some of that nice smelling stuff you love.”
“Even the microwave?”
He grinned. “Used lemon. I Googled it.”
My heart actually did a weird little flutter. Maybe the lemon fumes. Maybe the fact that he’d actually remembered the microwave existed.
Then he ruined it. “Soooo… does that earn me...”
I raised a finger. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”
He laughed. “Right, right. No transactional wooing. Got it.”
But he still winked. Idiot.
Off he went to work while Ruby and I went about our day. And on this day, that consisted of dosing her up on calpol and snuggling watching CBeebies for the day. The poor little germ-infested sweetheart.
I am sure these kids know exactly when I am verging on a mental breakdown and go and lick every single surface that they possibly can in an attempt to catch some rampant bug and bring it home.
Later, when the kids were in bed (after another three-act bedtime performance involving missing teddies and phantom thirst), I found Dan on the sofa, scrolling through his phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Googling ‘romantic gestures that don’t seem creepy.’”
I nearly choked on my tea. “You’re joking.”
“Dead serious. There’s a BuzzFeed list.”
“Of course there is.”
He read aloud, “‘Leave little love notes in unexpected places.’”
I snorted. “If I find a Post-it on the toilet roll, I’m filing for divorce.”
He scrolled further. ‘Plan a surprise picnic.’
“In November? In England?”
He shrugged. “Could be atmospheric.”
“Could be pneumonia.”
He laughed, dropped the phone, and pulled me into a hug. “You’re hard to romance, you know that?”
“I’m realistic.”
We stayed like that for a moment, quiet, comfortable, the TV murmuring in the background. Then Ruby shouted from upstairs, “MUMMY I CAN’T FIND MY UNICORN!”
And just like that, the spell was broken.
“I’ll sort it” Dan said as he jumped to his feet to tend to sleepy, snotty Ruby.
I sat there on the sofa; the house looking like a crime scene again.
I don’t know how it happens. One day it’s fine, manageable even, and then suddenly there’s laundry on every surface, cerealin the sofa, and some sort of sticky patch near the fridge that’s developed its own personality.
I tried to tackle it today while Ruby napped, but halfway through cleaning the bathroom, I found myself staring into the mirror, toothbrush still in hand, wondering how other mums do it. How do they manage to look put-together when I look like an exhausted raccoon wearing yesterday’s leggings?
