Let me explain. Earlier in the year, after agonising about whether cutting the apron strings would stunt my son’s future development, and catapult him into therapy, I decided to put him into nursery for a few days every week and get back to work. Of course once the decision was made, despite knowing my daughter had gone into day care and survived to live another day, I was racked with guilt.

Guilt aimed at myself - over my obvious selfishness, and the guilt that comes from those silent accusations, radiating out from judgemental ‘earth’ mother types. You know the the sort. The mum’s who are happy to schedule their every waking minute around baby groups, Jolly Jingle music classes and ‘Beginners Russian for Babies’. They appear to spend every single day painting with scraps of string, making animals out of paper mache and mass producing trays of multi-coloured cup cakes.

These are the mother’s who make you feel like an unmaternal monster for daring to enjoy your life before children, and incredibly selfish for even suggesting you want one after. Hats off to you if you are built this way, but please, enough with the comments and tutting. To these people, I say why don’t you concentrate on your own finger painting children, and leave the welfare of my children to me.

I think it is safe to say that I am not such a mother. I never have been, and no amount of intensive craft training or raised eyebrows are going to turn me into one. I did the whole baby group thing the first time around, so when my son came along I was reluctant to go back. Those dreaded weekly meets became all about graphic stories of ruptured placentas, lengthily labours and a fiercely fought battle over who had prepared the best spread of food on the day. Chinese water torture has nothing on a baby group.

Not wanting to starve my son of any joy in his life, we did give Gymbaroo a go. Being much younger than the other performing toddlers in the class, he refused to jump through the hoops or even go up to cuddle teddy. He actually spent much of the time fighting to get of my lap and out of the door. By the end of the term, as I sat with gritted teeth through all the songs, I had to agree with his gut instinct. We made our bid for freedom, sadly never to return.

Of course I love to play with my son. We happily spend many hours building train tracks, re-potting tubs of play dough and reading the same book, over and over and over again. Mealtimes I could do without, but the rest I would never want to miss. But as much as I value this time, I also need to keep my brain ticking over. I need to have a few days where I’m not covered in cracker crumbs and knee deep in sand. I also have to earn a living and pay the bills.

Anyway, back to that guilt.

Eventually my paranoid state subsided and common sense prevailed. Helped along by a timely reminder about the importance of social skills, as my son attempted to scalp an unsuspecting friend who came to play.

With a decision made, I set around finding somewhere that he could go. I naturally went to the nursery with the best reputation, a family run business with a queue for places that ran out of the door. 3 months I was told, 4 at the tops. Fair enough I thought, if there are no places then it must be good. So I handed over the $20 registration fee and resigned myself to the wait.

Trouble is, patience isn’t really my thing though, so after a few days I thought I’d give the other nursery a go. This one didn’t have such a good reputation. ABC Learning Centre is a chain, with 1000’s of centres around the world, and an army of staff who probably aren’t all great. But with an open mind and the need to work looming over me,  I went along for a look. I was impressed with the reception my son and I received and he was given a place starting a few days later. As I said, patience just isn’t my thing.

Along we went on the first day, with teddy stuffed into a Bob the Builder bag so big, my son could have used it for a cot. Yes, he was a little bit teary at first, but not nearly as bad as me. I walked away that day, with my forked tail tucked into my jeans, went home and did nothing. I sat and worried, imagined the worst and then called 3 times before picking him up to bring him home for lunch. The next day was better, and by the 3rd he was fine. By the 5th day I was fine too, so decided I’d better stop calling up to check he wasn’t still howling at the gate for me. As if. All tears stopped when I walked away.

That was nearly 8 months ago now, and I have to say my son has never been happier. He helps pack his bag, climbs into the car and runs to go into the toddler room. His speaking has improved, he plays rather than ambushes and has even learned to sit still for more than 30 seconds at a time. He also sleeps better at night. Bingo!

Now back to the reason for my climbing blood pressure. In all this time, I have never heard so much as a peep from the other nursery, the one with the ‘excellent’ reputation and a waiting list longer than an IKEA store. Not once have they called to say there are still no spots or even to apologise for the delay. Nothing. So armed with the knowledge that other children have since been taken in, I went along today to ask for my $20 back. I saw no reason why they should keep my money simply for filing a piece of paper.

