The very best version of myself…

…exists only in the time before I dream.

My back garden, where I could, in theory, enjoy my morning coffee

At night, I lie in bed – lights off, fan on, eyes closed – and I try not to think. But I can’t help it.

When I lie down during the day, I fall asleep in seconds, and never on purpose. I’ll just have a little lie down here for five minutes, I think to myself, and don’t wake until the baby does, one, or two, sometimes three, hours later.

But at night, when the intention is there, sleep evades me.

Instead of sleeping, I think about what I’m going to do in the morning. There is a version of myself I imagine, in those dark, pre-sleeping hours, that is a far better version than the one I am, really.

I tell myself I’ll get up at 7.30am. I set the alarm on my watch, because that seems less like something that will wake me up than, say, picking up my phone, which will inevitably result in my scrolling through Instagram because that’s just what my fingers do now, when I pick up my phone.

I look at my to-do list in the morning and sometimes past me (an arsehole, honestly) will have written things like, “call the dentist” and I put it off until 4.55pm but then I decide I’d better call, and my phone’s right there, so I pick it up and I wait for it to recognise my face (and sometimes I’m offended, like, c’mon! I look terrible today, not like myself at all!) and before I know it, I’m knee deep in influencers, two seconds away from clicking “buy” on something I absolutely do not need.

Yesterday, it was an intimate shaver by BushBalm, a brand I only know about because I follow a waxing professional who swears by it; the day before, a Victoria’s Secret swimsuit that was reduced to practically nothing but, fine, I bought three.

Anyway, I decide I’m going to be an early riser tomorrow, something I haven’t been for almost three years now, but tomorrow will be the day, and I set the alarm.

I decide that I’ll wake up at 7.30am and put on cycling shorts and a loose T-shirt, because that feels like an acceptable outfit – I mean, kind of – but, more importantly, I’m wearing the shorts for a purpose, and that purpose is, to do a Peloton ride when Atlas goes down for his afternoon nap.

I decide that I’ll wake up at 7.30am and put on cycling shorts and make breakfast for us both – porridge, because I am virtuous, in the dark – and then we’ll go to the downtown library, a place we have never, ever been, and we’ll meet other babies and we’ll play in the play space and maybe we’ll pick up a book or two and at night I never worry about the inevitability of the books being ripped by the baby because maybe at night he’s a better version of himself, too.

I decide that after we’ve come home from the library and I’ve given him a morning snack – I’ll bake homemade banana muffins, another thing I’ve never done – and put him down for his nap and done my Peloton and showered and drunk my gallon of water, I’ll make something for dinner, something the boys will like.

I made a meatloaf once, and they liked that, and another time I made a pasta bake that they pronounced delicious, and it’s only two things, but it’s a solid two things and I decide, at night, in the dark, that I will make one of those two things tomorrow after the library and the muffins and the cycling and the shower because not only is the version of myself whose day I am planning a virtuous, early riser with a knack for whipping up baked goods at the drop of a hat, she also has reserves of energy like you’ve never seen.

Where does she get it from?! people ask as she whizzes past, between playdates and muffin bakes and library visits and quick nappy changes in the back seat of the car (during which the baby does not cry).

Today is one of those days after one of those nights, when my alarm goes off and, instead of jumping up out of bed and pouring myself a cup of coffee and enjoying it in the back garden (probably the kind of thing night-time me imagines daytime-me would enjoy), I think to myself, what the hell did I set that alarm for?! and instead of hitting “snooze” I hit “cancel” and I immediately fall back to sleep, because morning-me is, if nothing else, an excellent sleeper.

When I do finally wake up, I shower, not because I am industrious or energetic or particularly care about how I look or feel, but because I woke up in the middle of the night in a full-body sweat and know that I am not smelling good, and even though I don’t care if I look like shit or have snot on my T-shirt (or, more likely, chicken tikka masala), I do care if I smell like BO.

And after my shower, I see my cycling shorts on top of my dresser and I put on a skirt and a T-shirt instead, because, if I’ve just washed my hair, there’s no way I’m getting on the Peloton.

I make waffles for breakfast, because we’ve already mixed up the flour and the sugar and the baking powder and the baking soda and all I have to add is an egg and some milk and then pour them in the waffle maker and I eat them with bacon and raspberries and Atlas eats grapes, mostly, and I decide I’m not going to the library because it’s too hot outside and the car seat isn’t properly fixed into the car and I’ll get into a total sweat trying to click it in and tighten the belt and anyway, my parents are coming to visit tomorrow, and wouldn’t they like to see the library?! (Possibly not.)

But there’s an air quality warning and Atlas is fractious and not content to sit playing with his Cory Carson toys and repeating the words “up!” and “down!” like the speech therapist told me to, so we do end up going to the library.

I sit in the toddler play area for an hour as Atlas runs back and forth from the kitchenette to the veterinary services to the beehives, shouting, “aaaaaaaah! aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

When he starts to pummel the ground, wailing, because I’ve made him give another little girl a turn at the ball drop, I decide it’s time to go home, but he has other ideas and he runs away from me, down the long hallway towards the main library, and I say, “I’m gonna get you!” and he laughs uproariously, and people look at us and smile and I think, they don’t know that I failed at today.

And because I’ve already failed at today and there’s no point trying to do anything virtuous now, I get us McDonald’s on the way home and Atlas and I eat it at the kitchen table and I tell him that fries are actually chips and he stuffs a piece of chicken nugget in his mouth with a piece of grape and I think, that’s probably quite nice, actually.

When I put him down for his nap he doesn’t want to nurse – he’s full of McDonald’s, I guess – so we read The Tale of Peter Rabbit and I kiss all of his teddies one by one, and then he does the same, and then I tell him, “lie down” and he does, and I’m shocked but try not to let on, and cover him up with the weighted blanket he suddenly adores and sneak out of the room.

And instead of going on the Peloton while he naps, I edit a podcast episode and eat the caramel sundae I had snuck into the freezer while he wasn’t looking and I think, I’ll be more virtuous tomorrow.