I raised an eyebrow, questioning.
Based on the number of women who stared at him on the street though, I knew a lot of women would enjoy staring at him in the privacy of their own homes. And funnily enough, when I did start to include him, it boomed fast.
‘You do that all the time,’ my half-sister Josephine tells me whenever I give that verdict about the brand’s success. ‘Give Ed all the credit; don’t give yourself any. Cheshire Mama is successful because it’s a good blog. You have the eye, you’re funny, you know your stuff on social. The whole leaving the city and being new to the countryside is relatable.’
I drop my phone into my bag. ‘Okay, Pop, got it!’ I say. She’s used to posing for my iPhone by now.
I take her hand and we walk in.
Ronnie was recommended to me by Emma, whose son Seth goes to her too. I’ve met Ronnie twice. She seems lovely. She also obviously has, you know, paperwork and things.
But I am leaving my child with her all day. Is this insanity? Is it legal?
‘Good morning, Poppy!’ singsongs Ronnie in her gentle Brummie accent as we walk in, heaving four bags and a suitcase-load of anxiety. ‘And good morning, Scarlett.’
She looks at me with pragmatic empathy. It’s a very specific expression.
‘Big day today, I know,’ she says. ‘But we’re going to have fun, aren’t we Poppy?’
I fend off tears by speaking fast, with no let-up.
‘She doesn’t have a dummy except for her nap, which will be at eleven, eleven thirty but definitely not after three because otherwise sleep is a nightmare later,’ I ramble.
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
