Part of me is convinced I can do motherhood differently, that I can buck the excess and get by with a single handmade wooden toy that my unborn daughter takes to college with her, and the solitary pair of black leggings I just keep pulling lower and lower. And yet: Could the right swaddle mean a full night’s sleep? Could a £300 Hatch jumper help me feel less like an Oompa-Loompa? When my husband and I adopted our dog, we bought a pheromone diffuser, toys fit for a celebrity’s child, an indestructible bed, and a citronella collar in a panicked attempt to stop him from barking and chewing the second we left him alone. Desperation is a powerful driver of consumption.