The owner, after admitting to already being asked the same thing by somebody else that day, said “No, the money was non-refundable.”

I don’t think so. If my son’s promised place had materialised, or I had even had a call, then yes, I would have agreed. But there wasn’t and they didn’t, and $20 is after all, still $20.

“Circumstances change” she tried to claim, “and we do have the best reputation in the area.”

“Well my circumstance didn’t change”, I replied, ” and I wouldn’t have paid and waited for a place that was never going to be there”.

“Fine”, she snapped back, slapping the $20 that she was for some reason holding, into my hand. “Take that then, and good luck to you.” She indicated to the door and I left, fuming. I can only presume that she thought I would need the good luck in finding another nursery who would take my son.

So there you go. Reputations are not all they are cracked up to be. If someone runs a child care centre like a cash register, and takes money from everyone who walks through the door, why would you ever want to entrust your child to such tender fleecing care. I think I’d rather spend every day covered in bits of sticky back plastic and smothered in PVA glue.

Finally, to all those mother’s who are made to feel like sending your child to day care is on a par with pushing them into a lions den, smothered in Bovril. I would say ignore what other people say. Just because you need to have a few days to yourself, whether to work, or think, or even sleep, it doesn’t mean you don’t love your child, care about their development or even enjoy spending time with them. It just means you need some time… to work, or think, or even sleep.

If that isn’t a good enough reason, then a recent study estimated that children who go to day care cut their risk of the most common type of childhood leukaemia by around 30%. Something to do with them building up their immunity to the small stuff, after spending their first year with a constant streaming nose and a face encrusted with snot.

It is a temporarily insane and somewhat delusional parent who books a holiday, takes their pint sized child on board an aeroplane and thinks that they will actually be able to sit back and enjoy their peanuts.

Air travel can be testing on the nerves at the best of times. Try to maintain an advanced yoga position for hours on end while simultaneously battling with a bagged and sealed headset and a renegade tray table, and fun will never be a word that springs to mind. Add a fractious squirming eel into the equation and you may well be wishing you’d just stayed at home and had a spray tan instead.

Traveling with children is never intended to be a pleasant experience, from the moment you drag them tired and grumpy from their beds and shoe horn them into a packed and waiting car. But it is what comes next that is as near to any military operation as found in downtown Baghdad.

First comes the careful manoeuvring of the overloaded trolleys, out of the car park and through the revolving terminal doors (the ones that either go too slow or literally threaten to cut your family in half). Then, once you have dug out your flight details from the bottom of the bag at the bottom of the trolley, you still need to negotiate your way through the dangerous hairpin bends of the swinging red ropes at check in. And all of this to then be greeted by a member of staff, who so obviously doesn’t want to be there and is simply spoiling for a fight. Namely over the said overloaded trolleys lurking behind you.

Airport security is now incredibly strict. Not a bad thing of course, but it does have the tendency to make you feel unnecessarily guilty and doubting whether you did actually pack your own bags or not. Cuticle clippers and bottled water now come under the category ‘potential deadly weapon’, and if I had a dollar for every pair of nail scissors taken off me under silent protest, I would almost be rich enough to fly First Class.

So, what I have always wondered about is this. If an undisclosed aerosol in your carry on can be enough to have you branded a terrorist, why, when asking whether your bags contain any dangerous items, do they (thankfully) fail to notice the most obvious item of all - the angelic looking little time bomb sat in a pram by your feet?

It is after all a known fact that a child in an vacuum sealed capsule can sometimes be as annoying and potentially hazardous as a mosquito trapped in your sleeping bag.

As you settle your fifty essential bags in around you and note that the amount of leg room has obviously been reduced since you last flew, the enormity of what lies ahead can hit you like a cold hard slap in the face. Concerned neighbouring passengers will start eyeing up your child, trying to determine whether they are a screamer or a kicker, and then subtly scan the plane for any empty seats. And who can really blame them. Every child free person, whether they admit it or not, has at some point wished a hasty rubbish shoot exit on some nearby spawn of Satan who has screeched for hours and bruised the small of their spine.

