On Wednesdays my older children go swimming and I stay home with the youngest. (He’s three). I sweep through the house crushing clothes into drawers, bashing a hoover around and wiping down the bathroom. Weekly clean done – kind of – I head downstairs and find the three-year-old packing his rucksack and pulling on his cap. I’m ready to go into town, he says. We step out into the 5pm winter dark and he reaches for my hand. A few minutes in, he asks me to carry him, and I do. As we near the shop, he says: shall I walk? He slips down and asks if he can have some chocolate. I buy him a chocolate egg. He says: I’m going to save that. But he never does. I piggy-back him down the steep hill, we stop for a drink and crisps at a pub, do some drawing and then meet the others for pizza. People say you have to make the most of these early years with kids. I think that’s a little trite, plus these years are hard. But this simple weekly outing brings me joy.
