But I felt the crushing responsibility of raising a daughter. I found myself poring over parenting articles. Reading the latest studies. Listening attentively when more knowledgeable mothers waxed lyrical about what was expected. I now overthought everything to a terrifying degree. I feared an offhand comment here, a simple observation there, would have the butterfly effect of determining the type of person she was going to become.

It meant any given everyday situation was suddenly a cause for concern.

At playgroup:

‘Here you go, sweetheart.’ I handed Gigi a doll. There I was, gender stereotyping again. ‘You can have this too.’ I quickly gave her a truck. ‘Play with what you want. You can do anything you want.’

‘I want doll.’

‘OK, that’s great. But remember you can have the truck too.’

A visit to my mother:

‘Now go and give Granny a kiss.’ There I was, forcing her to be physical with someone against her will.

A playground altercation:

‘He doesn’t mean it when he pulls your hair. He’s doing it because he likes you.’ Now I was teaching her that it didn’t matter if men hurt you as that was how they showed affection.

A new dress:

‘You look so pretty.’ Oh God, I mustn’t focus on her looks. ‘I mean, you look so clever.’ I need to show her that intelligence and personality are more important. But how can I celebrate her brains when she’s only two and a half and can only scribble and count to seven? Maybe I big up every little achievement. A big HURRAH for zipping up her coat. But then won’t that give her an inflated sense of self-worth? Will I be giving her a big ego and she will expect praise every time she wipes her own bum? Actually, I really would give her praise for that – when does that start?

Doing up her Velcro trainers:

‘Let me do that.’ I was teaching her not to be self-reliant. ‘I mean, keep on trying, you’re doing a great job.’ She needs to learn how to solve her own problems. That perseverance is eventually rewarded with success. Even if it does take her twenty minutes to fasten up a Velcro strip . . . Even if it takes all day . . . Oh fuck it, we’re late. ‘Come on, I’ve done it, let’s go.’

Going to have her hair cut:

‘No, darling, we aren’t going to keep the fringe – Daddy doesn’t like it.’ A man’s opinion on your appearance is more important than your own. ‘I mean, Mummy and Daddy don’t like it.’ We are in charge and we determine how you will look. ‘I mean, you don’t like it.’ I am telling you your own opinion. ‘You know what? Keep the fringe if you like it.’ You’re the boss and I have no control over you.

This nagging internal monologue could take over any interaction.