Of all the recent commentary on the Middle East, what has been flickering irritably in my peripheral vision are the twinkling, pastel-coloured Marian devotions on the many Instagram accounts I follow of groups set up by and for Catholic mothers.
I have stumbled onto these groups in the early hours, seeking help, support and solace in the ultra-marathon that is raising three children while trying to earn a living, keep a marriage alive and retain a tiny part of my pre-matrescence self.
But this is Motherhood with a capital “M”, and these Catholic Mothers are absolutely not my friends. In every saccharine, italicised cutie-pie affirmation, each retreat day with punishing schedule and competition to “Win a Mantilla!” – interspersed with photos of enormous families – is every confirmation I didn’t need that I am getting it all wrong.
