Gail's little girl

My parents had spent months choosing a nursery for me that they were happy with. I was aged two-and-a-half and living in Edinburgh and they'd taken me along beforehand to get an idea of what went on - I think I was even looking forward to it. Then the day arrived.

My mother handed me over to the nursery teacher, walked out the front door and I burst into tears. Twenty minutes later, while other children happily got on with the day's activities, I was still bawling my eyes out.

After another half an hour my tears had turned to racking sobs. I wanted my mum. Eventually the nursery teachers gave up and phoned her to come and pick me up.

I remember vividly how bereft I felt that morning, but I've never really considered how anxious my mother must have been about leaving me there - until now.

This year I will be handing my own daughter over to a complete stranger. A stranger who has no idea that Honey gets tetchy if she doesn't eat properly, a stranger who is totally unaware her favourite shoes are the pink ones with butterflies on them - a stranger I'll have to trust with her life.

Is it any wonder I'm already a nervous wreck? Starting nursery school may mark a big change in Honey's life, but the effects on me are ten times worse.

I'm convinced I'm more protective - and perhaps even a little paranoid - because I never thought I'd get pregnant at all. Until two years ago, with erratic eating habits and having had just two periods in nine years, the doctors had told me I was unlikely ever to conceive.

To insulate myself against the emotional agony of waiting and hoping to get pregnant every month, I'd convinced myself I was infertile. I then spent the majority of my late 20s telling everyone I didn't want children. How else was I supposed to deal with it? But a few months into my relationship with Dan I started to feel sick in the mornings, the smell of smoke made me queasy and I stopped drinking.

I went out and bought six pregnancy tests, and they were all positive. My first reaction was complete shock - I had been so sure I'd never conceive. When Dan came home and saw them lined up on the windowsill, he was astonished, and delighted.

The pregnancy itself was extremely hard. Not only did I fear miscarriages and suspect every twinge, but I put on about three stones. For someone only 5ft 4in and extremely smallboned, the added weight was awful. I resigned myself to looking like a whale for the last few months.

The birth itself was also very traumatic. I had to endure a 15-hour labour at the Royal Free Hospital, North London, followed by a Caesarean section.

But two minutes after giving birth to an 8lb 12oz baby girl everything was put into perspective. The pregnancy was hard, the pain was horrific, but I was now a mummy. And I knew I'd protect this little girl with my life.

Since that day, Tuesday, September 3, 2002, Honey's been with either Dan or me 24 hours a day - apart from the odd couple of hours we've left her at the creche at our local gym.

We've seen every little thing happen to her: the first time she smiled at us, the first time she started singing along to a pop song (she's a huge fan of the Black Eyed Peas), the first time she strung the sentence 'I love you, Mummy' together.

I've revelled in every moment with her, and I can't imagine what life would be like without her now. The hardest thing I've had to do was leave her for a week last year, when I took part in Channel 4's reality show, The Games.

When I have to leave Honey to go to work, I burst into floods of tears, so having to spend an entire week without any contact was horrific. I lay awake convinced I was a terrible mother, that she must be screaming for me, unable to settle; I missed her more than I thought possible. Of course, she was absolutely fine at home with her dad.

But when she goes to nursery we have to face the fact that neither of us will be around to look after her. We have narrowed it down to two local nurseries and will pay whatever it costs for her to be happy and safe for the four hours a day she's there - but what if something goes wrong?

We all believe we're leaving our children in safe hands, but terrible things can happen.

Last year I read about a little boy who was fed cow's milk even though his mother had explicitly told the nursery he was allergic to it. He had such a severe reaction that he had an asthma attack, then heart failure and died.

Then there are the other issues - what if Honey is bullied? What if she can't make friends? What if she fails to 'share' her toys and is labelled a problem child? Worse still, what if she thinks I've abandoned her and is scarred for life?

I know my paranoia is extreme, but I bet this is how thousands of other mothers feel. Recent research carried out by an organisation called Raising Kids shows that I'm not alone - 49 per cent of UK parents worry about their child's ability to settle into nursery.

As a mother you commit so much to caring for your child and keeping them safe that it's terrifying to send them out into the world. At home they are the centre of the universe, but at nursery they simply become just another unknown child.

Given the choice, I'd rather lock Honey up until she's 18 than leave her to fend for herself in a new environment, but I know the day is coming when I will have to do that. I've recently discovered a new initiative, National Friendship Week, running throughout February, which was set up to help neurotic mums like me deal with all these issues.

The aim is simple - by sending nurseries activity packs containing five days' worth of group activities - they encourage kids to enjoy themselves while they're there.

And with the children happier and more involved, it helps nursery staff - and ultimately parents - cope better.

A happy, outgoing child is what we all hope for.

Though I'll be scared about waving goodbye to Honey, I know a good nursery will give her a thirst for knowledge. On a more basic level, she'll learn to interact with other children - and make friends.

If that happens, then I'll be thrilled, as long as she's happy. Still, I'm dreading that first day.