Mornings are my least favourite part of the day (I like them less than bath time. That’s saying something). It seems that sometimes my expectations of motherhood weren’t even in the same ballpark as the reality. So here’s what the corporate world had me believe mornings would be like vs the sad, stressful truth.
I wake up with sun streaming through the curtains at 6.15 and stretch and doze for fifteen minutes until I hear the baby stirring in his cot and the three year old happily singing ‘Let it Go’ from her bed. All three of us greet each other excitedly and we bound downstairs where I hand out juice and the children happily watch tv whilst I enjoy a hot cup of tea and start to prepare breakfast. While the children eat breakfast I quickly shower and they don’t even notice, and we all head back upstairs to get washed and dressed. We have time to spare so I manage to drink my green smoothie and have an espresso before heading out into the crisp yet bright morning for a leisurely stroll to nursery where we jovially count the red cars on the way in.
(This has never happened. Not once.)
It’s 5.30am and I’ve been kicked by a moany three year old since 3.30 who couldn’t sleep in her own bed any more because of the ‘scawy shadows’. The baby hears me move and immediately panics and starts screaming so I run in to console him. Three year old starts crying as she’s been left alone in the dark and with both kids clawing at me and wailing, we slowly manoeuvre downstairs. I need to get a drink for my big girl but the baby won’t let me put him down. He’s making a loud, guttural cry and banging his head on the kitchen units every time I put him down so getting the lid on the big ones juice is like a task from The Cube.
We make it into the lounge with drinks and put on the tv on so I can try to sneak for a morning wee (I daren’t wee in the night in case I make a floorboard creak and wake a child up. True story). I barely make it out of the room before the distressing screech starts so I wee (as usual) with a 16 month on my lap and three year old peering in at the door. Breakfast is a total sham, 98% ends up on the floor with the other 2% eaten by me and I’ve made empty threats of no tv, no treats, no advent calendar, no nursery school and no lunch already and it’s barely 7am. I shower….I shan’t go into the gory details because I’ve written about it before. It’s not fun. That’s all I’ll say.
Getting dressed is like a carry on film where I chase both children round, occasionally shoving an item of clothing on them every minute or two, whilst the other removes an item. Teeth cleaning and getting washed shouldn’t be this difficult and I sometimes silently sob at this point. We eventually head back downstairs and I realise the time so run around for another five minutes shouting “SHOES, COATS, HATS!! WHERE THE *whisper* fuuuuuuccccckkk ARE MY KEYS?”
Baby resists going in the pushchair (every. Single. Day. Twice. A. Day. Actually.) by aggressively wriggling, thrashing, screaming and whacking me and I have to body slam him into position and quickly click the straps shut. Just as a final ‘Fuck you’ I allow the three year old out of the front door first and she slams it on me as I’m trying to get out with the pushchair and pegs it up the road on her own. I eventually get out of the door and I bellow after her like a fish wife as she careers towards the morning traffic.
We make it to nursery a bit sweaty and a lot harassed and as I hand her over and I still can’t believe this is how my day starts, 5 out of 7. I can remember some moons ago where a morning involved a shower, a tube and a Pret coffee.
Big. Fat. Sigh. Coffee machine on.
Because they’re worth it, eh?