‘Love you,’ he mumbles loud enough for me just to catch it.

I stand rooted to the spot, watching him go, feeling like the world’s worst mother. I know it’s just a bag. I know I’m not neglecting him or mistreating him. I know I keep my kids fed, clothed, clean and safe – and that all they really need to feel is my love – but this seems like such a massive failure. I feel like I’m failing them constantly. Every day is a never-ending list of things to do and achieve, and that list is too long.

Getting the kids up (which is not too much of a hassle seeing as Chloe is up at five and desperate to wake up Barnaby), giving them both breakfast (while dodging the flying pieces of fruit, toast, and – if I’m really lucky – spoonfuls of Weetabix), getting them dressed (making sure both children will be warm enough, not too hot, or that they are in the right clothes), brushing teeth (whilst having a wrestle), putting on shoes and socks (whilst having a wrestle), leaving the house and getting into the car seat or pram (whilst having a wrestle), getting to school on time – and that’s all before 8:55! Then there’s the washing, the cooking, the after-school clubs and the mum politics, the homework, the tidying up, the guilt that I’m not talking to them enough, the guilt that they’re not outside enough, or stimulated enough – or over-stimulated if I’ve let them play after dinner instead of enforcing some chilled reading time. Then there’s witching hour, then more story time, followed by the toothbrush horror of overtired minors, all before finally wrestling them into bed and trying to ignore the continuous calls for me to go back in, yet failing miserably.

Some days it can feel like I’m failing before I’ve begun – while other days can make me think I’m doing amazingly and then bedtime will fall apart due to one of them being hyper, or refusing to get out of the bath, or brush their teeth, or sit still for a story, or just constantly bickering – all causing me to lose my shit and resulting in me weeping in the darkness on my child’s floor while willing them to sleep.

If it was just Barnaby, I think I’d be a better mother. Should I admit that? Not out loud, obviously. It was my desire to have another child. Nick was happy with the one but I argued that it was barbaric. My little boy needed a home-grown friend to play with. I didn’t realize I’d be giving birth to the devil’s actual side-kick …

I look down at Chloe, who is calmly fiddling with the zip on her coat, and feel awful. She’s not that bad … she’s just a three-year-old who is learning.