I had finally managed to get a few hours to myself. Cyrus was at nursery, I had a hair appointment booked and, for once, nobody needed me to find a missing sock, wipe a nose or magic up a snack. You’d think I’d be delighted. Instead, I was sitting with a coffee wondering whether I should have kept him at home.

I’d barely had a proper day to myself in months. Between work, looking after Cyrus and trying to keep the house from looking as though we’d been burgled, there wasn’t much time left for anything else. Yet the moment I had a few hours free, I started questioning whether I really deserved them. I could almost have had MUMMY GUILT tattooed across my forehead, although that would have been another appointment to arrange.

I became a mum again at 40. By then, I thought I knew myself reasonably well. I had a career, enjoyed going to the gym and was quite capable of spending an afternoon alone without feeling the need to explain it to anybody. Having a baby changed that more than I expected. Suddenly, leaving the house took planning, getting anywhere on time was an achievement and a trip to the hairdresser felt like something I should be grateful for.

I loved being a mum, but I also missed being able to leave the house without packing nappies, wipes and spare clothes. I missed hot coffee, uninterrupted conversations and getting my hair done without arranging childcare first. None of these seemed like unreasonable things to want, but I still managed to feel bad about them.

Looking back at those early nursery years, I can see how often I questioned perfectly ordinary decisions. Whether I was working too much, spending enough time with Cyrus or keeping the house reasonably presentable. Even the little things could leave me wondering whether another mum would have handled them better. And on the rare occasions when everything seemed to be going well, I could usually find something else to worry about.

The phone that was always in my hand

I was constantly checking my phone. Work emails, Facebook, Instagram, the nursery app and whatever else happened to be demanding my attention that morning. Sometimes I genuinely needed to check something for work. But more often than not, I’d find myself looking at photographs of somebody else’s immaculate kitchen when I should have been getting ready.

I’d see mothers making homemade snacks, organising fabulous activities and apparently managing to keep their houses spotless. Meanwhile, I was trying to remember where I’d put my keys and whether I’d brushed my hair. I knew perfectly well that social media only showed a small part of people’s lives, but it didn’t stop me comparing mine with theirs. I could look around our perfectly ordinary, lived-in home and convince myself that everybody else was managing better.

Then I’d feel bad about being on my phone instead of paying attention to Cyrus. I’d put it down, remember an email I hadn’t answered and pick it up again. There were times when I seemed to spend more energy worrying about using my phone than I did actually using it, which was quite an achievement considering how often it was in my hand.

The changing bag I should have packed the night before

Some mums seemed wonderfully organised. Their children’s clothes were laid out, lunches were prepared and everything was packed the night before. I wasn’t one of them, although I often promised myself that tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, I would be organised, calm and ready to leave the house without running back upstairs three times because I’d forgotten something.

Most mornings involved throwing nappies, Sudocrem, wipes and an un-ironed T-shirt into the changing bag while trying to get Cyrus dressed. There was usually something missing, and it was normally the thing we needed most. I’d remember the spare clothes but forget the wipes, or pack enough snacks while leaving his water bottle on the kitchen counter.

I could have packed everything the night before, of course. But I’d spent the evening watching Bosch, drinking coffee and enjoying the fact that nobody was asking me for anything. After working all day and looking after a toddler, sitting on the sofa was sometimes the only thing I wanted to do.

I didn’t regret watching TV, I just wished I’d remembered to put the wipes back in the bag. There was always something I could have done the previous evening to make the morning easier, but I also wanted an hour when I wasn’t working through another list of jobs.

The morning he wouldn’t wake up

Cyrus had a habit of waking ridiculously early, especially on mornings when we didn’t need to be anywhere. At weekends, when we could all have enjoyed a lie-in, he was usually awake before the rest of the house. But on the one day I had plans, he decided to sleep.

I stood beside his cot, looking at him fast asleep and wondering whether to wake him. He looked so peaceful, and I knew that once he was up, the morning would become a race to get everything done. I whispered that he could have another five minutes, although I was probably talking to myself because he certainly wasn’t listening.

Then I went downstairs, made another coffee and watched the clock. I needed to get him to nursery, catch a bus and make it to my appointment on time, but I still couldn’t bring myself to wake him. It seemed unfair to disturb him when he’d finally decided that sleeping was good, after all those nights when I’d have given anything for him to stay asleep.

When I eventually went back upstairs, he wasn’t happy about it. He didn’t want to get out of his cot, didn’t want to get dressed and certainly didn’t care that his mum had somewhere to be. I couldn’t really blame him, but by then I was already running late.

The house that never seemed tidy

Before we’d even left, I’d noticed the washing that needed folding, and toys scattered across the floor. There was always something on the stairs waiting to be taken upstairs and usually a pile of clothes that I’d washed but hadn’t quite managed to put away. I briefly thought about cancelling my plans and sorting the house instead.

I’ve often considered getting a cleaner, but every time I work out what it would cost, I decide I can manage without one. Then I spend the weekend cleaning and wondering why I haven’t got a cleaner. It’s a conversation I’ve had with myself more times than I care to admit, usually while standing in the kitchen looking at something that needs scrubbing.

