There’s something magical about how differently my toddlers and I approach mornings.

I gradually accept consciousness, while my little ones eliminate all those unnecessary steps.

One moment, they’re asleep, the next, they’re fully activated and demanding “MILKIES!”

After feeding the toddlers, I feed my sourdough starter, and finally, my chickens, Feather, Snuggles and Sparkles (how can you tell they were named by 3-year-olds?).

These free-range fowl, with their mottled brown-black feathers, come up to the house with a series of musical clucks and sit in our doorway.

They feel like pets and my girls love to snuggle them.

Between baking sourdough bread and tending to my little flock, I sometimes yearn for a bonnet and white frilled apron where I can wipe my hands while gazing, Elizabeth Bennet-like, out the window.

If it wasn’t for my pesky job and responsibilities, I could easily slide into the #tradwife life. I’d be a great tradwife.

Of course, my tradwife fantasy conveniently glosses over certain realities.

For the uninitiated, a “tradwife” — short for traditional wife — refers to women who embrace conventionally feminine homemaking roles.

Think Instagram-perfect homesteaders in flowing dresses, baking cereal from scratch while homeschooling immaculately behaved children.

It’s a lifestyle that has gained traction on social media, where women showcase their dedication to hearth, home, and husband above all else.

Yesterday, I was channelling my inner prairie woman, gently folding my sourdough with flour-dusted hands, only to have my reverie shattered by an urgent notification about a revert on a conversion opportunity.

There I stood in my kitchen, one hand covered in sticky dough, frantically typing with my pinky finger while preventing Mirror, our cat, from chasing Sparkles, who had somehow wandered inside.

The Instagram version would have shown artisanal bread and smiling, screen-free children.

The reality featured me in a sadly mismatched outfit, covered in little handprints, attempting to unmute myself, rescue my sourdough, corral an escaped chicken, and appear professionally competent.

The bonnet and frilled apron remain a fantasy. Honestly, the apron might be practical, given how often I wipe my hands on my leggings between Zoom meetings.

Surprisingly, I’m more proud of the perfect rise on my sourdough loaf, the homemade wholegrain muffins tucked into my kids’ lunchboxes, and the clever antics of my backyard chickens, than I am of my most significant career achievements.

These humble creations offer something my professional accomplishments rarely do: immediate, tangible results that bring visible joy to those around me.

There’s something uniquely satisfying about watching my family devour bread I’ve nurtured from starter to crust, or hearing my daughters giggle as they chase Feather around the garden. It’s a different kind of fulfilment.

The praise for homemade muffins is immediate and genuine. No one ever responds to a strategic analysis with quite the same enthusiasm as a child biting into something you’ve baked with your own hands.

Sometimes, I imagine getting a friendly dairy cow and churning my own butter while feeding us all with healthy, homemade food, preservative-free and microbiome-rich.

Even though I wouldn’t call myself an “animal person”, I am a bit obsessed with my clucking friends and am grateful for the pause they add to my day.

Spending time feeding them, between meetings and deadlines, with the kids and hunting for their elusive eggs, brings a quiet feeling of control to my life.

My sleep is strictly controlled by my tiny dictators, my personal satisfaction is tied to a low-feedback work environment, and my day often feels completely out of my control, bouncing from meeting to child pickup to deadline.

With my chickens, I feel the quiet joy and pride that comes with crafting a life I love, even if it is a little, domestic life. Despite my pre-dawn wake ups, I wouldn’t change anything.

Though I do want that apron.