like.
Anyway.
We went strawberry picking this week. And I’m proud to announce….
I eat the good strawberries now.
My daughter gets some too, obviously.
I’m not a monster.
But so do I.
Because apparently motherhood hasn’t actually removed my right to an elite strawberry.








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