"I'm just not made for this, kid."

"This" being parenthood.

I know, I know -- lots of parents think they're not, that everyone feels this way sometimes. I have long despised the parents who gave the raising of their children to someone else (nanny, grandparents, boarding school) -- to my chagrin, if I could afford it, I would. Because I have found that I cannot be what my daughter needs me to be: 100% there all the time. All these people would care for her in ways that I never can.

This was further brought home to me when I visited the home of a childminder. Her home -- not her place of work, her home -- was a child's heaven. There was all manner of toys, games, costumes for dressing up, books, chickens, cats, a garden, a sandpit... my child belonged here, in this place made so lovingly for the purpose of childhood.

So why did I have a child? Not, as one might expect, because I wanted to be a parent. The reasons now seem naive, but despite what we believe ourselves capable of, predicting accurately how we would react to a situation two, three or five years down the line is not one of those things.

I am in awe of the power of our genes to convince us of the rightness of procreating. I had somehow gone from adamantly not wanting children to craving one in a space of 10 years. Even though, I knew that I would not enjoy parenthood, I'd somehow convinced myself that I would.

Alright, I concede that I did have moments of joy. But let's consider this: I was so angry and sad a few months after I gave birth, that I went back on antidepressants and stayed on them for nearly four years. It was the only way I could cope with my marriage and my child. And even then it was a bit touch and go for while. In that time, I believe I must have enjoyed some things - I have the pictures to show it - but I don't remember many of them. I see the smiles, the things we did, but I do not remember them. Post-meds... well, that's a different story. Take today for example, I ended up locking myself in the kitchen - I was hiding from my own child, because I just could not bear to be with her (the caterwauling, the flinging of cereal all over the bedroom floor and bed, the endless demands). Take a breath? Calm down? Don't shout? Medicate?

For those of you who are made for this, I salute you.