Growing up, Christmas was a magical time, great feasts of turkey and pudding, presents spilling out from under the tree and tinsel and lights sparkling through the lounge window. You never questioned how it all came together, you just ate, drank and played until you went to bed and it was time to look forward to Christmas next year.

I had finally made it through the 9th month. I was ready to reduce my girth, deflate my ankles and stop dressing in clothes with stretchy panels. Most of all, I was ready to meet Amelie. There was only one catch; my baby was nowhere to be seen.

I have never been fussed about having kids. I have never clucked over my friends' babies, chased kids at weddings or cooed over infants in strollers. I am what you call non-maternal, and I've never been bothered by it...until I became pregnant.

Four, three, two, one!! The room erupts into cheers and, caught up in the excitement, you decide to stop smoking, go to the gym, stop spending, insert your own New Years resolution here...

Sound familiar? The next part probably does too. The part where, within a week your determination has been whittled away and you're indulging in cake, smoking a pack a day, shopping up a storm, insert your own personal demon here.