pop-up mom

When mom ran out of things to cook and clean, she started to iron.

She ironed all my clothes and the kid’s stuff and my wife’s, everything in the cupboards and all the towels.

When I came home, with our new-born girl, Tilly, the carpet had been ironed, all the furniture and fixtures and fittings.

The goldfish was in two dimensions as was our barking-mad dog Ben and I put the two of them, alphabetically, between the pages of our cook book, under zoological, but illogical.  Everything had a firm crease and was shiny new.

Only the telly remained as it was, tuned in to reality programmes and repeats of Love Island.

I cradled the baby and worried mom would run out of things to do.

‘Mom,’ I said, when she stuck her head around the door.  ‘I don’t like to ask, but the county’s in a terrible mess.