Last night I realised that my baby, my little cosy, sucky William, turned 21 months yesterday. In three months time he will be two.

I’m thinking about this because we are planning a holiday and two marks the age at which you have to pay for their air fare, but also when they get free childcare. So travelling with a two year old has its financial ups and downs. But it has also made me think about how far I have come in the last nine months. When William turned one we had a party but really I wanted someone to get up and congratulate ME for getting through William’s first year – not in the self-congratulatory sense, but in the sense that I was still functioning as a wife and mother (albeit only just). At the end of the day all I wanted to do was cry. He had turned one but I was feeling more tired, more depressed, more fed up than I did when he was six months old.

When I think of all that time I spent suffering from post-partum depression, all those magical baby moments I wasted being detached and unhappy, all the crying I did, effectively for nothing, I just feel incredibly sorry. Sorry that I put myself, my children, my husband, members of my family through it, sorry that I couldn’t see that I was suffering from this thing that had effectively taken over my life without me even realising it.

When William turns two in three months time, it will be a genuinely happy day. And I am so incredibly thankful for my beautiful family, but more importantly for my own sanity. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I have achieved happiness yet (and may not while I am staying at home looking after small children) but the fact that I no longer feel I want to drive my car into a tree is enough – more than enough – for me.