I HOPE readers will forgive me for swerving politics in this week’s column for a subject that is even closer to my heart than the intricacies of the Brexit negotiations.

My daughter turns four today. This birthday feels symbolic, mostly because I now cannot ignore the fact that I am responsible for an Actual Child.

I’m certain that this has contributed to the unusual levels of stress and out-of-character weepiness that have plagued me throughout March. I’ve started to understand – for the first time – the meaning of the phrase “Mum guilt”.

The concept isn’t confined to mothers – Dads no doubt experience the crushing grip of uncertainty about whether they are doing the “right thing” too. But that’s gendered language for you.

Faced daily with an intelligent, aware and questioning Actual Child, doubt has begun to set in.

Should she be doing more activities? What if she is Scotland’s next tennis champ and I haven’t even handed her a racket yet?

She’ll be at school next year – shouldn’t I have taught her to read by now? At what point is she meant to be able to tell the time, or tie her own shoelaces?

The things I’ve not taught nor explained to her seem to far outweigh those I have.

For Mother’s Day this year, her nursery teachers asked questions and wrote her answers out for me, as a gift. Lord knows why – sadism, most likely – but one of the questions they chose to put to my brutally honest now-four year old was: “What is mummy not good at?”

Her answer: “Playing with my toys.”

Ouch. She also said that the thing I loved most in the world was her, and that I gave lots of kisses and cuddles, and that she loved me because I look after her.

But I couldn’t get that one answer out of my head.

She told the teacher that I was sometimes too busy working to play, which is partly true. There are many activities I ensure I carve out time for: days out, painting, reading, treasure hunts and structured games, like puzzles.

But I’m useless at sitting for any length of time pretending to be a cat, or a baddie pirate that she wants to poke in the eye with an imaginary hook. The squeaky voice of Peppa Pig blaring out through her assortment of electronic plastic toys sets my teeth on edge.

When I spoke to my friends about it, they told me not to worry. Which for anybody wondering, is the only appropriate response to give to a parent who is questioning whether they are failing miserably.

The conversations I’ve had with other parents about this was both illuminating and surprising. I hadn’t previously considered the extent to which doubting your abilities and decisions was such a fundamental part of being a parent. The guilt serves no evolutionary purpose, after all: in the way that the feeling of protectiveness or love towards your offspring does.

The guilt just sneaks in and makes you question everything in a way which isn’t useful or practical.

During the run up to her birthday, I made a conscious decision to cut myself a bit of slack and stop worrying that her transition into an Actual Child is a final and measurable stop along the road.

I have time to teach her all she needs to know, and for anything I can’t, there’s always Granny. It takes a village and all that.

We judge ourselves far more harshly than anybody else does. When I look at my friends who have children, I tend to see all the things they are doing right.

Parents who build dens with their kids and the ones that go on interesting days out. Those that are musically inclined and have taught their child to play an instrument. They are patient, kind, inventive and encouraging. There are remarkable mums I know whose lives have been marked by domestic abuse and have had to struggle with the subsequent financial difficulties and exhaustion that often comes with being a single parent and recovering from trauma. Most likely, they all have doubts about their own capabilities too: but from the outside looking in, I see happy children and wonderful parents.

Parents, like children, each have their own unique set of skills and talents that they bring to the job of raising kids. There is no definitive guide, formula or step-by-step instructions. I find this both comforting and utterly terrifying.

I’ve not got a baby anymore, easily contented with cuddles and stories and the wrapping paper that gifts are presented in. We’re on to the next step; arguably something far more exciting and rewarding.

She asks questions – so many questions – and looks to me for answers. She sooks up information like a £300 Dyson and I’ve got to be there, ready to teach her and equip her with the necessary tools to make her way in the world.

It’s a scary and monumental task and one I feel the weight of as she enters her fourth year more than any year so far.

But what a privilege to do so. I get to spend my time and energy on a truly gallus wee girl. An unstoppable force who is strong, ferociously funny and endlessly optimistic. I see her kindness and compassion, I listen to the inner-workings of her vast imagination and watch her confidence grow and I realise: I must be doing something right.

We all are. Perhaps not everything, all the time, every single day. But we are all just trying to navigate what is both the most complex and natural of processes, as a child’s needs grow along with their shoe size.

One of my friends put it wonderfully: “The guilt never really goes away. There’s always something. Best just to take each worry as it comes, one day at a time – or you’ll drive yourself crazy.”