“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I mumble, lifting her out. She immediately wraps her arms around my neck, damp cheek pressed against mine. She smells like warm milk and sleep.
“Downstairs?” I whisper.
“Downstairs,” she echoes, nodding solemnly.
We head to the kitchen, stepping over the graveyard of yesterday’s chaos; tiny shoes, plastic dinosaurs, an empty mug that I definitely meant to put in the dishwasher. The floor’s sticky under my feet, and I make a mental note to mop it. Add it to the list. The never-ending, soul-crushing, mythical “list.”
I put Ruby in her high chair, flick on the kettle, and brace myself for the day ahead.
By the time Dan comes down, I’ve made Ruby’s porridge, found two clean(ish) school shirts, and broken up a fight between Oscar and Sophie over who gets the blue cereal bowl.
Oscar’s already sulking, arms crossed. “It’s not fair, she always gets it!”
Sophie’s chin juts out defiantly. “You had it yesterday!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
I sigh. “Guys, we have about five minutes before we’re officially late, can we please not.”
“Mum, she’s looking at me funny!”
“I’m literally just looking!” Sophie protests.
Ruby chooses this moment to fling porridge onto the floor.
I close my eyes. “I swear you all have a meeting every morning where you plan this.”
Dan breezes in, yawning. “Morning.”
I shoot him a look. “You sleep well?”
“Not really,” he says, rubbing his neck. “Ruby was up loads.”
I stare at him. “Was she?”
He blinks, catches the sarcasm, then grins sheepishly. “I mean… you handled it brilliantly.”
I throw him the dishcloth. “You can handle the porridge Picasso on the floor.”
He groans. “Can’t. Need to shower.”
“Of course you do.”
The school run is chaos, as always. Ruby’s got half a banana in her hair, Sophie’s forgotten her book bag, and Oscar’s sulking because he has to wear a coat. The car looks like a landfill site on wheels; crumbs, tissues, at least one half-empty Fruit Shoot rolling under the seat.
By the time we reach the school gate, I’m sweating.
“Bye, Mum!” Sophie says, sprinting off.
Oscar trails behind, shouting, “Tell Dad he promised to fix my Switch controller!”
I wave weakly. “Sure thing!”
Eleanor gives me a sympathetic smile. She’s in a crisp trench coat, holding a takeaway coffee. Her hair looks freshly blow-dried. I briefly consider asking her how she’s managed to exist like that at 8:45 a.m., but I suspect the answer involves a level of disposable income I can only dream of.
I glance over and see Freya rushing past, looking just as disheveled as I feel, with little Theo being dragged along behind her. Theo is in the same class as Sophie, and they seem to have a constant love–hate relationship. The truth is, Theo is a lovely kid, but he’s struggled a lot since his mum and dad separated. Freya has been through so much and is still one of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet. She gets it, too, and I often confide in her when I’m drowning in the chaos of motherhood.
