Prime posting time is after the kids go to bed, when my million followers have poured their first glass of wine and dived headfirst into a scroll hole instead of summoning the energy to talk to their husbands. So that’s when I schedule my seemingly off-the-cuff, in-the-moment, but actually prephotographed, already-written posts. Last night’s was a photo of me with a sheepish grin, standing against a yellow wall, pointing at my feet in trainers that were clearly two halves of separate pairs, with a screaming Bear strapped to my front in the sling that, for some reason, he hates with a passion. It was accompanied by a description of being so sleep-deprived I’d left the house that morning with my sweatshirt on backward and one pink Nike and one green New Balance on my feet, and a cool east London kid on the number thirty-eight bus telling me approvingly that I looked fresh.
It certainly could have happened. I write in the style of honesty, so it’s useful if there’s a small grain of truth in my posts. My husband is the novelist, not me—I just can’t seem to manage total fiction. I need a little spark from real life to fire up my imagination to craft an anecdote that sounds plausibly authentic. I also find it’s easier to keep track of my maternal misadventures that way, to avoid contradicting myself, which is important when I need to wheel the same stories out in interviews, panel talks, and personal appearances.
In this case, there was no cool kid, no mismatched trainers, and no public transport. I had just nearly nipped to Tesco with my cardigan on inside out.
I ended the post by asking my followers what their own most sleep-deprived mum moment is—it’s a classic engagement trick, pushing them to post a response. And of course, the higher the engagement, the more brands are prepared to pay you to flog their wares.
Overnight, I’ve got 687 comments and 442 DMs, all of which I need to acknowledge or reply to. Some days this takes longer than others—if there’s a depressed mother who seems dangerously unhappy, or one at her wits’ end with a colicky baby who screams nonstop, I take care to send something personal, something kind. It’s tough to know what to say in a situation like that, having never been through it, but I can’t bring myself to leave these women hanging when it seems like everyone else in their lives has.
Hi, Tanya, I type. I know it’s so hard when they just cry, cry, cry. Is little Kai teething? Coco really suffered when her front two came through. Gnawing on a frozen banana seemed to help, or have you tried those powders? Promise me you’ll look after you too, mama—can you nap when he naps? You will get through it and I’m with you all the way.
My reply is seen instantly, almost like tinytanya_1991 has been staring at her phone ever since she hit send, and I can see that she is already typing her reply as I move on to the next message.
You are NOT a terrible mother, Carly, and you must never doubt that your little one loves you. You really should talk to someone, though: a doctor? Your mum? Maybe take a walk to a café and have a chat with the waitress. I’m sending you a link to a help line too.
The message sends, but is unread. On to the next.
Oh, Elly, you are too kind, and of course I recognize you from last week’s event. My sweatshirt is from Boden—amazing to hear it even looks great the wrong way around.
I’m not quite sure how I manage it, but today I’m done and showered within my allotted hour and can hear Dan loitering at the bedroom door, no doubt counting down the seconds, from 6:58 a.m.
In addition to all the usual things I need to get up and deal with, today I also have to think about what to wear for the shoot. The Mamabare look is one that my husband once described as “children’s TV presenter minus puppet badger.” A lot of printed dresses, bright slogan T-shirts, jumpsuits. The wardrobe selection process is a bit painful due to the extra weight I put on when I was pregnant with Coco and could never lose because snapping back to a size eight would be so off-brand.
So a jaunty skirt it is; this one is green and covered in tiny lightning bolts. My yellow T-shirt says MY SUPERPOWER IS PARENTING. I know, I know. But what can I do? So many brands send me their matching slogan tees, Coco and I have to wear them occasionally.
I’ve been desperate to get my roots done, but I knew this shoot was coming up, and there was also last night’s talk. Too sleek, and it won’t sit well with my followers, so an inky part and a two-day-old blow-dry it is. I give it a quick brush then tease a lock so it stands out at almost ninety degrees from the side of my head. That rogue strand has been featuring heavily on my Instastories this week (“Argh! I can’t do a thing with it! Anyone else have one stubborn piece of hair with a mind of its own?!”). I now have a spare room full of lotions and potions to help plaster it down—as well as ten thousand pounds from Pantene, whose new product will prove to be the solution to my hair woes.
When you make such a big deal out of only ever flogging products you actually use, you have to create ever more elaborate scenarios in which they’re necessary.
Coco has been sitting quietly in her bedroom throughout, propped up in front of her iPad watching something involving flowers, castles, and glitter. I pull the T-shirt that matches mine (MY MAMA HAS SPECIAL POWERS!) out of her chest of drawers and hold it up.
“What do you think about wearing this today, Cocopop? It’s the same as Mummy’s one,” I say, tucking a soft blond curl behind her ear and giving her a peck on the forehead as I breathe in her powdery scent.
She takes off her pink headphones, pops the iPad on the bed beside her, and tilts her head.
“What do all the words say, Mummy?”
“Do you want to try reading it, pickle?” I smile.
“M-y . . . m-a-m-a . . . h-a-s . . . ,” she says slowly. “I can’t do the rest, Mama.”
“Well done! So, so clever. It says, ‘My Mama Has a Beautiful Crown.’” I smile, helping her down from the bed. “And you know what that means, Coco? If Mama is a queen with a crown, that makes you . . .”
“A PRINCESS!” she squeals.
To tell the truth, Coco’s princess obsession is a bit inconvenient, content-wise. Obviously, the modern mama party line is that pink stinks. They’re all meant to be rebel girls and little feminists-in-training, but my daughter is firmly in the fairy queen camp—so unless I want a screaming meltdown on my hands, that’s what she gets. Or at least that’s what she thinks she’s got. Luckily, she can’t read that well yet.
“Now, would you like to help me with a very important, secret job?” I ask her, giving her a handful of blueberries, which she absentmindedly starts popping into her mouth.
“What is it, Mama?”
“We are going to make some mess!” I whoop, scooping her up off the bed and carrying her downstairs.
I supervise as she makes, and then kicks down, a tower of velvet scatter cushions. We fling a few teddies at the radiator, send some storybooks skidding across the parquet, and scatter pieces of wooden jigsaw puzzle on the floor. I am laughing so hard at her utter delight in destroying the living room that I only notice just in time that she has my three-wick Diptyque candle in both hands and is about to chuck it at the fireplace.
“Okay, pickle, let’s put that one down, shall we? Job done in here, I think,” I say, putting the candle on a high shelf. “Shall we go and find your tiara upstairs to finish that outfit off?”