Back in the car, Ruby starts chanting, “Snack! Snack! Snack!”
“You literally just had breakfast,” I say.
“Snack!”
I glance at her in the mirror. She’s pointing accusingly at her mouth like she’s starving. I sigh, hand her a rice cake, and drive home in silence, listening to Peppa Pig music on loop.
The house feels weirdly quiet without the older two, though “quiet” is relative when you’ve got a toddler.
I tidy up the morning’s wreckage; cereal bowls, school shoes, abandoned drawings, while Ruby toddles after me, narrating everything I do.
“Mummy cleanin’.”
“Mummy bin.”
“Mummy spill.”
“Mummy tired,” I mutter, and she nods solemnly, like she knows.
Once she’s settled with her toys, I scroll through my phone. Friends have posted photos from a brunch with cocktails, sunglasses, laughter. I used to be there. I used to do things like that. But now, after nursery fees, mortgage, food, and the never-ending pile of “unexpected expenses,” I can barely justify a coffee out.
The motherhood penalty, they call it. I call it a scam.
It made sense at the time for me to be the one to step out of full-time work as Dan earned more. But truthfully, I would love the luxury of a full-time income. Only, now, when I bring it up, he says, “Well, childcare’s so expensive anyway…” and that’s the end of it.
So here I am. Default parent. Boss of snacks with very little actual income of my own and anything I do get goes on bills anyway.
I look around at the cluttered living room, the toys, the half-drunk cup of tea, the faint smell of last night’s spaghetti bolognese.
Is this it?
Is this what I dreamed of when I was younger?
I used to imagine my life would be… something. Big. Exciting. Instead, it’s snack schedules and wet wipes.
And worse, I can’t remember when I last felt like me.
When Ruby wakes from her nap, she’s grumpy. Not just a little whiny but full-on toddler rage. The kind that comes with flailing limbs and betrayal-level tears because her banana broke in half.
“It’s still a banana,” I reason.
“No!” she sobs. “Broken!”
I sigh. “Trust me, kid, I get it.”
We get through the rest of the afternoon in a blur of snacks, cartoons, and me half-heartedly loading the dishwasher. Around 2:45, I start the next school run, because time is meaningless and I live my life in loops.
Sophie bursts out first, talking before she even reaches me. “Mum, we did PE today and I was so fast and then Theo said my shoes were boring, but I told him they’re cool because they’re sparkly on the bottom, can I have a snack?”
Oscar follows, mood already set to “grumpy philosopher.” “Mum, why do I have to do spellings? They’re stupid. Nobody uses words like ‘subterranean’ in real life.”
“Because it’s on the list,” I say, already buckling Ruby into her car seat.
“But it’s dumb.”
“Welcome to the education system.”
Back home, the chaos resumes immediately. Ruby’s demanding “snack number five,” Sophie’s asking if she can paint (no), and Oscar’s having a meltdown because the Wi-Fi’s slow.I’m trying to chop vegetables for dinner while fielding demands like a customer service bot gone rogue.