The house wasn’t filthy. It was just lived in, with a toddler who had an ability to spread his belongings across several rooms in minutes. I could tidy the living room, turn around to put something away and come back to find that he’d emptied another box of toys across the carpet.

I knew I could leave the washing until later. Nobody was going to suffer because I hadn’t cleaned the kitchen floor, but I still found myself thinking about it while I was out. Even sitting in a café, I’d remember the washing in the machine or the dishes I’d left beside the sink. Apparently, being away from the house didn’t mean I could stop thinking about it.

The rabbits that got us out of the house

Getting Cyrus dressed could take longer than the journey to nursery. He didn’t want his socks on, then he didn’t like his shoes. His coat was apparently unacceptable, and by the time I’d managed to get one arm into a sleeve, he’d changed his mind about going downstairs.

Eventually, I promised we’d look for rabbits on the way to nursery. It worked, at least long enough to get him out of the bedroom and downstairs without another argument. I was quite prepared to use whatever harmless distraction got us moving when we were already late and I could see my plans for the morning slipping away.

I’m sure there are better ways of dealing with an uncooperative toddler, but when you’re trying to catch a bus and somebody is refusing to wear trousers, you’ll try almost anything. I wasn’t attempting to win a parenting award. I just wanted to get him dressed, fed and out of the house before lunchtime.

By the time we reached the front door, I was sweating. I’d grabbed half an apple for him, forgotten something upstairs and had to go back for it. The changing bag was hanging off my shoulder, I couldn’t find my keys and Cyrus had decided he wanted to take something else with him. So much for a relaxing morning.

The nursery drop-off that made me feel awful

Some mornings Cyrus went into nursery quite happily. Other mornings he clung to me and didn’t want me to leave. This was one of those mornings, and after everything it had taken to get us there, I was already feeling rather frazzled.

I handed him over to his key worker, gave him a kiss and walked away while he was still upset. I knew he’d probably settle within minutes, but that didn’t make leaving any easier. There is something particularly difficult about hearing your child cry as you walk away, even when you know he’s in good hands.

On the way to the bus stop, I started thinking about everything I could have done differently. Perhaps I should have got up earlier, made him a better breakfast or spent longer cuddling him before we left. I wondered whether he’d eaten enough and whether he’d remember that I’d been impatient when he refused to put his shoes on.

I’d been looking forward to a few hours alone, but now that I had them, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I knew he’d be playing with his friends and enjoying himself once he’d settled, yet I was still replaying the morning in my head. Naturally, I checked my work emails to distract myself, which at least gave me something else to worry about.

The other mum in the café

After nursery, I stopped for a coffee. I had time to sit down, drink it properly and look around without worrying about Cyrus climbing out of his chair. I didn’t need to cut anybody’s food into small pieces or keep retrieving things from the floor. For once, I could sit at a table with nothing more demanding than a cup of coffee in front of me.

At the next table was a mother with her toddler. They were sharing a croissant and laughing together, and it looked lovely. She seemed relaxed, the child was sitting happily and neither of them appeared to be in any particular hurry.

Immediately, I wondered why I hadn’t taken Cyrus out for breakfast instead. We could have gone to the park afterwards or spent the morning doing something together. Perhaps he’d have enjoyed a croissant, although knowing him, he’d probably have wanted something else the moment it arrived.

I’d conveniently forgotten about the mornings when he’d refused to sit still, knocked over his drink or decided he didn’t want the food he’d asked for. I just looked at this mother and her child and thought perhaps I should be doing the same.

For all I knew, she’d spent the previous hour having an argument about putting shoes on. She might have been exhausted and looking forward to getting home, but I didn’t think about that at the time. I drank my coffee and tried to enjoy it, although by then it had started to go cold.

The hair appointment I felt I had to explain

All I really wanted was to have my hair done, perhaps get my nails sorted and spend a little time looking after myself. It wasn’t an extravagant day out, and I wasn’t planning anything particularly exciting. I just wanted a few hours when I could do something without having to think about what everybody else needed.

I’d even thought about Botox. Having a baby at 40, along with the sleepless nights that followed, hadn’t done much for the face looking back at me in the mirror. I wasn’t expecting miracles, but I did fancy looking a little less tired than I felt.

But while I was sitting in the salon, I kept thinking about the things I could have been doing instead. The shopping needed doing, there was washing at home and I had work I could have caught up on. I’d waited ages for a chance to get my hair done, yet there I was, mentally making another list of jobs.

My husband could go for a haircut without giving it much thought. I couldn’t understand why I felt the need to justify mine. It wasn’t as though I was disappearing for a fortnight or leaving Cyrus to fend for himself. He was at nursery, perfectly well looked after, and I was having my hair done.

The supermarket tantrum

By the time I collected Cyrus from nursery, he was tired, grubby and ready for his tea. I decided we’d stop at the supermarket on the way home because I only needed a few things. It seemed sensible at the time, although taking an exhausted toddler shopping at the end of the day was rarely a particularly successful idea.