By the time the novelty of the window blind has worn off, the seat covers have been re-branded with washable markers and the ink has been sucked from the in-flight magazine, (all of this before even leaving the jet way) then comes the real test of a parent’s patience and inner strength. As you start taxing towards the runway and the flight stretches out before you, you will wonder why this trip ever seemed a good idea and if you are flying half way around the world, how on earth are you going to keep a bored and restless child seated, entertained and quiet in a space barely large enough to swing a hamster.

By the time they have grown bored of their toys, lost half of their Lego and suitably irritated both the people behind and in front, it is easy for murderous thoughts to start creeping in. These thoughts are often accompanied by cold sweats, tears and a silent vow to never fly again.

While most socially conscious parents vow that they would never let their child roam the aisles like a pack of hungry wolves, when it becomes a choice between that or DVT, you may well hoist junior off your lap and turn a blind eye. You are, after all safe in the knowledge that all the doors are child locked and every route will eventually bring them back to you. The only time when this is probably not advisable is around meal times, when there is a likelihood of them being mowed down by a renegade cart of chicken and beef.

For many parents mealtimes at home can be a daily battle field, leaving physical and mental scars for all involved. When trying to enforce the same principles of a clean plate, a well balanced diet and an ‘eat not throw’ policy’ at 2am, the result can be nearer on a bloodbath. More often than not the bread roll is the only thing on offer that will grab their attention. Unfortunately the roll is also the only thing on the tray that would also kill a passerby if dropped off a two storey building.

Pre-ordering a child’s meal does mean they are served first, giving you an iota of a chance of supervising and possibly controlling the scale of the inevitable fall out. On the downside however, the meal can also be loaded down with so many sugar filled treats that you may as well just hold their head back and pour blue smarties down their throat. The administering of E numbers in such a confined space is only advisable upon leaving the plane, when you need your child to walk on their own two feet.

Newborn babies probably make the best travelling companions of all. They can be put to sleep (not literally of course) in a bassinet, or if you forget to book one, they are still small enough to be held without the fear of pulling any major back muscles. If breastfeeding is still on the menu life is much easier still. It can help to combat the changing cabin pressure and stop their small ear from popping during take off and landing. It is very tempting however to make yourself the in-flight buffet in exchange for peace and potential sleep, but be warned by one who has tried this method before. Not only will you eventually stagger off the aeroplane feeling like a deflated cow, you are also very likely to overfill their small stomach. If this happens you run the risk of having your hours of your hard work returned in force all over you, your clothes, the seat and the passenger in the chair next to you.

If your child is sick (and the laws of probability say it will happen at some point), it can be a totally and utterly mortifying experience, enough to make you want to crawl under your seat and hide. But as widespread as the destruction and overpowering smell can be, and let me tell you waves of vomit or curdled milk sweeping through economy class can be pretty horrendous, there is absolutely nothing you can do but control and contain. At this point you better be hoping you had the foresight to pack spare clothes, otherwise your already upset child may well be leaving in an aircraft pillow case.

So how do you survive a flight and have the courage to face the same again on your return journey? The answer is patience, inner calm, acceptance and above all a sense of humour. Remember that from a child’s perspective, having their parent trapped in a seat next to them is actually a dream come true. So as much as you may want to finish your book or watch the in flight movie, if you can find the inner strength and energy to give your child your undivided attention, they might just surprise you and act like an angel. Of course if none of these options work then thinly veiled threats, bribery or Benadryl usually do the trick.

Finally, a word for all those passengers who fly with nothing more than a backpack, handbag or computer in tow.

If you don’t want to help a nearby parent by picking up a runaway beaker, playing peek-a-boo with their baby or even offering a pair of arms when the mother simply can’t keep her knees crossed any longer, then at least hold off with the hostile muttering and murderous looks. What you have before you is probably a parent who, short of knocking their child over the head and stuffing them in bag, has very little control over the situation. They are no doubt all ready stressed to breaking point and covered in hives, so you making them feel worse about their child’s behaviour is really not going to help matters at all.

And if you can’t be nice - buy Business.