Most of my days begin at 6am after being woken several times throughout the night by the baby crying out for a dummy/cuddle/parent or the cat attacking my feet/head/sanity. Still convinced its the middle of the night, I try to persuade her to go back to sleep, which results in her laughing in my face. True story. I then give in and bring her in to my room, where we play a game of stroke the face (me)/punch the face (her) for 20 odd minutes. By then she’s managed to get her hands down my top or is pinging my bra strap to get to the goods. After a reluctant before 7am feed, she’ll spring off of my boob and laugh triumphantly in my face before trying to launch herself on the cat. Which he normally always deserves. It’s now 7am ish and the 4-year-old is stirring and demanding it had better be the weekend or else he’ll cry.
Then all hell breaks loose. I need to shower and entertain 2 kids and a cat. I ask the boy to get dressed, which takes an age so I’m considering just keeping him in the same clothes Mon-Fri. The cat sits and watches me shower which just really creeps me out, whilst the baby cries every time I put her down on the floor in front of a pile of toys. She seems at her most happiness playing with the bin in the bathroom. I know my battles so let her crack on. Every morning I curse myself for not sorting out my clothes the night before, and every night my bed looks more appealing than deciding what I am going to wear the next day. The boy is half-dressed at this point, but its OK because he’s lined up all his sodding Octonauts on the floor. I only have a bra on, and this is only because I’d trip over my boobs if they aren’t restrained and the baby is filling up on Paw Patrol stickers that her brother has kindly left out for her.
If we aren’t all dressed and downstairs by 8am, the world will tip on its axis. And if Good Morning Britain isn’t on the TV and coffee isn’t in my digestive system by 8:15 then I cry. Big, fat tears.
Breakfast starts with 3 sets of hungry eyes, staring into my soul until they are fed. The baby gets slung a brioche to nibble on whilst the boy starts barking off menu choices like he’s ordering a fucking McDonald’s drive-thru. The cat follows me around like his throat has been cut until I fill up his bowl with cat food, which he just looks at and then pisses off out the cat flap without even touching it. But I’m OK because I’m on my second cup of caffeine by now and Ben Shepherd is on my TV, talking just to me. We have to leave by 8:40 or I’m the mum that is dragging the little-legged person into the classroom after the bell has rung. We’re not even a half term into being a school family and already I am hating getting out of the sodding door on time! Mornings are not our forte.
But the best part is that I have to add me getting to work into this equation pretty soon. Washed, dressed and most definitely caffeinated up. Unless PJs are acceptable in the office nowadays? It has been a while.
Thanks for reading
Mummy over and out