Just another Monday morning

Parenting and life

7:52am: I open my eyes and squint at the clock.

Shit, it’s almost 8am, how the hell did that even happen? At this point I would usually have been awake for several hours.

The small one is asleep next to me, as per the last two – three? – weeks? I can’t remember how long. He’s poorly, teething, just being a pain in the arse – pick any or all of these, but whatever it is he won’t spend more than a few hours in his own bed. Sigh.

He spent a good portion of the night (at least from 2.30 until 5) NOT being asleep, and most of that screaming instead.

Fortunately, foreseeing this, I went to bed at TEN PAST NINE in the evening so I don’t actually feel too bad, all things considered.

Had this been one day earlier, I could have rolled over and gone back to sleep, but it’s Monday, so I can’t. WHY DO THEY DO THIS? Every. Bloody. Time.

I know we’re doomed, but like a moth to a flame I can’t help but check my phone notifications anyway.

8.00am: The emergency alarm that I set ‘just in case’ (and laughed heartily as I was doing so) goes off. 

This means business. I have 45 minutes to get everyone up, dressed, fed and out of the house.

I go into the big one’s room and she’s still drooling on the pillow with her bum in the air. Marvellous. I open the curtains and poke her a bit.

She shouts ‘I don’t want to get up, I don’t want to go to school’.

She’s taking the whole ‘threenager’ thing very seriously.

There is no time to wash and dry; it’s a toss up between doing the school run with hair I should have washed yesterday (or the day before) or wet hair.

It’s a freezing cold day but I realise I have snot (not mine) on my arms and so I pluck her from her bed and stick her on the loo, stick a toothbrush in her hand and have a shower.

8:16am: I may have spent a few too many minutes in the shower. 

Big one is refusing to get dressed, small one is asleep, until my getting dressed wakes him up. He’s not massively happy about it but hey, if you stay over in someone’s room you have to bend to their routine.

I plead with the big one to get dressed and promise her she can do whatever she likes when she gets home from preschool if she just GETS DRESSED. Amazingly, she obliges.


8:24am: The big one insists on having Weetabix for breakfast.

An odd choice perhaps, given that she’s eschewed it for it’s sugary rivals since she was old enough to refuse food; but the Weetabix on the packet had eyes on it and she absolutely had to have it. She was bitterly disappointed when it came out and had no eyes, so I made Cheerio eyes for her.

Yep, that’s where I’ m at.

Although it’s a healthy choice, it is of course the hardest of all the things in the world to clean off of hair and surfaces once set.

On balance however I feel like this is better than her insisting on Nutella on toast and should probably be encouraged, so I give them both Weetabix. He in his highchair, she sitting on the sofa (I know, I know).

8:30am: I realise I haven’t made her a packed lunch. Oh balls.

Extra balls, the bread appears to have mould on it, and we’ve run out of apples.

I find two ‘clean’ slices and inspect them – mouldless, score! – and put a banana in there knowing full well she doesn’t like banana and won’t eat it, but you’ve got to look willing.

8:34am: Evidently, the small one does not like Weetabix. 

It’s everywhere. On his face, in his hair, on his pyjamas, on the high chair, on the carpet. I throw another banana his way; he eats half and feeds the other half to the dog, and then screams about it.

Miraculously the big one has eaten hers with not a speck to show for it. I ask her to go and put on her shoes. We all know how that goes, right?

Meanwhile I get the small one out of his Weetabix-spattered pyjamas and dressed. He’s in a shitty mood because he’s tired and screams throughout. It is something he does for most of the day.

8:41am: Enter hallway.

The dog has the packed lunch box in his mouth. No way, buddy. The big one does not have her shoes on, I don’t know why I am surprised at this. I dig the buggy out from under my extensive collection of plastic bags and search for the small one’s shoes.

8:44am: Still searching.

The big one has one shoe on.

8:45am: I hit upon a stroke of genius ask the small one to get his shoes.

He retrieves them from somewhere (no idea) and we put them on, followed by his coat, and I wrestle him into the buggy.

The big one has both shoes on, we locate her coat, and she decides she needs a wee. Of course she bloody does.

8:49am: We are OUT OF THE DOOR.

And just a few minutes later than usual.


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