When my daughters were younger I made friends with another mum at swimming lessons. Her kids, two boys, were around the same age as mine, so we easily fell into poolside small talk. Week after week we sat chatting about the trivia and relentlessness of mothering. And then, one Tuesday, out of the blue, she made a confession; she was jealous of me, I was living the life she had always dreamed of. I had daughters.

Mothering girls, my new friend told me with a sigh, was much nicer than mothering boys. Girls happily sat still with a colouring book or doll. They didn’t ruin their clothes, climb on the furniture or play with their genitals. “You’re so lucky,” she said sadly.

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