Next month, Thursday March 13 to be precise, the contents of my brain during the emotional and sleep deprived time that is commonly referred to as maternity leave will be made public. I have written a book called Maternity Service: A Love Letter to Women from the Front Line Of Maternity Leave.

I don’t believe maternity leave is named accurately. For reasons I explain fulsomely in the book. Sure, it’s leave from all you know. But it’s service, really. And this realisation during the fog of my maternity service last year - really, really helped me dig deep during the tough times in the trench. And keep digging. Because maternity leave or service doesn’t end when of if you return to work. It’s just the start.

An alternative word for service is kindness. Loving service is just that and there is also a useful stoicism that comes with the idea of service and duty that also explore.

But today - ahead of publication day - I wanted to share with you an exclusive extract from the book, which I wrote live, over the course of a week in snatched moments around naps and school pick-ups, is out in the world.

Here I explain why I tried to write it in the first place - I hope you enjoy this first look:

I am writing this so I don’t forget it because I know I will. We, as women, seem programmed to forget how maternity leave feels even as we experience it. Our memory just skips to the highlights reel and omits the other parts. I know, because I wiped the slate nearly clean after my last stint five years ago.

I am writing this because I think another woman will need to read it.

I am writing this because before my first maternity leave I hadn’t considered how I might feel outside of my relationship to my baby during this time. I want to bear witness to those feelings, which I hope might resonate with some of your feelings too.

I am writing this because another older mother unintentionally made me feel bad for articulating some of these feelings.

I am writing this because despite the millions of words spilled about motherhood into books – I should know as I own at least fifteen of them – in none of them did I find what I am about to commit to paper in quite this way.

I am writing this as the single child of a mother who regularly proclaims that she adored every single minute of my existence, especially that first year, during which I apparently ‘never really cried’ and made for the most joyful and fascinating company. While that total adoration has bolstered my whole existence, as a new mother who cannot claim the same experience, it’s also provoked many questions.

And finally I am writing this because I’ve just returned home from an exercise class for new mothers who, despite looking a little like war veterans, splayed out awkwardly on soft floor mats coping with a range of injuries, when asked, largely said they were ‘fine’.

So, when it was my turn to share my name, my six- month-old daughter’s name and how I was feeling, on an extremely hot day sitting on the floor of a newly built barn amongst the local community park greenhouses – I felt it was my duty to say how I really was.

It went something like this: ‘My name is Emma. This is my daughter – whom I love very, very much. I have a hugely painful herniated disc in my back, a hypertonic pelvic floor, an ingrowing toenail which may now be infected, and I am finding this pretty tough and mind-numbing.’

Slight intakes of breath all round – not least from the smiling Zen teacher, who had clearly been hoping for more positive energy. Although I also delivered it with a big smile, which further confused matters. Then slowly, but ever so surely, women around me broke into nervous sweaty smiles and knowing nods.

Because, as I’ve alluded to, this maternity leave is not my first rodeo. It’s my second. Five years on. Our second child, our daughter, miraculously appeared following six rounds of IVF over three years – a soul-destroying, mood-altering and incredibly draining experience I have written and talked publicly about.

If you are exceedingly lucky, IVF ends in maternity leave with a hopefully healthy baby.

But because it’s my second maternity leave, I knew going into it that, rather ironically, despite the years of needles, drugs and tears I had endured to try and have a second child, this period of time would still not be the sweet, doting, fun-filled nirvana I had thought it might be the first time around. Instead, I understood that it would be filled with sweat, blood, milk, more tears and time. Vast oceans of the stuff.

So now I am trying to distil how this odd, precious and discombobulating time feels, before I forget it. Again.

The act of writing it has been more important to me than I could have imagined.

I hope it helps.

I really do.

So there you have it. Your first look. If you would like more - you can pre-order the book here and I would so love to hear your take. Genuinely.