12April2025 Diary
Im still trying to make sense of the chaos that erupted over the last few days. This morning the kids Sam, five, and Arthur, seven burst into the kitchen with accusations that felt more like a punch in the gut.
Did we finally drive Mum away? Sam sobbed, his eyes red from crying. He glared at Margaret, who was hurriedly packing her suitcase, her shoulders rigid with exhaustion. I could see the battle raging inside her conscience versus sheer fatigue.
It all began with what I thought was a harmless joke. The night before, Margaret announced she wanted to spend International Womens Day on her own, away from the family. The house erupted in noise. I, Anthony, couldnt stop myself from voicing every thought that crossed my mind, then I teased the two boys:
Did you hear, lads? Our mums leaving us. Weve bored her to death, havent we? I said with a lighthearted tone, but the remark carried an edge.
Sams face fell, his eyes widened. Arthur frowned.
Is she really going away forever? the younger asked, voice trembling.
I dont know. Not yet. Maybe shell decide to stay away for good, I shrugged, treating it as a joke.
For me it was all banter, but the boys took it seriously. Sam threw a fullblown tantrum, and Poppy, our eldest daughter, tried to calm him all evening. I hoped Id learned something, but today the same pattern repeated.
Dont cry, Sam. Dad loves you. Im not going anywhere, just off to work, I replied nonchalantly.
Poppy almost cracked, tears welling up at the sight of Sams distress. She sat beside him, rubbing his cheek.
Sam, love, its not what you think, she began, echoing yesterdays explanation. I just need one day alone. Look, Dad spends every Sunday with Uncle Paul and his mates. Mum needs a break too.
Once, Poppy could never imagine being worn out by the people she loved. She and I used to be the pictureperfect couple: cycling together, going to the cinema, debating the books wed read. We had a little family ritual of trying a new café or restaurant each Sunday, sampling fresh dishes.
Now Sundays belong to me. Our conversations have shifted from literature to vaccination schedules and nursery fees. The only outings we share are childrens exhibitions or a quick trip to the supermarket.
When Arthur was born, things held together by a thread. Either I or one of the grandmothers would watch him, giving Poppy some rare moments for herself. The birth of Sam changed everything. Managing two toddlers fell squarely on Poppys shoulders.
My love, I adore both of them, her mother-inlaw would say, but I can barely keep up with one at a time. Remember the rocking horse we had by the TV? It survived seven kids, but these two just smashed it when they tried to sit together.
Grandmas visits became perfunctory; shed drop by for moral support but never take the grandchildren home, claiming shed had enough of herself.
For me, spending time with the kids became a sort of snack between pints: occasional and whenever the mood struck. If I felt tired, Id retreat to my study and lock the door, declaring, Whats the problem? Im just sitting quietly, not bothering anyone.
It isnt me, its you, Poppy would snap back, You never know how to relax. Youre always wiping something down, cleaning, polishing. Calm down, youre too tense.
My words were easy; I never lifted a finger around the house. Poppy knew that if she ever tried to help, the effort would wither like moss. She felt herself burning out, her voice rising more often, snapping at the children for refusing tomatoes, at me for slamming the front door after work. Everything grated on her, yet she held on.
Then Sams birthday arrived.
The previous three days, Poppy had been cleaning and cooking nonstop. Sam wanted to invite his nursery friends, which meant also dealing with their parents. Poppy blitzed the flat: two cakes baked, salads prepped, meat marinated, a schedule plotted so she could catch a few hours of sleep.
But the peace was shattered before sunrise.
Sam woke first, lunging for his mum.
Sleep! I barked at him. Sit still until Im up. Let Mum get some rest!
Sam whined, complaining of boredom and hunger.
Hold it, I snapped.
Poppy was so drained she could barely rise. The crying didnt help her nod off.
Arthur soon joined, taking Sams hand and dragging him to the kitchen, trying to be the responsible older brother. Poppy exhaled, hoping for a brief respite, when the clatter of plates erupted.
The boys had knocked over a bowl of cereal and a bottle of milk, and in their haste to clean, theyd tipped a chair from the cupboard. It looked as if theyd shattered the last fragile nerve in Poppys head.
I told you to be careful! she shouted, voice cracking. Cant you go five minutes without me?
She screamed for what felt like three endless minutes. Sam pressed his forehead into his shoulders, Arthur folded his arms and stared at the floor. Poppy finally stopped when Sam began sobbing, rubbing his eyes with his fists.
Alright, calm down Ill tidy up, then well go out for a walk and pick up some toys.
The outburst terrified her. Yes, theyd broken a plate, but the reaction was as if the whole house had collapsed.
The next day, Poppy sought advice from my sister Lucy, who has three kids and still seems to have it together.
Youre doing it all, love. Let me guess International Womens Day is coming, and youll be expected to host both your mother and my mum for a marathon of cooking? Lucy said. Well, snap out of it! That day was created for women, not for us to be chained to the kitchen. My brother gave me a weekend away in the countryside. Come with me; Ive got a cottage with spare rooms.
Poppy thought it over and agreed. She ordered the two books shed been eyeing for months, packed a grocery basket, and let the family know her plans had changed.
Mum took it well, saying she deserved a break. My motherinlaw was surprised but didnt protest. As for me
So youre running off from us? People spend this day with family, not abandon it.
Poppy explained it wasnt a betrayal, just a need for rest. I didnt agree, but I didnt stop her either.
Fine, go wherever you like, I muttered at the end, Even to space if you must.
She shot back, Ill fly next time.
After she left, I started teasing the boys again, which Poppy could no longer tolerate. When Sam and Arthur finally fell asleep, she approached me.
Stop the jokes. Because of you the kids think I dont love them. Did you see Sams face this morning?
Im just being casual, love. Its nothing. Kids forget by sunrise. And besides, arent you supposed to be at home today, not out gallivanting?
Poppy sighed, the frustration evident. Your evenings are quiet because dads tired, and Sunday is your day. Ive been on the front line for seven years without a single day off. Im not running away; I just need a moment to breathe so I dont snap at the children. Its you I have to yell at, not them.
Me? What do I have to do with it?
Ive explained a thousand times, but you never hear me. Lets try this: Sunday stays yours, but Saturdays become my days. Spend at least one day a week with the kids. Remember, theyre yours too.
I dug my heels in, but eventually I had to concede. The alternative was each of us taking a child alone, which was impossible for Poppy.
International Womens Day passed quietly. We arrived at the cottage the night before, so when Poppy awoke she wasnt greeted by shrieks but by the soft rustle of leaves. She lingered in bed, a book in hand, laughing with Lucy over old university mischief, planning a hike for the other ladies without any internet.
By evening, Margaret was sitting on the veranda, breathing in fresh air, watching ants carry away a crumb of bread. Her mind was empty, yet bright, like a freshly cleared room with the windows flung wide open. For the first time in seven years, no one tugged at her, no one demanded, no one criticized.
Lucy raised her glass, clinking it with Poppys.
Heres to you, Mum, on the eighth. Finally youre more than just a mother.
Poppy smiled back. It was just for a day, but she finally felt what it meant to be herself again not a mum, not a wife, but a person with her own wishes and a right to a breath of peace.
Lesson learned: If I keep treating family life as a series of jokes and expect everyone else to adjust, the walls will close in. True partnership means sharing the load, recognizing each others breaking points, and giving space when its needed. Only then can a household thrive rather than merely survive.
