We may live in an age of general political correctness but as Rowan Morrison discovers that...

This is ticking me off for countless reasons. First, as is often, sadly, the way with these terms, it’s being used by women against other women. Like we don’t have enough problems with male attitudes towards mothers. Some, and I stress the word some, women who have made the decision to remain childless are feeling bored, patronised and bullied by their procreating friends and want to hit back. Fair enough, it must be crap to be bombarded with endless painful birth stories, pram-buying decisions and carrot purée problems when you’d rather be discussing politics. Or the brilliant novel you’re reading. Or, I dunno, Coronation Street. But hang on a goddamn minute. Isn’t it slightly unfair to be tarring ALL mothers with the same brush?

First, when I’m with my friends, I’m of the assumption that they are interested in my life and like me for who I am. If you have a kid, you have a kid. It becomes part of who you are and, frankly, if you don’t like it, you can either grow up and accept it, or go elsewhere for friendship.

Anyway, I can’t speak for other mums, but 100 per cent of my conversation is not about my child. As an individual with many sides to my personality and many roles to fulfil, I like talking about the same things I liked talking about before having a baby. The hospital didn’t lobotomise me after delivering O.

However, having a child does change a person, you can’t avoid that. The experience is, quite frankly, major. And, with the first one at least, it remains major as they get older. Every day brings a new, surprising, generally stressful and usually exhausting development. It can be hard to cope with, bewildering even, so surely you can let us talk about it? Just a little bit? In return we’ll listen to your stories – even boring, long, incoherent stories – about what you’re currently going through. I find it astonishingly arrogant for the people bandying the ‘Dummy Mummy’ label about to assume we don’t find their chat tedious at times.

Everyone’s chat is tedious at times. Even I find other mums’ baby talk a bit much occasionally. When you are a parent talking to other parents there’s often a sweet ‘you know what it’s like!’ feeling that can result in four sleep deprived people ranting at each other with the fervour usually only seen in religious zealots, eyes wide like deer in headlights, about bedtime routines, feeding habits and the latest pram designs. For all it’s good to find common ground, I do sometimes find myself wanting to scream, “Stop the madness!”

I certainly don’t preach to my friends without children about how they’d be much better off having a family. Quite the opposite, in that I sometimes envy their flexibility and freedom. I’m not ashamed to say I miss things like staying in bed all day on a Sunday or being able to jet off to New York at a moment’s notice (like I’d have the opportunity, but point made). At the same time, I’m mature enough to know that I’ve made my choice and there are countless, countless benefits of being a mum which more than make up for what I’ve, for the next few years at least, lost. I also know these benefits aren’t enough to convince some women that having a baby is for them, and to this I say ‘hurray’ for diversity.

While I’m on the subject of the parent intolerant, I had a bizarre confrontation last weekend. We’d decided to go out for lunch and chose a particular café in Edinburgh that I’d fancied for ages. As O is only two, and vegetarian, M and I often pack a little cheese sandwich in case the eatery we’re visiting doesn’t have anything suitable on the menu. We’ve packed our own food for him since he was six months old and have visited many, many cafés and restaurants where it hasn’t been a problem. Ever. This particular café, however, surprised us and not in a good way. There wasn’t anything on the menu for a two-year-old vegetarian so, while M was up ordering something yummy (and expensive) for us, I got out O’s sandwich. He was munching away quite happily when the waiter asked, very politely at first, that I stop feeding O our own food. I explained the situation and said no-one had ever had a problem before. He insisted, pomposity building. Then he said, “You wouldn’t bring your own food to Burger King.” Right, there you are then. So, as parents, we’re relegated to fast food joints and shouldn’t be allowed in swanky German bakeries. We left, and they lost what could have been our loyal custom and probably the custom of all our friends. Clever, isn’t it, given the economic climate, to actively alienate a large part of your customer base? I was wondering where they draw the line – what about babies who can only eat purée? Are they barred? What about breastfeeding? You know, someone’s got to have children. We need them to survive as a species. Parents of said children need to get things off their chest occasionally to stay sane, and they need to eat. I, in particular, need fancy pastries and a good cappuccino. Childless people of the world – please be nice to us.