7 am. I crawl out of bed. I am not awake but I am moving. Check the fire, throw in some wood. Stagger to the kitchen, flick on the kettle, throw coffee and milk in a cup, boot up the laptop. Make coffee. Scratch kids out of bed. I am still not awake.
7:15. Try to make the children eat breakfast. Thing One wants toast with butter and nothing else. Thing Two wants WeetBix with hot water and milk. No, NutriGrain. No, WeetBix.
They also have a mug of milk. I look at the empty carton and realise I will have to go into town before I can have a second cup of coffee. Later, I will look at the half-empty mugs of milk and wish I had given them juice.
7:30. I stare at the screen, catching up on Facebook and blogs, and drink coffee.
7:45. Almost awake. Tell the children to get dressed. Tell them again. Resort to telling them to put on each individual item. Nag about the socks many times.
Ask Thing One why she is not wearing her shoes yet?
She can't find them.
Hunt for the shoes.
Eventually find one in the laundry basket and one under the sofa. Consider asking how this happened but regain my senses and think better of it.
8 am. Make lunches. Hunt for lunchboxes, freezy blocks, cloths to wrap freezy blocks in so they don't wet everything, and waterbottles.
Try to remember that Thing Two won't eat butter, Thing One won't eat peanut butter, Thing Two cannot possibly eat anything from a pink lunchbox (or that has even touched a pink lunchbox) in case he turns into a girl, Thing One likes MAN SANDWICHES (uncut).
Scratch out a treat for recess and throw in an apple each, even though I know they will come home uneaten, in a vague attempt to deny the mother-guilt a foothold.
8:10. Begin the "get your school-bags please" nag. Repeat for 10 minutes, before discovering that Thing Two has a slight lactose intolerance and the mug of milk has sent him to the loo. Now REALLY wishing I had given him juice.
Pack the bags myself, with lunchbags, library bags, communication folder, hats, water bottles, and other assorted necessities. Try desperately to remember the thing I know I've forgotten.
8:25. Look at Thing Ones' hair in despair. Fetch the spray bottle, comb, elastics and clips. Sit her down in front of ABC3 and proceed to torture the child by combing out knots. She screams for most of it. Then we argue about what hairstyle she should have today. Fix the hair so it's neat and tidy and will hopefully stay lice-free.
8:35. Glance at the clock in horror and begin the laborious task of getting the children and their bags into the car. Go back in twice for things we've forgotten. Eventually, we leave.
We arrive at school in one piece, though somewhat harried. Thing Two races off to class, and Thing One and I sit on the mat and do puzzles until 8:55. Then we spend a few minutes with me trying to
get away leave without traumatising the poor child. Finally I lie and tell her that I will wait in the car, in the car-park, all day, and I won't go home without her. Feel ashamed for lying but also desperate to escape.
9:10. Arrive back home to a peaceful, quiet house. Begin to feel relax and unwind -- then remember that I still have to go get the damn milk!
I am so NOT a morning person.
