Kirsty Bosley: Mummy's the word in becoming annoying

When you're sitting in the salon going through the intense burning agony of having your roots done, the last thing you need are toddlers running around. Not because they make loads of noise or poke things they shouldn't, that's brilliant and hilarious. Children are the most comedic and wonderful members of society.

It's not the toddlers that rub me up the wrong way; it's their ladies-what-lunch mothers.

Not mothers, Mummies. You know the type I mean. Mummies that refer to themselves as 'Mummy' and once they give birth, they stop being a real person of their own.

Any old hobbies, thoughts, feelings and beliefs are swept away with little bellyfuls of milky sick and nappies. Gone are the days of having a personality – with the birth of your first child you become a lactating zombie, driving a 4x4, baking more than your family can possibly stomach and alienating all of the adults you know that aren't in a similar position.

I know what you're thinking; I just can't understand what it's like because I don't have children. You're alienating me. I can feel it burning into my face on the top of this column. I haven't a clue.

But dig it or don't, I do understand the difference between parenting and working to remind the whole world that you're a parent every waking moment. Mummies change their Twitter profiles to ensure everyone knows they're now a parent. Sometimes they make a Twitter profile for their own baby, whose personality is otherwise limited to shoving a chubby fist into its mouth at intervals and gurgling.

Beautiful, adorable and hilarious it may well be, but for whose benefit is this?

Most of the time, a Mummy's Facebook profile lists 'Mummy to Tarquin' or something equally as nauseating in the section where other people might put their actual real life job. Their gifts to family and friends now consist almost solely of a framed picture of their bundle of joy.

I'm not anti-kids, I love seeing people in love with their children. Every child deserves the best, whether that be a lunchtime Greggs sausage roll or a dinner date with Mary Kate and her beautiful daughter Savannah Storm clad in matching kitsch tea dresses.

But Mummies aren't doing themselves any favours. Once their children have grown up and flown the nest, how will they cope? Can they continue to make cupcakes for all and sundry 20 years from now? When their babies are thriving adults living their own lives, whose bum will they have to clean up after?

Maybe you're right, maybe I just can't understand until I have had little ones of my own. If having a baby means trading in my life though, I'm not sure I ever want one. I'm not selfish, I'd love to share experiences with my future children. I want to listen to music with them that isn't a 'calming collection of nursery songs' and perhaps I'll take them to a few wrestling shows.

When I'm sitting in the salon with the keen sting of bleach on my scalp, the sound of a simpering parent constantly calling their child by a long and complex name in its entirety whilst repeatedly affirming their role in its life is more brain-aching than a thousand bottles of peroxide.