He spotted a toy truck and wanted it. It was enormous, certainly not something we needed, and I told him no. He promptly lay down on the floor and refused to move, making it very clear that he considered my decision completely unreasonable.

People were walking past, some smiling and others looking as though they’d rather be anywhere else. I could feel myself getting hot and flustered, which only made the situation worse. I tried reasoning with him, although reasoning with an exhausted toddler in the middle of a supermarket isn’t particularly productive.

I could practically feel people judging me, even though most were probably far more interested in getting their shopping done. I wondered whether I should have distracted him sooner, avoided the toy aisle or simply abandoned the idea of stopping at the supermarket altogether.

Eventually, I picked him up and left without half the things I’d gone in for. On the way home, I wondered whether I’d handled it badly. Perhaps I should have been firmer, or perhaps I’d been too firm. Then again, perhaps he was simply tired and wanted a truck, which was probably the most accurate explanation of the whole episode.

The bedtime story that wasn’t enough

By the evening, I was exhausted. We’d managed dinner, bath time and pyjamas, although none of it had been particularly straightforward. Cyrus had reached that stage of tiredness when everything seemed to require a discussion, and I was looking forward to sitting downstairs with a coffee and watching television.

I read Five Minutes’ Peace, which seemed an appropriate choice given that five minutes’ peace was exactly what I wanted. Then Cyrus asked me to read it again, and again. I didn’t mind reading to him, but there came a point when I could barely keep my eyes open and was beginning to know the book better than its author.

Eventually, I told him it was time to sleep. He wanted another story, then another cuddle, and I could feel myself getting impatient. I kissed him goodnight, turned off the light and went downstairs, relieved that the day was finally over.

Within minutes, I was wondering whether I should have stayed a little longer. Perhaps I could have read one more book or told him a Persian story. Although I doubt he’d have been particularly interested in Hafez at that age, I still wondered whether I’d rushed bedtime because I wanted some time to myself.

I’d spent the whole day rushing around, and now that everything was quiet, I was questioning whether I’d given him enough attention. It was a familiar feeling, and one I never seemed to have a sensible answer for.

Having a baby at 40 didn’t make me any wiser about motherhood

I thought being an older mother might make me more relaxed about things. I’d lived a bit, had a career and knew that most problems weren’t the end of the world. I wasn’t particularly interested in competing with other mothers, and I’d always thought I was reasonably good at making my own decisions.

But having Cyrus at 40 also meant I was conscious of how much I’d wanted him. I sometimes felt I had no right to complain about being tired or needing a break, particularly when I’d been fortunate enough to have him later in life.

I wanted to enjoy every stage of his childhood, but I also had a job, a house to run and a life that didn’t stop simply because I’d become a mother. I still wanted to go to the gym, see people occasionally and have a conversation that didn’t revolve around feeding, sleeping or what time somebody had last had a nappy change.

There were days when I loved every minute of being with him, and others when I couldn’t wait for bedtime. Sometimes both happened on the same day. I don’t think I admitted that very often when he was little because it seemed easier to say everything was fine than explain that I could love my son enormously and still want a few hours without him.

I also found myself comparing what I was doing with what I thought other mothers were doing. Some appeared to manage work and family life without ever looking tired, while others seemed to spend every waking moment planning activities for their children. I knew this couldn’t possibly be the whole story, but it didn’t stop me wondering whether I was doing enough.

Does mummy guilt ever go away?

Cyrus is older now, and I no longer have to worry about packing nappies or getting him into a pushchair. There are different things to think about instead, and I can’t say I’ve become particularly good at switching off from them.

I wonder whether I’m spending enough time with him, whether I should be doing more at weekends and whether work takes up too much of my attention. Sometimes I worry about how much time he spends on his Nintendo, even though I’m quite capable of losing half an hour looking at my own phone. I also wonder whether we should be getting out more, doing more activities or making better use of the time we have together.

I still enjoy going to the gym, writing and having time to myself. I don’t want to give those things up, and I don’t think I should have to. But there are occasions when I find myself making excuses for doing something that doesn’t involve the family, particularly if there’s washing waiting or something that needs doing around the house.

I look back at that day when Cyrus was at nursery and wonder why I made such hard work of enjoying a few hours alone. He was being looked after, I had an appointment I’d been looking forward to and there was absolutely nothing wrong with sitting in a café drinking coffee by myself.

I could have had my coffee, got my hair done and gone home without spending half the day questioning myself. Of course, I didn’t, and even now, with a ten-year-old rather than a toddler, I sometimes catch myself doing exactly the same thing.

Perhaps that’s just how motherhood is for some of us. We spend so much time thinking about everybody else that doing something for ourselves can feel strangely uncomfortable, even when nobody has actually asked us to explain it.

I still haven’t entirely worked out how to stop doing that. But the next time I manage to get a few hours to myself, I’d quite like to enjoy my coffee while it’s hot rather than spend the afternoon thinking about what I should be doing instead.

Have you ever felt bad about taking time for yourself, even when your children were perfectly happy and being looked after? And does that feeling change as they get older, or do we simply find something new to worry about?