Kitchen dance party for one and a half.
In which Penelope and I listen to Paramore and think some meandering thoughts until someone gets barfed on.
Sunday, 11.30ish. An aimless and cloudy sort of morning; I have a face full of cold and have discovered I can't really, fully, satisfyingly blow my nose while feeding or holding the baby and this is really, fully infuriating. I keep twitching my nostrils like I'm casting a spell.
The boys are in the garden, and Penny wants to move. I've perched her baby butt on my left forearm, which I’ve braced across my chest, and she peeps over my shoulder. With my free hand, I hold one of hers aloft like we're dance partners, and we bop about the kitchen to Paramore while I watch a train pull into the station and think.
I used to gobble up the daily news. I was a seasoned doomscroller, right thumb aching and strained eyeballs smarting at the most recent tragedy, bad omen, or election. But I can’t do it anymore. Now, I’ve blocked most sites and allot myself ten minutes a day to stay abreast of the horrors the latest news, conscious of the futility of my anxiety and the luxury of being able to shut my eyes and hide.
I watch people step from platform to train, bound for Nottingham, and imagine where they’re going; brunch in the city centre, a Sunday roast with their grown-up children. Penny and I keep bopping, keep singing. Maybe they’re popping to the big Next, or a yoga class, or to the leisure centre.
I tip my head to one side, resting my cheek against Penelope’s, which is warm and springy as proving dough. It’s just a spark, but that’s enough to keep me going, Hayley Williams sings. We’re all just little people, minding our own little business and living our little lives, aren’t we? It’s all we ask. The big picture and the relentless news cycle and the unseasonably parched earth makes it tough to be hopeful for the future. But all we can do is dream our little dreams and feel grateful that we keep turning.
We continue our tiny waltz, and my thoughts contract from big to small, back to my four walls. Some things just make sense – and one of those is you and I. Alex and I danced the first dance at our wedding to this song, performed by a live band before everything descended into joyful, ska punk chaos.
Even on our worst nights, I’m still into you. I hear it differently today, baby on my shoulder, and my eyes go a little misty as I imagine cluster feeds in the small hours, exhausted and desperate and consumed by the pudgy, helpless creature now leaning her head against mine. Then I swap shoulders, which makes her burp, and a stream of half-digested milk erupts from her perfect little mouth and pours down my cornflower-blue jumper before I have a chance to whip the ever-present muslin beneath her chin.
The spell is broken. I pull her away from me to dab white froth from her pink lips and look her in the eye.
‘You’re gross,’ I tell her. She gazes back, unrepentant, expressionless and – I imagine – maybe even a little triumphant. Gotcha, mama.
We look at each other. Here we are; this is enough, I think. And I hope that next time, she gets the muslin.