Mummy blog: Why maternity leave is no walk in the park

I had to admit, it sounded pretty damn good, recalls Becky Woods.

There we'd be, my baby and I, wandering the streets of Birmingham with not a care in the world. I'd be a lady who lunched, wearing flattering maxi dresses to hide the lumps, donning oversized sunglasses and a snazzy large hat as we sat in the beer gardens of the West Midlands.

At home, while the baby sat in his bouncy chair and amused himself, I'd bake cakes, lots of them, and make fabulous dinners for us all to enjoy once my husband came home from work. If I was struggling for something to do during the night feeds, I'd learn a language (insert hysterical laughing emoji here).

There'd be several holidays and weekends away. We'd while away the days shopping, and I'd finally get a lucrative money-making scheme off the ground – the one where I'd earn a fortune from barely doing anything at all. But most of all, I'd rest. Thirteen years as a journalist working crazy hours meant I deserved this year off work, didn't it? I pictured us lying in the garden all summer – I'd treat myself to a sun lounger – reading books I'd meant to for years, soaking up the joys of my 365-day break.

Turns out it's not quite like that, is it?

For a start, maxi dresses look hideous on me these days – and how was I to know that successful breastfeeding meant excluding 98 per cent of your current wardrobe and generally resorting to vests and loose fitting tops for an easy access, one-up one-down scenario? There have been no wide-brimmed hats either – I consider it a success if I manage to brush my teeth in the morning, never mind pick out an on-trend ensemble too (although there has been lots of hiding under large, dark sunglasses come rain or shine). I have been a lady-who-lunched on several occasions but this has been more lady-who-rocks-screaming-baby-while-trying-to-maintain-adult-conversation-and-ignore-own-sick-stained-top….not quite the relaxing, decadent afternoons I'd imagined. There's been lots of window shopping but very little buying, because budgeting on maternity pay is actually pretty bloody tricky and unless you're spending on baby, any purchases are guilt-ridden.

Any sunny days we have had have mainly been spent jumping into shadows, terrified of burning baby's precious skin. Which put paid to any long afternoons in the garden – that and the fact he spent much of the first four months of his life wailing like a banshee and enjoying feeding sessions that would last for hours and hours on end. The only cake I managed to make was two weeks before he arrived – since then I have consumed my own body weight in baked goods, none of which have been made by one's own hand.

My husband, who only last year learned how to boil pasta, has become a dab hand in the kitchen after the dream of coming home to tea on the table every night failed to materialise. It will surprise none of you that no foreign language has been learnt (!!!) holidays have seemed more trouble than they're worth (and too expensive) and no sun lounger was purchased. My money-making ideas are only ever ideas – when I'd find time to execute them, God only knows.

Eight months in and I'm still waiting for a rest. Turns out it's pretty knackering this parenting lark, isn't it? To be honest, more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep would suffice.

While daydreaming about my year off, I'd kind of forgotten that there would be a child to rear.

That there was something called the 'fourth trimester', where he'd be attached to me for weeks (and weeks) on end.

That we'd spend a long time getting the hang of feeding, ages working out a nap schedule and the night-time ritual? Well that remains a work in progress.

Weaning has taken two months for the penny to drop, but it's still very hit and miss.

We've shared some wonderful moments together, and rather than being the bright and breezy, lunching/sunbathing/shopping/holidaying lady in the big hat, I'm getting quite a penchant for the mundane – I really look forward to my first coffee in the morning, giving him his porridge and then the prospect of an hour or so playing with stacking cups, reading the same books over and over again and listening to the annoying woman sing 'ba ba doo wah' through the tinny speakers of his baby walker.

I may not be fluent in French, but I sing Frere Jacques several times a day, so that kind of counts, doesn't it?

We've met some lovely people along the way too, friends who will be with me for a very long time, hopefully.

It might not be the maternity leave I was expecting, but we're still having a ball.

This article first appeared on Becky's blog mumoirs.net.