CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO #2
And every morning, without fail, I’d open Instagram while sipping my reheated coffee and torture myself with those immaculate mums who somehow manage to look like walking Pinterest boards.
Their houses are spotless, their kids wear matching linen outfits, and their captions say things like “Just embracing the chaos of motherhood” while standing in front of a kitchen that looks like it’s never met a Cheerio.
Meanwhile, I’m scraping dried porridge off the wall.
I scrolled past one of those perfectly curated posts, a mum named Amelia whose bio read: “Boy mama, coffee lover, making memories every day” and muttered, “Making memories? I’m making packed lunches and losing my sanity.”
Dan overheard me and smirked. “You’re comparing yourself to Insta-Mums again, aren’t you?”
I threw him a look. “They have white sofas, Dan. White. Sofas. Do you know what would happen if we owned one?”
He nodded solemnly. “It would be a recipe for disaster.”
Exactly.
Later that week, “Operation Woo” escalated.
It started with flowers. Big, dramatic supermarket flowers that looked like they were trying too hard.
He walked in after work, bouquet in hand, face smug. “For my beautiful wife.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose. “Did you do something bad?”
I stifled a laugh. “Good question, Soph.”
Dan looked wounded. “Can’t a man just bring his wife flowers?”
Oscar piped up, “Are you saying sorry? You only buy flowers when you’re in trouble. Remember when you crashed the car into the bins?”
Dan sighed. “Not helping, guys.”
I took the flowers, smiling. “They’re lovely. A bit dramatic, but lovely.”
He beamed. “See? I can be romantic.”
Then Ruby sneezed directly on them.
We both burst out laughing.
The next few days were a blur of domestic chaos. School runs, tantrums, and a suspicious smell in the fridge that no one could locate but everyone blamed on each other.
One morning, as I was trying to wrestle Ruby into her coat, Sophie stood in the doorway, hands on hips, and announced, “Mummy, I told Mrs. Hargreaves you were always late because Daddy makes you tired.”
I froze mid-zip. “I’m sorry, what?”
Dan, from the kitchen: “WHAT?”
Sophie shrugged innocently. “She said we should be on time, and I said, ‘Mummy’s tired because Daddy keeps her up all night.’”
Dan choked on his toast.
I dropped Ruby’s sleeve and turned slowly. “Sophie, sweetheart, why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true! You said you were tired and Daddy winked.”
Dan coughed, red-faced. “That was a different kind of tired, Sophie.”
She frowned. “What kind?”
“Homework tired,” I said quickly. “Daddy helps me with… grown-up homework.”
Dan mouthed, “Smooth.”
It was way too early in the morning to be having discussions about what exactly grown-up homework entailed.
“Oh by the way” Dan said with a proud grin on his face “I booked us a date night.”
I froze, midway through putting Ruby’s shoes on “You what?”
He grinned. “A proper one. No kids, no interruptions. Saturday night. Hannah said she’ll take the kids overnight... Again”
For a second, I just stared at him. “You… organised childcare?”
He looked offended. “I’m capable of making a phone call.”
“Last time you tried, you ordered a pizza from the dentist.”
He ignored me. “It’s all sorted. Dinner at that little Italian place we love.”
And just like that, something flickered inside me again. That spark. That memory of when we used to laugh until we cried over cheap wine and bad desserts.
I smiled. “Okay, Romeo. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Saturday came, and I genuinely felt giddy. I even straightened my hair, though Ruby used my hairbrush as a microphone ten minutes before we left, so I had to pretend the static look was “intentional volume.”
When we arrived at the restaurant, something magical happened: silence. No one shouting “Muuuum!” No one throwing pasta. No one asking what happens when you die halfway through my carbonara.
We talked. Properly talked. About life, the kids, work, even stupid dreams we hadn’t mentioned in ages. For a couple of hours, we weren’t tired parents or flatmates. We were just… us.
Halfway through dessert, Dan leaned forward. “See? Told you I could romance you.”
I grinned. “Don’t get cocky. You’ve still got to survive bedtime tomorrow.”
When we got home that night, slightly tipsy and giggling, I caught sight of our messy living room; toys everywhere, laundry pile mocking me from the sofa, and for once, I didn’t feel defeated. It was chaos, yes, but it was our chaos.
Dan kissed my forehead. “Still feel romanced?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe a little.”
“Good,” he whispered, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a mum trying to squeeze herself into wife mode. I just felt like Emma again.
The glow from our date night lasted about thirty-six hours.
Then Monday happened.
Ruby woke up with a cough that sounded like she’d swallowed a kazoo.
Sophie couldn’t find her left shoe (again), and Oscar announced, five minutes before we had to leave, that it was “Bring Your Favourite Toy” day at school.
His favourite toy was a remote-control dinosaur whose batteries had leaked sometime around the Jurassic period.
“Just take something else,” I said, rummaging through a mountain of Lego.
“No! Rexy or nothing!” he wailed, full crocodile tears.
Dan, half-dressed and holding a coffee, muttered, “Wish I had that kind of conviction.” I shot him a look.
“You do. It’s called refusing to use the laundry basket.”
By 8:15 a.m., everyone was crying, including me, quietly, behind the kettle.
When I finally got the kids to school (Sophie in a different pair of shoes and Oscar with a toy that most definitely isn’t his favourite), I sat in the car for a full minute, staring at the steering wheel, breathing like someone who’d just finished a marathon made entirely of shouting.
That’s when my phone pinged.
Dan: Hope your morning’s going okay
Me: It’s 8:32. Ruby can’t go in because she’s not well, Sophie is distraught because she had to wear a different pair of shoes as lefty is still missing, Oscar said he hates me. So… peachy.
Dan: Right. I’ll pick up batteries on the way home. Also… brace yourself.
I frowned. Brace myself? For what?
When Ruby and I arrived back home, the kitchen was spotless.
Like, suspiciously spotless. Counters gleaming, floors shiny, not a single crumb in sight.
And in the middle of it all stood Dan, holding a mop like a warrior holding a sword.
“Told you I’d romance you,” he said proudly. “Behold: clean surfaces.”
I blinked in shock “You cleaned the entire kitchen?”
“Top to bottom. I even cleaned inside the bin cupboard and sprayed
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, cereal in 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?
They have clean houses, wear make-up every day, do fun crafting activities or baking, remember all the important dates at school and don’t look like they’re constantly on the verge of a mental breakdown.
I caught myself thinking, “maybe I’m just bad at this.” Then immediately felt guilty. Because I love my kids. But sometimes love feels like wading through treacle while holding three backpacks and a lunchbox that leaks yoghurt.