Although an avid diarist since childhood, Michaela Mc Daid has no formal education in writing, and needed the courage of middle age to pursue her writing ambition. The life events and circumstances that once restricted her have become a powerful driving force.  She’s not afraid anymore. 

Michaela has been published in The RTE Guide and Derry Journal, and has written and read for BBC Radio Foyle.  She has also read to live audiences at Tenx9 events and the John Hewitt International Summer School, and been filmed reading a memoir extract for the Playhouse.  Michaela has short stories published in two anthologies and has had a book chapter accepted for international publication in early 2024. 

As a ‘late starter’ Michela believes she always had a strong voice, she just needed to clear her throat.

One of those Women

“How does she do it Joe?!”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gurgles, kicks his legs, and grabs a tiny fistful of my hair.

“How. Does. She. Do. It?” A bounce on my knee for each syllable. His eyes are wide with wind, not interest. But I convince myself that this is a two-way adult conversation, like the ones I used to enjoy. 

We’ve just seen her, as we always do at 8.15am.   Not roughly, but precisely at 8.15am, every single weekday morning.  It isn’t a coincidence that we’re seeing her today. In fact, it was only a coincidence the first time. That was a month ago now, I remember it well because it was the start of an interest.  Single parenthood is lonely, and everyone needs an interest.

——————–

It was a Tuesday. Tired and dishevelled by the blur of endless morning chores, I had been looking for Joe’s sock behind the curtain of the sitting room widow, obviously the most likely place for a missing sock to be.   Balancing my bundle of joy on my hip while reaching behind the chair, I’d knocked the clock off the table.  Retrieving it was my only indication of the time of day.  It was exactly 8.15am.  That’s when I saw her.  I froze on the spot, still bent out of shape. An apparition, she could not have been more saint-like if accompanied by harp music and parting clouds. 

Shielded by the net curtain, I gazed in awe as she pushed a gleaming pram past me with confidence and grace. It was all so effortless; she was so in control.  Her blond hair breezed around a made-up face, held high.  A designer jacket clung to her slim waist and toned arms.  She wore stain-free, ironed jeans and perfectly polished boots.  My feet were bare.  Joe had one sock.  I squeezed his bare foot gently, holding it in the warmth of my hand as we watched, transfixed by the vision before us. 

A boy of about seven walked beside her. Through the dirt on the window, I could see his school uniform was immaculate. His hair was combed, parted, and sitting down flat, with no trace of spit or thumbprint.  On her other side was a girl of about four, holding the pram handle as instructed.  Daughter’s hair was just like Mother’s, two generations of Timotei; shiny blond locks fell, tangle – free down her small back, kept from her pretty face by clips the same shade of blue as her velvet coat.   Both children strode smiling alongside Mother without complaint. Their small legs incredibly able to keep adult pace.   I couldn’t see baby, but judging by the pram, guessed an infant.   This perfect woman oozed self-assurance as she glided past the window with her perfect family, ready to meet the day. I was still in my jammies.  Joe was half dressed.  We were ready for a nap.  I had one child and no job, and I struggled to have us both fed, washed, and dressed before midday.  “How does she do it?” I had wistfully asked Joe again, without taking my eyes off the window.   He still didn’t answer.

I had sat heavily on the armchair then, with Joe on my knee. I pulled him close, wrapping my arms around him, I breathed in his scent while doing the mind-boggling calculation: The time it takes me to get him ready, plus another two children, multiplied by the attention to detail.  Mothers perfectly co-ordinated outfit, the boys school bag, no doubt carrying necessary books, sharpened pencils and a freshly prepared lunch. The whiter than white of the wee girl’s socks. I had squinted and scratched my head with the conclusion – Perfect Woman must get up at 5am, every single morning.  And then there’s Baby – fed, dressed and presumably teething, so she can’t have had a good night’s sleep . . . yet, she’s wearing bloody lipstick?!   

