The Day It All Turned to Potatoes

I forget to set my trusty alarm. This is not a small thing. This is the thing. The spine of the morning. The quiet, dependable 6:00 a.m. that holds everything else upright. Without it, the day doesn’t start — it spills open. And spill it does. I jolt awake, heart already mid-sprint, like it’s started the day without me. I squint at my phone. 8:50 a.m. No. No no no no no— My soul leaves my body, clings briefly to a light fixture, and then refuses to return. “Mum…” Alex’s voice seeps through the crack in my door like smoke under pressure — subtle, but threatening. “Where’s my uniform?” “FUCKETY-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK.” The kids are back at school. Of course they are. Society has resumed. Structure is thriving. Expectations are up, alert, and offensively prepared for the day. And I — reigning, defending champion of Mother of the Year — have exactly ten minutes to evolve from horizontal regret into something legally classed as a functioning parent. I lie there for half a second longer than I should, staring at the ceiling like it might grant me extensions. It does not. But God loves a tryer. So I launch. The washing basket greets me like an active crime scene — no tape, no witnesses, just the lingering sense that something here has suffered. I rummage. Dig. Excavate. Unearth relics of weeks past. A sock that could stand on its own. A shirt that smells like it’s processed grief and come out of the other side bitter. “These will have to do.” Alex recoils as I hand them over, pinching the fabric between two fingers like it might testify in court. “Aren’t these… dirty?” “Yup.” A beat. A quiet recalibration of standards. He takes them anyway. Brave little soldier. The fridge is worse. A barren wasteland. A cold, humming monument to my failure to pre-make lunchboxes — a task I loathe with the passion of a thousand unpaid chores, yet cling to like proof I’ve got something together. Today? Nothing. Half a bar of cheese. I sniff it. Risky. “That’ll do.” A potato — pale, sprouting, quietly insisting on life — something that might or might not be alive. And… something wrapped in foil. I don’t unwrap it. Some truths don’t need witnesses. I shove it all into the lunchbox and snap it shut like I’m containing something volatile. Guilt. Rot. Denial. Parenting. I am a terrible mother. Not always. Just… today. “We’ve got to go. Now. This second.” “But I haven’t brushed my teeth—” “Ain’t got time for dental hygiene!” Out the door we go, dragging chaos behind us like a snagged hem — threads unravelling with every hasty step. Halfway down the road, it hits me. Not a thought. A thud. I glance at my reflection in a shop window. Sausage dog pyjamas. Bright. Proud. Unapologetically whimsical. A woman who clearly had other plans for today. “Ah well,” I mutter. “We can’t win them all.” Alex is already ten steps ahead, distancing himself both emotionally and physically. “We’re going through town,” I announce. His face collapses in on itself. “It’s the quickest route.” His eyes plead. Beg. Bargain. Please, Mum. Please don’t make me be seen with you like this. We charge. Town is alive. Loud. Entirely unbothered by my personal collapse. And, oddly — I blend in. Next to a man in cowboy boots and jeans that stopped trying five inches too soon, hollering “POTATOES, POTATOES!” like it’s a spiritual calling — I’m practically invisible. He’s not even Irish. But I silently thank him for his service. Until — “Mum…” Alex’s voice again — quieter now, fragile. The tone of someone distancing himself from the inevitable. I look down. Oh no. Oh no no no. Somewhere between leaving the house and losing all sense of self, I have also lost… my pyjama bottoms. I am standing in the middle of town. Top half: cosy sausage dogs. Bottom half: absolute, unfiltered freedom. And worse — so much worse — my legs. At least a week and a half of unapologetic regrowth, shimmering under the shopping centre lights like I’ve been cultivating something artisanal. Soft. Visible. Committed. Right. Emergency. “Detour.” “But Mum, I’ll be late—“ “Google Maps, Alex! Godspeed!” I abandon him to navigation and sprint into the nearest shop in hot pursuit of dignity. No razors. Not one. Not even a sad, forgotten single-blade lurking behind false hope. Of course not. Why would there be? Why would the universe offer me even the illusion of recovery? My phone rings. Work. Of course. Of course it is. Of course it is now. “Where are you?” Time check: 9:10. I was due in at nine. I am trouserless. Hairy. Actively unravelling in real time. So naturally, I do the only reasonable thing left. I buy a Harry Potter costume. Grossly overpriced. Questionable sizing. But the glasses are included, as is the cape. And right now, that feels like progress. I tear through the streets like a deranged wizard, cape flapping behind me, dignity long since abandoned somewhere between aisle three and a pack of razors I absolutely did not overlook in a mad rush. By the time I reach work, I am slick with sweat, the costume clinging in places it was never designed to cling. Richie looks at me. That look. The one that asks questions he’s not sure he wants answers to. “Oh… didn’t you get the memo? Harry Potter day,” I say, attempting humour. It lands between us like a broken wand. “It’s sports day.” Ah. Of course it is. Another memo missed. Another small thread quietly slipping free from whatever was holding me together. He gestures to the yard. Everyone is in activewear. Stretching. Limber. Ready for wholesome competition. Egg and spoon race. I stand there, a sweaty wizard among Lycra. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I pant. “It’s fine,” the manager snaps. “You just won’t be getting paid.” Fair. He pauses. Looks me up and down. “What on earth—” “It’s a long story.” And structurally unsound. And I don’t have the energy to tell it. I collapse onto the sidelines, cape pooling around me, a reminder of my own inadequacy. Hot. Bothered. Loosely tethered to reality. The whistle blows. The race begins. But something’s off. I squint. That’s not an egg. That’s— Potatoes. Actual, undeniable, unapologetic potatoes. Balanced precariously on spoons as grown adults jog with forced enthusiasm across the concrete yard that threatens severe friction burn and at least two casualties. And suddenly — it hits me. Potato man. “POTATOES, POTATOES!” His voice echoes in my head, looping, insistent — no longer random, but intentional. Like he knew. Like he warned me. Or welcomed me. I laugh. I can’t help it. It bubbles up, sharp and unhinged, cutting through the absurdity of it all. “I must be dreaming,” I say aloud. Because that’s the only explanation. It has to be. It has to be. Days don’t unravel like this unless they’re trying to show you something. Strip you back. Peel you, layer by layer, until there’s nothing curated left to hide behind. Leave you standing there — half-dressed, overexposed, clutching frayed scraps of something that used to feel like control — asking: Who are you without the routine? Without the lists, the prep, the quiet little systems you hide inside and call stability? Who are you when it all falls through the net? When nothing holds? The whistle blows again. And for a moment — just a flicker — I don’t wake up. I just sit there. Watching potatoes wobble. Precarious. Absurd. Trying very hard not to fall. Wondering… Not if this is a dream — but If this is me.