Let me preface this by affirming the fact that I am no grinch.

I knocked out a fireplace in Sonny Jim’s nursery when I was six months pregnant, mainly because I loved the thought of my child at Christmas having his own chimney for Santa to come down.

Any excuse to drink Prosecco and giggle and I’m there. And I love a cake, a balloon and bunting more than I probably should in my, ahem, mid thirties.

But when did Easter become such a production?!

As the daughter and sister-in-law of priests, I’m not talking about those celebrating their faith.

Those getting up before dawn to be in church as the sun rises. That’s how proper Christians roll.

I’m talking about the Easter bunny. The Easter egg trees. The Easter nests. The carrots left out for the Easter bunny.

I mean, what?

Over the Easter bank holiday, Sonny Jim saw most of his family. He had a bit more chocolate than he usually would. We ate roast dinners. It was nice. Next year, I’m sure he’ll enjoy going on an Easter egg hunt in our garden or someone else’s. I might even make him a lopsided bonnet that he’ll probably refuse to wear.

And I thought that was kind of how most people’s Easters went.

But it seems not anymore. Now mums are going ALL OUT for Easter. They are making muddy bunny prints through their homes. They’re buying trees that need to be decorated with as much if not more finesse as festive firs. They’re up late at night creating clues upon clues to lead their little ones on the biggest and bestest egg hunts ever. They’re a frazzled mess by Easter Sunday.

Why? Why are we doing this to ourselves? If there’s one thing modern mums don’t need it’s more pressure to create perfection.

Next year can we all just calm down and scoff chocolate?