There’s no spreadsheet for this feeling

First published 27 May 2025

It’s 7:44am. I’m already tired. There’s one odd sock again. Never two. Who knows where that other one goes. There’s grated cheese on the floor and a child saying, “Can I go on the iPad now?” before I’ve even finished wiping the tears from that video of a mother in Gaza digging her baby out of rubble with bare hands. I choke it back. I can’t let them see me cry again.

I press pause. On the video, on the grief. I don’t have time to feel the full weight of it today. The school run clock is ticking, and someone’s lost their water bottle.

There’s school dinner to book online; I forgot yesterday. They got the leftovers. At least today it won’t be me being shamed at the gate. Maybe it’s another parent’s turn.

The cat’s been sick on the stairs. A country is banning books. And a man with sunglasses and a mic is telling boys that girls are for using. And they believe him. My son heard it in the corridor at school. A boy called a girl a slut because she said no. He told me, quietly, on the way home.

I send an email to my MP while stirring porridge. Subject line: Ceasefire now. Body: Urgent humanitarian need. Civilian casualties. Grave concern. I copy it into the next campaign. Change the name. Change the country.

Then I tick a box on a school trip form. Yes to sun cream. No to taking money. Please return by Friday.

I shout, “Have you brushed your teeth?” to nobody in particular. Then I try to confirm which costume I need to cobble together for the Year 6 leavers’ service. Which musical is it this year? Or is it Disney again? What can I pull together from the dressing-up box in twenty-four hours?

I check the time as we pass the lake. They’re still swimming in it, the kids. Still skipping stones and squealing like it’s clean. Like it’s still safe.

There’s a spreadsheet for everything. There’s no spreadsheet for this feeling.

I’m raising a girl who wants to be prime minister. Who already knows that men have it easier. That they make the rules, run the countries, start the wars. That they get paid more for the same work. That they force women to smile, to sit smaller, to give in. That from the moment she was born, the world tried to sort her into soft and small. Tried to wrap her in pink even though we didn’t ask for it. Tried to tell her what girls should be.

She knows she’ll have to protect herself from some of them. She’s eleven. She’s already been leered at by a man old enough to know better.

And still, she believes she can change the world. She hasn’t learned yet how heavy it all gets. Not really. She still skips, still sings in the mirror, still tells off politicians from the sofa. Still believes she can fix it all.

I’m raising boys who I hope will stay soft. Who will feel everything and not run from it. Who will cry when it hurts and stand up when it matters. Who will know that strength doesn’t shout. That kindness isn’t weakness. That no means no.

They laugh. They forget their jumpers. They get distracted mid-sentence and start again louder. They fill the house with noise and questions and crumbs and love.

And I lie in bed at night and pick over the day like a scab. The sharp tone I used. The eye roll. The times I rushed them. I think, I should have done better. They deserve better. But I’m trying. God, I’m trying. Even when I don’t know how. Even when I’m too tired to be soft.

I love them so much it hurts. And that has to count for something.

Some days I don’t know how to mother them without checking everything twice. Not because of them. But because I know what can happen when no one’s watching closely enough. Because I’ve seen what trust can be twisted into. Because I vet every coach, every club, every closed door.

And now I am the grown-up, holding both the love I was given and the fear that came later. Trying to show my children how to move through this world with safety, with power, with softness intact.

I’m not soft. Not naturally. But I soften anyway. For them.

I try. God, I try. Even when I’m tired of trying. Even when the world gives me every reason not to.

I was a girl, once. Loud in the wrong places. Quiet in the wrong crowds. Always trying to work out how to fit. I still am, sometimes. But now I watch her walk through the world like she belongs. And I hold that like a prayer.

Now I am a woman building something better with shaking hands.

And then we arrive. I kiss them goodbye, watch them scatter into the noise and the routine. Book bags swinging. Shoelaces undone. One of them forgets to wave.

I sit for a moment before driving away. And the silence rings louder than I thought it would.

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