This morning was an unmitigated disaster. I say ‘disaster’ we were warm, dry and had milk but still a total f*ck up of a start to a day. I thought I had it covered; awake by 5:55am popped the heating on then got back into bed for another half an hour. Woke at 7:10am in a panic but it’s fine; plenty of time so nip straight back downstairs, lay out the breakfast things then hop in the shower. I emerge cleansed, pop the kettle on and re-ascend the stairs.
Now to wake up my seven year old; this is a protracted experience but well worth it to ensure a half-way decent start to the day. I open the curtains then pretend to be either a puppy, rabbit or mouse and whilst making sniffing noises gently prod under her armpits, nape of the neck or in her hair as if I were said animal! Eventually she’ll laugh and then I will cajole her out of her pit into her dressing gown and metaphorically ‘drop kick’ her down the stairs! Everything begins so well…
However the three year-old has now awoken before I could get the seven year-old downstairs and so begins a whiney siren punctuated only with ‘why are you trying to separate us; I love my sister’ from the 7 year-old and a lot of intense cuddles whilst giving me ‘evils’. It takes nearly ten minutes of my finest negotiation skills to successfully separate them at which point I continue brushing out my now semi-dry hair and applying moisturiser that I know in advance will not have time to dry before ‘time’ forces me to apply my foundation. No matter; no big deal.
The seven year-old then reappears having forgotten ‘Lemar’ aka smelly grey furry thing I’m desperate to ‘bin’; which means I must repeat the time-consuming and emotionally-draining process I endured only three minutes earlier. Whiney drone has now resumed but I’m blocking it out and applying my foundation whilst simultaneously berating myself for not leaving it long enough after my moisturiser. At this point I’ve accepted that the three year-old will be unwashed today. Seven year-old appears once more nearly fifteen minutes later; she’s not wet and wrapped in a towel…why is this the case? Her Father should have put her in the downstairs shower by now and sent her up to me. At this point I accept that the seven year-old will be unwashed today.
I’m now dressed with a full-face of overly shiny make-up and a frown. Ten minutes later the little one is dressed and kind of ready. The seven year-old is finally getting dressed with just her hair to go. At this point somewhere deep inside of me a seedling of fear has been invoked; it grows at a rapid rate and quickly engulfs my parental confidence.
The hair; the fucking hair.
I begin with a detangling spray then comb through; you’d imagine this would be the difficult bit; well yes very often you’d be right but today no; this was all good and the seedling of fear shrinks back a little. ‘I want a high pony-tail’ she declares; like she’s rich, famous and her shit doesn’t stink. I repeat to myself the words ‘come on; you’ve got this’ as the seedling once more begins tingling with anticipation.
The first iteration is not good enough; not high enough. The second; is too bulgy. Not known for my patience I’m beginning to lose the will to live and I’ve taken the metaphorical seedling and now crushed it into a fine paste .
I forewarn her that this is my last attempt for then I am DONE. Silly little sausage why oh why didn’t she take Mummy seriously.
I’ve now tossed the ‘tangle teaser’ a really fucking long way and I’m off in full-on flounce mode down the stairs to gather coats and start the car; leaving behind a scene of devastation. High drama is now playing out at top volume with screaming accusations laced with snot and ‘I hate you’s’. At this point what I really want to do is get in my car and drive away listening to my ’90’s Power Ballad’s’ but instead I head back into the fray to gather up my offspring in readiness for school.
We’re now all in the car along with red eyes, runny noses and shit hairstyles. The little one’s hair didn’t get a look in and regrettably I’ve now realised neither did mine.