I was standing in line at the supermarket and this is the exact thought that was going through my head: 

"I want to have a glass of wine to celebrate Harlow's birthday tonight but really, I can't. I am so tired. I feel like I could just collapse right here on the dirty, linoleum floor. I feel like shit. My body hates me. Why have I had this same pimple for a month? I need to detox. I look like hell."   

And just as those thoughts were trailing through my exhausted mind, I saw her. Entering through the automatic gates, she broke into a smile. "Hi!" she called. It felt like she was talking to me and I did that panicked, "Oh shit, how do I know this person?" mind raid and came up empty. Who was she and why was she walking directly towards me?

"I read your blog," she said. 

OH.MY.GOD.

A fan moment. I mean, I have assumed the double takes people have given me over the years were attributed to my guest role on The Secret Life of Us, so sure, I wasn't completely new to fame but this was the first time I was being recognised for my writing and not my untamed beauty.

"I suppose you get people coming up to you all the time," she said.

No, never!" I blurted and then silently vowed that should this ever happen again, I would wave the comment away modestly because I think that's what famous people would do.

We chatted briefly and she was absolutely the sweetest person but as I left the supermarket with my ice-cream cake and Metamucil, a gnawing feeling of despair grew inside me.

Later that evening, after we celebrated a little girl turning one with a last minute cake from the Frozen Goods aisle, I did the only thing a modern woman can do – I took to Facebook to stalk my fan. Who was she and why was she making me feel so god-damned bad about myself?

Her profile pic told me everything I needed to know.

The one, single and only fan I have ever run into and who ran into me on a day when I was feeling completely and utterly hideous about myself, IS A MODEL.

Tall and gorgeous and so incredibly lovely – the trifecta from hell.

Now I love all of you who read these words and I know that in addition to your obvious intelligence, you are all super attractive too but I'm going to admit I never really pictured any of you as making a living from your ridiculous good looks. Silly me.

I know people don't read The Little Mumma aspirationally – uber-gorgeous mummies with hipster amaze-balls decor is not my niche. I get it. But I feel like I put just enough filters on all my photos so that you might think I am kind of cute and awesome.

But now Melanie knows the truth. Melanie, you darling girl, thank you for giving me the greatest/worst moment of my life. I was so honoured/humiliated. If you wouldn't mind keeping my midget status and problem skin a secret from the rest of the readers, that would be super.

Seeing as how I had this whole idea about this week just gone being christened "Birth Week" in honour of my Harlow's first birthday, I am excited to announce that next week is officially "Birth Week" here at The Little Mumma. Because time management is an issue for me. Shoosh. Expect to read a birth story, a list of labour must-haves and a giveaway over the next seven days. Unless it all goes to shit and I cancel "Birth Week" until the next next week. Shoosh.