A British woman has a feature in the Daily Mail today about her problem with parenting. Well, not parenting because she’s an awesome mom to one daughter, but rather the fact that she just doesn’t seem to like her other child.

Shelley Price can’t stop the tears from falling as she makes her startling confession.

The mother-of-two is in the living room of her home in Halling, Kent, surrounded by all the usual signs of a busy family life.

There are photos of her daughters on the sideboard and toys spilling out of cupboards.

Shelley is about to admit to one of the great taboos of motherhood. No matter how hard she has tried, she says she can’t bring herself to love her elder daughter, Catherine.

What makes her admission all the more difficult to comprehend is that she is a model mother to her two-year-old daughter, Poppy, by her current partner, Andrew.

‘But when the midwives put Catherine into my arms, I felt nothing at all,’ says Shelley.

‘She didn’t feel like my own flesh and blood. She felt dirty. I know I shouldn’t have cared. Like all newborns, she wasn’t all pink and peachy.

‘But I did not want to touch her. I didn’t even want to look at her. I asked the nurse to take her away and clean her. I know it sounds awful, but I just wanted to have a shower and forget all about it.

I know it’s crazy, but I can totally relate to Shelley. Granted, as far as I know, I haven’t had any kids. But as soon as I get that call from a girlfriend that I’ve slipped one past the goalie (and by slipped one past the goalie, it’s more like “Deliberately blasted one past the goalie and went ‘HAHA YOUR PROBLEM NOW BITCH’”), I don’t totally feel like being a dad. So what I usually do is take the girlfriend to see the Tibetan monk temples, then lay down a whole lot of butter and marbles and pray. Ironically to Rastafarian God. He just seems like he knows what to do better.

I’ll tell you what though, if you hate your kid and don’t want to traumatize her, one way to do that is to tell one of the highest circulation papers in the UK all about it. In fact, just to be sure she gets the message, make sure you email it to her and print out a copy and read it to her as a bedtime story. It’s just like Cinderella, only if Cinderella had wanted to abort the pumpkin carriage or kick her fairy godmother straight in vag.

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