I’ve talked about my inner child before – about the desperate diva throwing toddler-esque tantrums, spitting out my dummy when I’m faced with endless, thankless, relentless demands when all I want to do is hide under my duvet, quiet and alone. Recently my inner gargoyle has raised her ugly head (and voice) more than I care to remember (will my kids? is the question that keeps me awake some nights). The overwhelming overwhelmingness of my life right now is giving my spoilt brat inside a sustained sugar hit. All that new baby neediness, and the responsibilities of my mum’s illness has me screeching up the walls some days. And then last week on Mother’s Day I read an article by Eleanor Mills in the Sunday Times. It was about this modern generation of spoilt brats, pissed off with parenting, done in by the demands, and resentful of relentless crappy work. It got me thinking. This is what I signed up for. I wanted a busy family, a noisy household. The last six months as I’ve struggled with three under the age of 6, my mum’s voice plays over in my head, “well, you wanted three!”. It was my choice. And I wouldn’t change it. And I don’t know whether it was the article, or some level of acceptance with my mum’s situation, or the fact that at six months I’m finally getting to grips with this baby lark, but I’ve tentatively realised my inner gargoyle isn’t so petulant these days. In fact, my inner child has been having a bit of a field day of late – in a good way. I’ve been bouncing on the trampoline with gay abandon, freewheeling on my bike down the road, singing our Everything Has To Be a Song Days with gusto and generally remembering how to be a fun mum again. Oh the gargoyle is only resting no doubt, but I hope she has taken a permanent back seat. I hope I am slowly stumbling out of the haze of the last 6 months, and beginning to see life again through the eyes of a child, and the heart and maturity of a mother.