Why I'm definitely the wrong mother to ask about the reality of childbirth

My teenage daughter asked me to describe childbirth over the Christmas holidays and despite having given birth four times in the last 15 years, I seriously struggled with my response.

The conversation came about after watching an episode of Gogglebox where one of the cast members described labour as the hardest, but most rewarding day's work you'll ever do.

Intrigued by the remark, Rebecca asked me to elaborate on it, but much to her disappointment I genuinely struggled to give up the goods.

I suspect she wanted talk of guts and gore or bile and blood, and while I'm pretty sure all four of my labours involved all of the above, I genuinely couldn't remember.

I surprised myself as much as Rebecca with this, considering I most recently gave birth three years ago.

Desperately trying to conjure a distinct or detailed memory for my curious child, I had to admit defeat as I explained that while I knew I experienced pain, the memory of it fades considerably against the memory of holding my child for the first time.

“You know, they say a woman's body produces a hormone after childbirth which helps dull the memory in order to produce again,” I told her.

“Yeah, I've heard that alright,” she replied. “But you sound like you've suffered amnesia.”

Unwilling to disappoint, I found myself instead describing smells which reminded me of her impending arrival or songs which recalled for me the hours before her younger brother's birth.

Whether it's the scent of cinnamon hand soap or the opening notes of Rihanna' Umbrella, I'm immediately transported back to the day I welcomed a new person into my life.

But accurate assessment of pain levels? Nope (I know it hurt like hell....but then I saw my baby, so it can't have been that bad, right?)

I know some women are capable of describing the various stages of their labour with incredible accuracy, and struggle to believe others aren't capable of the same, but honestly, to me, it's just a blur of pain, elation, confusion, panic, excitement, exhaustion, discomfort and utter joy.

Rebecca's more black and white than me.

She wanted number of stitches, time between contractions, when niggling sensation turned to unbearable agony, and it looked like I was the wrong person to ask.

“Should I go ask Dad?”

“Maybe.” I replied. “Just don't ask what I called him throughout it.”

That, I remember.