The Instagram version
At 5am sharp my alarm would gently stir me from my uninterrupted 14-hour slumber. I would leap swiftly to my feet, fully recharged and ready for the day. Uttering the words: “life is beautiful” (whilst gazing at my fresh-faced, revitalised reflection in the mirror), I would don my matching morning activewear: yoga leggings and a slouchy Sweaty Betty T-shirt. My postpartum body had sprung back with elasticity; I was, of course, one of those bendy women that could whip up a kale smoothie whilst in Downward Facing Dog, reciting a Buddhist mantra.
Smiling smugly to myself I would casually waft across the living room. Breezing past freshly pressed uniforms, I would glance at three sets of shoes by the door: shoes waiting to lead tiny little feet to the great big adventures ahead.
Reaching past my children’s pre-packed organic lunch boxes, I would grab a bottle of chilled lemon water from the refrigerator. Cool and composed, I would take a deep, mindful breath of fresh air and step outside with certainty and vigour. Now for Vinyasa Yoga, a quick dip in the ice bath and perhaps even some high intensity interval training before my little darlings - who were obviously all still sleeping soundly - were roused by the sound of a songbird chirping merrily at their bedroom window.
The “easy” overnight oats would be prepped and soaking in the refrigerator, topped with chia seeds, nut butter, cinnamon and cardamom - and the sweet smell of coffee would seep under the crack in the kitchen door, permeating the house with its delicate aroma. Devouring my keto breakfast I would throw myself a discrete and well-earned ‘high five’. Who needs thick-cut white toast drenched in butter and jam when you can have a crackerbread topped with smashed avocado and a squeeze of lime juice?
Then I became a parent.
Beep beep, beep beep, beep beep.
Snooze.
Fuck.
No, no, no! It can’t be morning already. I only went to bed 4.6 minutes ago. This must be a joke. Someone has even changed my alarm clock to make it look like it actually is morning.
Beep beep, beep beep, beep beep.
Snooze.
Snooze.
Snooze.
Elbowing my husband in the face - because obviously everything is his fault at this unearthly hour of the morning - I whisper into his ear. It’s a far cry from the ‘sweet nothings’ of yesteryear: “We’re bloody late again!”
Hysterical screaming from the kids.
“Muuuum, she turned it off.”
“Good! In my day we used to play with actual toys, not watch 7 year old Cindy unwrap an LOL Surprise Doll on Youtube. And what have I told you about YouTube? It’s B.A.N.N.E.D!”
I look in the mirror. A pale shell of my former self stares back at me. A thick frown line is etched into my sunken forehead and the heavy bags underneath my eyes have melted down my pale cheeks like some sad waxwork model. Slapping some wall paint and a dash of solid eyeliner over the tiredness, I sigh to myself: I definitely didn’t look like this before I had kids.
Why the hell didn’t anyone warn me?
“Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up!”
But there is absolutely no rushing children, is there? Children have one very consistent, inbuilt pace: verrrrrryyyy blooooddddyy slooooowwwwwwww (especially when you are in a rush).
“Hurry up and get dressed! What do you want for breakfast? [...] No, not porridge...I’d have to cook that in the microwave. Something quick. And cold. Something that doesn’t require heating or cooling. Shreddies?”
I hurl the mini squares of cardboard at each child, splashing milk over them and consoling myself that at least they aren’t Coco Pops.
“Right, you’ve got 3.7 minutes to eat your breakfast!” I announce trying to pretend it’s some sort of weird game. “Now, who’s going to win the race?”
What follows can only be described as a re-enactment of ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’ - only with three tortoises, no hares and very little actual competition at all. “Hurry up! Hurry up! Ok, I’ll feed you”, I say, piling an inordinate amount of food onto a very small toddler spoon and shovelling it into my three year old’s mouth.
“What do you mean you need a poo? You’ll just have to hold it until you get to school.”
“Where’s your shoe?”
“Where’s your shoe?”
“Where’s your other fucking shoe?” - I say the last sentence in my head, mainly out of fear that my middle little love would tell her teacher that she was late because she: “lost her “fucking shoe.”
“Shoesy woosey’s gone on holiday to France”, she says, finding herself absolutely hysterical.
I sling two backpacks over my shoulder, grab a toddler, a pram, my water bottle, my purse, snacks for the road, nappies, wipes, the kitchen sink and my soul.
I look at the clock and exhale deeply. We are almost-not-as-late-as-yesterday, which means we are just about on time if.we.RUN.
Hurling the kids through the school gates at lightning speed I think about how much I love them, and how grown up they are becoming, and about how much I’ll miss all of this chaos when they are older and don’t need me to do their top buttons up anymore.
And that evening, as I collapse on the sofa, I think about starting tomorrow with a kale smoothie and taking up Vinyasa yoga. I pour myself a well-earned glass of red wine and (like a rockstar) head to bed at precisely 8.43pm.
Tomorrow is a new day.
We will all, absolutely, definitely be on time.
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