I needed a shower, so I woke the boys’ father, my then-husband. We’ll call him Will. “Can you look after the boys so I can get ready?” He grunted, but got up. After my shower, I dressed in daggy old tracksuit pants, a shapeless T-shirt and a seen-better-days cardigan. No makeup. Like it would suit this sorry get-up anyway. Yup. I was your stereotypical overweight, depressed, harried Mum. I rejoined the boys. “He’s a daycare boy!” I sang to Nathaniel. He immediately began to sob. “No! Daycare broken!” At three, Nathaniel hated daycare. That, of course, made me feel guilty for needing a break. After what seemed an age, owing to our early start, which was unfortunately habitual, it was time to walk the boys to school and daycare. I grasped their precious little hands. Thankfully, it wasn’t raining. Nathaniel was the first to be dropped off. My perpetually knotted stomach tightened further at his screams. Staff assured me he settled quickly, but that was cold comfort as I witnessed his distress. Mikhail and I walked the remainder of the kilometre to school. There I encountered clean-freak Mum, fashion-plate Mum and my-boy-is-so-advanced-at-reading Mum. All three deepened my inferiority. I cut myself no slack for having two autistic children. My friend, Kelly, was not there. I greeted Mikhail’s wonderful teacher, Mrs O’Brien, settled Mikhail into the classroom and left. When I got home I approached Will. He was in the garage, lifting weights. He used my full-length mirror to watch himself working out. Not that I used my mirror anymore, anyway. Long gone were the days where I peered at myself with consternation at my faults yet with overall satisfaction. “Will you dye my hair for me today?” Will had infinitely more finesse colouring hair than I did. After he agreed I grabbed my tattered old handbag, I walked the short way to the shops. At the shops I grabbed cheese and bacon rolls for Mikhail- he loved those-, a jam and cream doughnut and the dye.
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