I realise why I am shattered all the time despite Poppy, finally, sleeping well. It is the level of detail in my head. The tiny things I know about my daughter’s needs and her day and that I am tick, tick, ticking and checking and balancing all day long.
The parenting stuff is often left to me. It’s my head that’s crammed full of its mundanities.
Ronnie smiles.
‘Got it,’ she says. ‘We do naps straight after lunch anyway. All tickety-boo.’
Serene. Experienced, both at childminding and looking calm in front of irritant mums, I suspect. Meanwhile it is me versus the sweat again.
‘Milk, water, snacks in the Peppa rucksack,’ I say as Poppy crawls to the doll she can see in the living room.
‘Change of clothes, nappies, Doggy Dog – that’s what she calls it, it doesn’t have a name – all in this one.’
I gesture wildly at one of the eighty-five zip compartments in my changing bag.
I look up at Ronnie. Still serene.
I point at bag three.
‘This one is toys.’
Then I look at Poppy, yanking the doll round the room by its hair in one hand as she crawls, and my face goes red.
Ronnie smiles.
‘I know you have toys. But in case she wants her toys.’
Bag four.
‘Stickers, books, crafts … I guess this bag is the calmer stuff. For when she needs to relax. Perhaps around three thirty?’
‘Perfect,’ says Ronnie kindly, gently, like she is trying to deflect a toddler from a tantrum. ‘We’ll do some of that later.’
I’ve overdone it. Even I know it. But if you pack enough bags, the feelings of guilt can perhaps be squashed under their weight. If you buy enough stuff, perhaps what you can’t purchase – time with your daughter, sanity, a mind that isn’t running away with thoughts about the right time to get out Doggy Dog – isn’t as obvious.
Serene, serene, serene. I can’t hear any other children; we must be the first. This is early. Poppy will spend so many hours here. Oh God.
I stare at Ronnie. On the surface: maternal, cosy. Her hair is short in a way that says practical and efficient. Her clothes would be able to go in the boil wash that her job probably requires. She’s about to turn fifty, has children of her own who are in their teens now and has been a childminder, I know from the chats we had at Poppy’s settling-in days, for upwards of sixty kids. Seth has survived; thrived, Emma says.
Everything seems right.
But I panic.
Does Ronnie’s mask slip when the others arrive and then she loses her shit, desperate for everyone to shut up? Would she ever lose it with Poppy?
Me versus sweat, me versus sweat.
But then I remember my pièce de résistance.
My document.
This document that will make everything okay and keep everyone happy.
Mostly me.
But also everyone else.
Okay really, just me.
‘This is a schedule of Poppy’s whole day,’ I say slowly, unrolling the document like I am presenting a degree, so that Ronnie gives this masterpiece the gravitas it deserves.
In my head, I am already having a conversation with Asha in which she is congratulating me on multitasking to such a level that I have documentation on my daughter’s oatie bar consumption.
‘You. Are. A. Machine,’ she will say. ‘How you have time to do your job, keep on top of house stuff AND write a schedule of Poppy’s day is beyond me. It’s beyond all of us. It’s beyond womankind as a whole.’
But, bursting my bubble, Ronnie is kind of … ushering me out of the door.
‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ she says. ‘It’s going to be smooth sailing here.’
I glance down. My document is bunched up in her hand. I have a deep-seated suspicion that Ronnie will never read it.
And meanwhile the one who matters doesn’t care about the document either.
Instead, Poppy is sitting next to Ronnie’s foot, poking her moccasin slipper and pulling at the bottom of her leggings. I bend down to say goodbye and Poppy’s rosebud lip wobbles.
My insides feel as though they have a hand roaming around in them, jiggling things about, perhaps performing some sort of surgery that involves the removal of an organ. I feel emotions that I can’t name, tormented at the idea of walking away from her.
I have heard so many people talk about this feeling when you leave your child but I’m sure mine is worse. The worst.
I push past Ronnie and gather Poppy up, stroking that short fuzzy brown hair and smothering her in I love yous. She’s come dressed for fun: leggings and a T-shirt, ready to play, make mess, do all the things that Poppy likes doing. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.
I take a deep breath.
‘Right, chicken, you have the best day,’ I say but she doesn’t look convinced. She knows something’s unusual. And she’s suspicious of Ronnie.
Gulping back a sob, I plaster on a pretend smile.
‘Mummy’s going to work for a while now but I’ll be back later to get you,’ I say.
She doesn’t quite cry.
‘She’ll be fine,’ says Ronnie, softly. ‘And so will you. Hey, by the way are you the one who does the Cheshire Mama blog?’
I nod, distracted by Poppy. Not now, Ronnie. Do I look like I can hold a conversation?
‘I love that blog!’ She smiles. ‘About time we got something local to us. Well done.’
I say thank you, then kiss Poppy ten, twenty, possibly thirty more times before I drag myself out of the door. If I don’t leave now I will be late and then I will be officially bad at parenting and work, which is really everything, so I will be officially bad at everything.
I cry so hard on the drive to the station though that the windscreen has the visibility of mid-thunderstorm. On the train, I had planned to do the back-to-work post on my blog and reply to a backlog of messages and comments on my Instagram.
The numbers have been growing so fast that I’m starting to make a tiny bit of money from it with affiliate links but that means there’s more pressure to keep up. And days like today, I don’t have it in me to be visible. If I post, I have to be ready to do the follow-ups, replying and responding. Being on.
Instead, I turn off and go insular, blasting house music into my ears as loud as it will go and carrying on with my sobbing.
I wait for it to ease but the further away I get from Poppy, the worse I feel. I calculate how long it will take me to get back to her if she needs me, all the routes and ways I could get there. I google taxi companies at each town we get to, to see if that will get me there faster than the train back to my car.
Further away, further.
The ache is deep in my insides, around the same place Poppy used to live in utero before I brought her into the world then abandoned her to a stranger.
Further away, further.
How am I going to do this?
Every day.
And further.
I look out of the window at suburban Cheshire stations with commuters clutching coffee in flasks brought from home. It is May, with its telltale juxtaposition of boots and sandals, parkas and bare arms. T-shirts hang out with roll-necks, newly waxed legs and thick socks stand side by side on the platform. It is too early to know what the day will bring so everybody is guessing, balancing weather apps with the chill they still feel and the comfort they need when they’re craving two more hours’ sleep.