So began the ritual.  Not in a creepy, sinister way, but more out of intrigue.  Every morning, from about 8.05am I make sure I’m in the sitting room with Joe, loitering with intent by the window. My fascination with Perfect Woman grows with each passing day. I’m hoping that someday, just for once, she’ll come rushing, red-faced down the street at 8.25am, her hair will be scraped back in an unwashed ponytail, the boy will be wiping snotters on a too -short sleeve, while the girl drags behind, kicking the pavement, refusing to hold the pram.  That day is yet to come.

——————–

Even so, for me, today is a good day. I’m flushed with the satisfaction of being up and out early. Joe and I are both fed, washed, and fully clothed, socks and all.   It’s early afternoon and we’ve already been to the dole office, post office, library, chemist, and supermarket. Between money- off coupons (that I remembered to bring), and special offers, (that I remembered to find), I’ve bought all the essentials and a few treats.   Joe sleeps contentedly in his pram, the bus comes right on time, and I navigate embarking and disembarking like a pro. I have indeed, at last, got this! 

Light drizzle and realisation that I don’t have a rain cover deflates my new-found Super Mum persona, accelerating my swagger to a hurried march.  The rain isn’t heavy, and we’re nearly home.  Our street is steep but short.   “We’ll be OK son, we’ll make it.” I reassure my unconcerned passenger. Deep breath. The weight of groceries coupled with the incline requires quad and calf strength, as well as cardiovascular fitness. I lean into the pram, a bag for life swinging from the right handle, held in place by my tightly curled smallest finger. A bag that’s not-for-life cuts off circulation to my left hand, the weight of tins squashing a loaf indenting my wrist.  Beads of sweat question if I’ve remembered to apply or buy deodorant.  At least I have balance. Earlier, in confident mode, I had loaded the pram carefully to ensure even weight distribution. Because I’m good at this now.   

My glasses mist as a strand of hair escapes across one eye. Blowing out through my bottom lip to move the hair, mists the glasses more, and frees more hair to stick to the lens. It’s ok, I don’t need to see.  I know the way.  Just stay on the path and keep walking up the hill. One foot in front of the other.  Head bowed against drizzle that’s threatening to become rain, I push on, motivated by swanky new coffee.  20% off with a free chocolate chip cookie. They’re in the bag. Mine to enjoy with my feet up. Soon, very soon.

Suddenly, I’m aware of people coming towards me. Shit! It’s Perfect Woman and her perfect family. There’s nowhere to hide, no curtains. Just a low garden wall to my left and parked cars to my right. I’m trapped.  As always, she has a child on each side of her pram. Joe’s pram is laden with so much shopping that manoeuvring is almost impossible.  Our prams meet. Our eyes meet.  We both smile, acknowledging our wide loads. As I veer slightly to one side, the weight of baked beans triumphs over the flimsy bag that’s definitely not for life. A surge of frozen peas, shower gel and a squashed loaf explode to the wet pavement.   I take stock of my exposed groceries with the heat of embarrassment. Who packs frozen goods, toiletries, tins and bread all in the same bag? My incompetence is laid bare, at the dainty feet of this domestic goddess.

Instinctively, I use my left leg to stabilise the pram while unloading bags from the right handle to regain balance, and put the brakes on with my right foot. “Here, let me help you”. It’s the polite voice of the young son, springing quickly into action without being asked or told.  I hurriedly put the bags on the ground. The pram is steady and safe. Joe stirs slightly, but doesn’t waken.  I breath.  

With relief I lean down to lift the peas. The baked beans escape from behind the pram wheel where they had landed.  Baa- dump. Baa-dump.  The tin gains speed as it starts rolling away down the street, bouncing over pavement cracks as it goes.   I lunge to stop it.  So does the boy.  My hand reaches the runaway tin first. I’m about to pick it up, but his hand is instantly, and firmly on mine. He’s crouched down low, facing me.  Joe’s pram is between him and Perfect Woman.  His small hand is hot, clammy and pressing mine with undeniable intensity.  I look up, puzzled.  He presses more firmly.   His brow furrows in an expression beyond his years. Pleading eyes search mine.  His whisper is slow, deliberate, and thick with urgency. “Please. Help. Us!”