On weekends the child will wake up anywhere between five and seven am. He will bounce in, hurl himself on to my face and initiate a loud conversation about aliens or cowboys. On school days, my son will do everything he can to avoid getting up.
I do wonder where this pathological desire to drive his mother insane comes from?
Sneaking out of bed at half six, side stepping over the creaky floorboards and piles of floor laundry I attempt to at least have a shower successfully. Gratefully I step into the cascade of water and enjoy blissful peace. Two minutes later the door bursts open and in comes a ruffled, dino-clad little boy. He squints through the steamed glass and informs me he is going to wee. After ignoring my please not to, he flushes the toilet (little sociopath). I jump to one side to avoid the gush of icy water. Unfazed, he gesticulates wildly and is pointing to his foot.
‘I lost a sock in bed can you get out and find it for me?’
Yes, because my only goal in life is to serve you my mini evil overlord. I sigh and loudly call,
‘It’s mummy’s private time, go and get dressed please’. He yells back, ‘you are shouting, umm, you are not allowed to shout, use your indoor voice.’
It’s just another manic Monday.
Throwing on my clothes I notice the little scamp has climbed back into bed. He complains that he did not sleep AT ALL last night and needs a lie in. That’s nothing; I have not slept in almost six years courtesy of you kiddo.
‘Five minutes little boy,’ I say gently, calm and collected. I sit on the toilet whilst brushing my teeth, play on Twitter and pretend I have my life together. Three out of four mothers find the school run more stressful than going to work. More than grocery shopping and everyone hates that. I totally get it. The free childcare is great, the need to be punctual, not so much.
I re-enter the room 3 times, given him a countdown. My Zen mum voice flags and turns to harpy yelling, ‘get up, now!’ Then drag him unceremoniously out of bed with Pikachu, Doggy and Charlie Bear in his arms. I dragon breathe, regroup, smile and gently manoeuvre him to the bathroom to brush his teeth. I have to repeat brush your teeth 12 times and ponder whether I am loosing my marbles.
He then promptly forgets how to dress himself.
‘My pants are too tight.’
‘Well go to your draw and get out some different ones. ‘
‘I can’t, you got them out so I have to wear them.’
‘Go and get some more pants Leo.’
‘ No. My winky will suffocate and it’s your fault.’
He receives two warnings for pure ignorance. I don’t smoke but feel this is why people start. Scrabbling to regain the possibility of positive reinforcement, I encouragingly help to fold his arms into his jumper. But seriously, what happens when they are just being a dick? The gentle parenting tools kind of get lobbed out the window before 9 am.
I tread on Lego and shout ‘SHHH…’little boy looks at me expectantly’…OOOOT.’
My firstborn, my only child, light of my life then proceeds to stare at me defiantly and throw himself heavily on the floor sideways. He lays sprawled out for a moment, trousers round his ankles, then I watch his face crumple. Seriously, I just watched you do that.
‘OWW. I am injured. You hurt me.’
He does it again 4 times, cries and then asks if I want to play with his Hot wheels. I ponder calling a psychiatrist.
Make a battle plan.
Everything is sorted the night before, water bottles filled, his uniform on the radiator. Shoes are kept in the same place. Sergeant Major mummy. Little boy is aware of expectations and I encourage him to take responsibility. I don’t even suggest that the TV be turned on. No matter how organised I am. It’s a nightmare. Like entering the jaws of hell.
Hands up who else yells up the stairs, ‘TEETH! SHOES! JUMPER!’ Every sodding day.
You start supportive, cajoling, saying please. You try really hard. Then it descends into full-fledged shouting as they become hysterical, or ignore you. When they are finally dressed they look feral and raggedy. Already filthy. How does that happen?!
Drinks bottle, book bag, work lunch, breakfast club money, coat, swim bag, handbag, kitchen sink. Check.
I close the door, lock it and breathe a big sign, exhausted, and the day has only just begun.
‘Mum I need a wee.’
‘We have to wear something red today, and had to learn a fact about space.’
Cue Mum’ster. We arrive at breakfast club after listening to Disney in the car. He then decides he wants crumpets at home. I semi dropkick him into the door, flee as swiftly as possible and get to work then realise I am not wearing a bra.
Buggerit. I mean oh Chuggingtons, whoops a daisy…nope sod it I meant buggerit.
How do you get through your mornings? Are yours a battle or do you have any saving hacks that makes your days easier?