Reasons I’ll never pass my HMC (Higher Maternal Competence) in Parenthood, number 2,342 – mornings. The very thought of them makes me want to lie down in a dark room until the Neighbours theme tune signals that it’s lunchtime.
Ladies, is it just me? Is mine the only household in the world where mornings are an exercise in urban warfare?
Back in my teens, I occasionally envisioned what my happy little family life of the future would look like. We’d all sit around the breakfast table: I’d be a size 10 and look like the blonde one in Bananarama and my husband, Morten Harket, the mullet-topped lead singer of A-ha, would gaze adoringly at our two little bilingual child prodigies.
Later, in my PE days (Pre-Episiotomy – blokes, ask the wife and have your best sympathetic face ready), mornings were a hassle-free operation consisting of a quick shower, a coffee, a ciggie and a 100-metre dash to the car.
Now? I adore my boys, but mornings are chaotic mayhem, with a noise level that warrants an ASBO.
I try to be a serene earth mother, but instead I end up getting louder and louder until someone either answers me or throws something at me in the hope of breaking my voice box.
Low the Elder usually climbs into our bed some time before dawn, where he proceeds to sleep like a starfish, leaving husband and I three inches of mattress each. He then wakes up at the first claxon of the alarm clock and requests sustenance. He’s five, so he hasn’t quite sussed out yet that repetition isn’t necessarily a good thing.
‘Can we go down for breakfast now Mum, can we, can we, can we, CAN WE?’
Meanwhile, I’m still trying to prise open my eyes and remember my name.
Eventually, I give in and allow myself to be dragged into the bedroom of Low the Younger, who is four but thinks he’s a fully-fledged teenager who should be allowed to lie in bed until he’s old enough to shave.
‘Come on honey, time to get up,’ I whisper lovingly.
He throws the duvet over his head and informs everyone living within our postcode area that he’s ‘STILL TIRED!!!!!!’
Twenty minutes of negotiation, bribery and coercion later, we get to the kitchen table – one still repeating the breakfast mantra and the other threatening to leave home.
When I was in Bananarama, our disciplined, perfect family all feasted on the same breakfast. Yeah, right. That would be a Frostie too far for my lot, who each require their own individually designed assortment of Jamie Oliver-approved edibles.
‘I’m not hungry,’ declares son number one, the very same child who has been pulling me towards the kitchen since daybreak. Hear that banging noise? That’s my head coming into contact with the cereal cupboard.
Next comes the ablutions bit. Otherwise known as ‘chasing two wee boys around the house clutching two toothbrushes and a tube of Colgate’. Closely followed by another circuit of the house with a face sponge and soap, and loud yells from me demanding that they stop playing football in the house or I’ll confiscate the goalposts: an Ikea lamp and the ironing board.
Then comes the Pants Scrum of Death. ‘I’m wearing the Batman ones!’
‘No, they’re MINE!’
‘Muuuuuuuuuuum!!!’
At which point, the clock has jumped forward thirty minutes and we’re now in danger of being late. Nooooo! Panic!
Their uniform/clothes get thrust on, only for them both to take another drink of juice and spill it down their front, necessitating a repeat of the whole exercise.
Then I remember I haven’t made up the packed lunches, checked homework, made the beds and I’m still in my pyjamas.
Oh, and son number one still hasn’t eaten his breakie.
I somehow manage to get them sorted and in the car, deposit son two at nursery and flee to his brother’s school, just in time for noise of the bell to drown out the noise coming from my thumping heart.
Phew. Made it. And as I look down at that gorgeous little face, still stuffing the last of his breakfast into his mouth as he leans over to say goodbye, I realise that I’ve managed to conquer another morning. I did it! And survived!
‘Mum, did I tell you we’re to bring in cakes today?’