We wake up the same way each day, much earlier than we’d like to, feeling more tired than we thought was possible. We’re met with strong-willed requests for milk, vitamins and breakfast. For his favourite show on the telly. We rub our eyes and get ready to do the daily dance of tending to both children, still barely awake ourselves, before you rush off to work. 

We haven’t said good morning to each other – did we even say goodnight? But we’ve kissed the baby’s belly and stroked the big boy’s head. You get ready for work, and I get ready for a day of juggling the motherload. We exchange sighs, yawns, and maybe notes on which body part is aching the most that day. We still never said good morning. You kiss the kids goodbye, and you always kiss me, too. 

We’ll always have that. 

We go about our days separately, and what was once a constant stream of meaningless text messages that tied us together all day is now silence or maybe ‘don’t forget toilet roll on the way home’. We may check in with a phone call; perhaps we won’t. 

I still long for you all day. But it’s in a different way now. I want you to come home so we can do this together, the other half of this little team we’ve made. I crave your presence because you are all of our biggest support. I need you here, but I don’t always tell you in the way I should. Instead, I’ll snap. But really, it’s because it’s me that feels like I’m about to break. And you are still the one who seems to push the pieces back together before they fall. 

I can’t play with him the way you do. I don’t have the brain to think of ball games. I don’t have the same sense of humour that can bring him out of a meltdown. It’s in these moments I love you the most. Because I watch you do it with him, and it’s the exact way you do it with me. He’s a miniature version of his mum, and now, you have two sensitive souls to manage. You say you don’t know how to deal with our emotions, but you do. In your own way. And you don’t even realise it’s the exact way we both need it. I hate you for turning the serious stuff into humour in the moment, but it’s actually your superpower. 

She cries for me, but she smiles for you in a way that lets me know your bond is there. You put in the work from the beginning, the same way you did with him. And it’s already written across her face.

I wish you were there when I’m lifting out the car seat or bringing the shopping to the door. You’ve always helped with the heavy lifting. With our hundred bags at the airport, when you renovated our house, or when we moved halfway across the world. But mentally, too. You’ve done it way before the children even arrived. When I was in the depths of an eating disorder. When I tried to push you away. You never faltered. 

You held my hand as I pushed out both of our children. I cried that I couldn’t do it anymore. I squeezed your hand so tight I wondered if it might break. You knew I could do it, and I did. You might think I bought them into the world, but really, we did it together.

We’ll always have that.

You get home filthy, tired and ready for bed. Your battery is drained. But you put on your biggest smile and your silliest voice and flex your strongest muscles to scoop them both up. ‘Dada’, the baby says, and we look at eachother with joy. We haven’t said hello yet. But we’ve shared delight in the two greatest things we created. 

I hand them over. The weight of your work is heavy, but you never turn away from carrying them. I start dinner, and a wave of relief washes over me. I’m finally alone, but I’m no longer alone. Thank god you’re here. I couldn’t do this without you. Again, I don’t say any of this to you because I’m too busy doing whatever it is that comes next. I move through the motions of our evening. You come into the kitchen, and you finally kiss me hello. 

We’ll always have that. 

We don’t dare try to talk about our day. We’re interrupted by more daddy-daddy and mummy-mummies than either of us can count. But we’ll catch up later. We have forever. You teach him new football skills in the garden with the baby in one arm. He does his little kicks, his controls. And his big kick into the goal. He turns back and does his silly celebrations, which we both love so much. I can see the pride on your face. And the credit goes to you. To you, he listens. In a way he does with no one else. You take your time. You have a logical brain, and you use it with the kids in moments I least expect it to work, but usually, it does. 

How does he do it? He must think I’m lying. I think to myself as I take out the washing, put another in, and pick up my to-do list that I’ve put on hold to tend to everything our babies need all day. I am their everything, but with you, they both look so happy.  I know you’re a novelty in these two precious hours they get before bedtime. But still, sometimes you make it look easy, and it drives me mad. Yes, you lose your patience, but who doesn’t? You’re firmer than I am. But he looks at you with so much adoration. He doesn’t just love you; he idolises you. 

He asks for you at bedtime, and it breaks my heart. Sometimes, I feel pushed out. You have a duo of boyhood that I have no place in, but really, I’m so proud. It’s a testament to the dad you are. You lead by example. You slow down. You explain. You teach him things I never could. He tells me he wants to fix things because that’s what daddy does at work. He doesn’t just fix things at work, I think to myself. 

I hear you bathing the baby. You talk to her in a high-pitched voice, and she squeals back. She’s becoming more of a daddy’s girl by the day. You’ve got this girl dad thing down.

We put the kids down to bed; sometimes it takes 10 minutes, others an hour, and we’re both so drained by the time the whole thing is finished. There’s so much I wanted to say to you today, but I don’t have the energy to. I want to lay down next to you and snuggle into the nook of your arm, but I don’t. We lie on opposite ends of the sofa, scrolling our phones. We need this time. Alone but together. Sometimes, it feels like we’re managing directors in the most demanding unpaid job we’ve ever had. But we never seem to get that director’s meeting we need to iron out the cracks. Or the work night out.

On other days, we open our laptops and get to work. We stop to have bitesize catch-ups or look up at the TV and exchange a passing comment. We’re watching MAFS. Thank god I have him, I think to myself. I don’t say it to you. The men on this show are hopeless. He’s still everything I want and need in a partner. We still have the same core values. Our personalities are polar opposites, but we’re more like two sides of the same coin. He’s still 100% my type on paper. We’ve never been similar, but we balance each other out in a way that the other one needs. 

We’ll always have that.

There’s resentment there. It’s residual from our first, and it’s grown a new face with our second. And I know it’s because we’re tired. Tiredness gets the better of us. We argue, and we say things we don’t mean. Or worse, we say nothing at all. It’s always tiredness. We will sleep again. We won’t always have a threenager in our bed. We say we need to work on keeping him in his own, but we both love those midnight cuddles. Most of the time, you never wake up in the night. Your ears don’t work out of hours. But I do. And I often stop to look at you and him lying next to eachother. You sleep the same way. With your arms behind your head. Carbon copies. I smile. It’s in these moments I feel the most exhausted and the most content.

We load the dishwasher, lock the doors, and amble up to bed bone-tired. You put your earphones in and listen to your podcast to fall asleep. You always offer me an ear, but I can’t sleep with noise. We have a handful of half conversations, and you fall asleep halfway through one of them. Did we even say goodnight? I can’t remember. I check on the children, even though I know you just did it, too. Sometimes, I watch you on the monitor as you do it. You stroke her nose and lay a gentle kiss on her forehead. You run your fingers through his hair and plant a kiss on his cheek. I smile. I’m so grateful. Thank you. You’re the best dad I know. 

I get into bed; you’re already snoring. Alone, but together. 

Always together.

We’ll always have that.