One thing or a mother: Negotiations and flying cereal – all before 9am

The alarm awakens me from a deep slumber.
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It’s 6am and there’s a grim realisation that it’s Monday morning, and, that’s right, I need to get up and start the morning routine.

Saying ‘routine’ is probably giving it too formal a name, and suggesting there’s some kind of order to it. There isn’t.

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It seems to be some kind of unspoken law between my children that they will laugh in the face of any and all attempts to get them ready for school and nursery in any kind of sensible and stress-free manor.

Katherine does not normally look like this in the morningKatherine does not normally look like this in the morning
Katherine does not normally look like this in the morning

Children who, just the day before, were perfectly capable of feeding themselves breakfast are suddenly rendered completely unable to do so...

“Mummy, can you feed me, my arm is tired?”, pipes up my daughter.

“Erm, no, you didn’t seem to have any problems when you were shovelling down ice cream last night...”

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And that’s if you even get that far, because having poured a bowl of Shreddies, apparently so delicious my son has managed to eat three bowls of them for the last few days, he declares ‘no like them’ and swipes them onto the floor. Excellent.

On to getting dressed. That shouldn’t be a problem, at least. My daughter has been doing that herself for a few years now. Wrong!

Despite me repeatedly asking/begging/pleading her to put her uniform on, I find her sitting in front of Sofia the First with just one leg dangling out of her pyjama bottoms.

I politely ask (read semi-shout in an exasperated tone) her to complete the simple task I have already asked her to do 50,000 times, and she says without irony: “Oh, I didn’t hear you.” REALLY?!

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Maybe I’ll try the other one. I try to coax him upstairs with promises of playing with dinosaurs and assurances he can watch Jo Jo and Gran Gran on his return downstairs, but find myself an unwitting participant in a game of chase.

After circling the kitchen three times, I pick up a wailing and flailing toddler and take him upstairs to wrestle him into some clothes.

Next, teeth-brushing. If I thought I’d uttered the words ‘get dressed, please’ a lot, that was nothing compared to the number of times I hear myself say things like ‘open your mouth’ and ‘don’t bite the toothbrush’.

The three of us now covered in minty bubbles – and not the good Aero kind – we attempt the task of snack packing.

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Me: “Right, I’ve got bananas, apples, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries or dried apricots. What would you like for break time?”

Child: “I’ll have an orange, please.”

Give me strength.

Just need to get coats on, then we can be on our way.

Oh, we’re down a coat. How can something so pink and fluffy just disappear?

Run around the house like a mad person, looking in all the obvious places, only to be casually told on the tenth jog upstairs, ‘oh yeah, it’s in the den under my bed’.

Of course it is! But there’s no time to ponder this unusual storage solution due to having to use my best negotiating skills (seriously, I would be amazing in a hostage situation) to convince my toddler that Gruffalo sandals aren’t appropriate footwear for a cold, rainy day.

And then we’re off, and both children are dropped off so I can start work – for a rest!