Motherhood is heavy lifting.

A buggy with wheels that don’t roll right, a howling toddler strapped in, fighting for her freedom against the injustice of home time. Her hair is coming loose from her ponytail, strands sticking to the tears that run down her reddened face to mingle with the snot. The three-year-old doesn’t wanna leave either. He’s dragging his feet with brows pinching inward, storm clouds gathering across his face.

The svelte Polish mums are chatting away, serene, blonde and beautiful. Their well-mannered kids are on the swings, school skirts flipping and pigtails flying as they whoosh whoosh whoosh up and down, high and bold and competent. They swing so high I feel my own stomach begin to lift at the top of the arc.

With one hand I’m pulling the big metal bolt of the gate back with a scrape and a clunk. I swing the gate open, then Max is angry because I didn’t let him do it. His eyes are down, his shoulders up, lips plump in a pout. He’s wedged his ruined trainers in at an angle between the bars of the gate so that he can swing back and forth upon it, metal hinges screeching, to test how long he can halt our progress homeward before I break down, blow up.

How is it that a two-block walk can take thirty minutes and bleed me of absolutely everything I have to give?