When I first went on maternity leave back in December it felt like it would last forever. Then when Oscar arrived and those painstaking first few weeks seemed to drag on and on, each day felt like an eternity without sleep and it was hard to see a light at the end of the tunnel, returning to work still seemed a lifetime away.

Now it’s July. Actually, it’s the END of July.

And work starts again in September.

Shit.

I’m about seven weeks from having to re-enter the real world and return to work and I’m not ready. To be honest I’m not sure I ever will be.

When I got pregnant I thought I’d be the kind of mum who couldn’t wait to get back to work. I’ve always been fairly motivated to do well career wise and as much as I love being a lazy cow I thought I’d been gagging to get back and stuck in.

Now that it’s here though I am dreading it. I can’t stand the thought of leaving Oscar. Of not seeing him change every day. Of missing him hit the little milestones that make me swell with pride.

I don’t want to go. I wish we had the money for me to be able to be at home with him but it’s just not possible. I had hoped I could work two or three days a week but that’s not seeming feasible either and it’s more likely that I’ll be working four after I’ve used up the holiday I’ve accrued.

I knew there would need to be sacrifices when we had a baby, that we would forego holidays and nights out and that sleep and fun money would seem like a distant memory – but I didn’t expect this. To feel so utterly shit about having to leave my baby. I didn’t expect it to be so bloody hard.

It’s all I can think about at the moment and it’s breaking my heart a bit more with each day that passes and as detail is finalised.

Someone else is going to get to spend each day with my baby. Someone else will get his gorgeous post-nap smiles and will get to introduce him to new types of food and drink. Someone else will help him walk for the first time and teach him how to paint a picture. I will get home just before 7 and be lucky if I get to see him for five minutes before he has to go to bed.

He’s only going to be 9 months old.

He’s not ready.

I’m not ready.

I wish I didn’t have to go.