At just twenty-five I was a novice mother. I was easily influenced by people's opinions and unfortunately people had an opinion about almost everything.

'Poor little guy! Why isn't he wearing shoes?' one of my mother's neighbors said. This was the middle of August, when sweat was streaming down my face.

'Why do you speak to him in English? How will he understand you?' 'The same way he understands you, senora, he's one month old.' (This was in Spain).

When he started eating solids, the way I fed him became another bone of contention. I used to buy my son ready-made baby foods and was thus labelled a bad mother. At first I didn't mind because he seemed to enjoy them very much and they saved me loads of work.

I'm weak, however, and my friends and acquaintances' wagging tongues wore me down. What if I was depriving my first-born of the necessary nutrients?

So one morning I woke up early and ready for action. I went into the kitchen, put on an apron (wait a minute, I just made that up, I haven't worn an apron in my entire life) and filled my pressure cooker with chopped vegetables.

'How very green, how healthy-looking!' I reflected.

Later on that day, I placed my son in his high chair. I was giddy with anticipation. I was going to feed him something I'd made myself.

I sat down opposite him and smiled. I was rewarded with a toothless grin.

'See what Mum has cooked for you.' I said, putting a spoonful in his mouth.

I watched him as his expression changed to one of disgust. He started spitting and in no time I was covered in green goo.

It was back to ready-made food for him straightaway!