One day Big L may read this (sooner rather than later at the rate he’s learning to read) and so, my Darling, I have to tell you that I love you very much but by heck you drive me fucking insane in the morning.
Now I’m not a morning person. I find it difficult to get out of bed at the best of times. Add to the mix making Daddy’s sandwiches (it’s cheese and ham daily but that’s all I can manage), Big L’s breakfast and almost force feeding Big L said breakfast.
“But, Sweetheart. You asked for honey sandwiches”
“I said honey. I meant Marmite”
“Drink your milk”
“I want juice”
“Finish your breakfast it’s time to get ready”
It goes on
I swear to God this happens daily
Then there’s getting him washed and dressed. He’s nearly five. It shouldn’t be this hard. He CAN dress himself.
The other day we were running REALLY late. I’m talking “Mummy didn’t have time for a shower and is debating putting yesterday’s drawers on so as not to dirty another pair” late. He knows we’re late. I’m in my room getting ready and he comes in with his pants on and his socks barely covering his toes walking like demented penguin with flippy floppy penguin feet
“Is this right, Mummy?”
(In my head) No you little fucker it is not, as you are well aware.
Out loud –
“Darling. You know how to put your socks on. Go back and put them on properly”
Off waddled penguin.
Meanwhile Mummy frantically rubs under her armpits with a babywipe.
In wanders Big L
“Is this right, Mummy?”
Now he’s taking the piss. His trousers are on back to front.
“Go and get ready properly”
Oh bugger this, I get him dressed
“Time to brush your teeth. Open wide. Stand still. Not on one foot you’re wobbling about. Open. Wider. WIDER. Spit. Do you need a wee? Have you washed your hands? With soap? Ok. Go and put your shoes on. They’re by the door. Your black school shoes. Yes those ones.”
This is just Big L. All this time Little L has been voicing his displeasure at the fact that all Mummy’s attention has been focused on some demented penguin that can’t dress itself properly. In fact he’s so pissed off he shits his pants. Just as we’re leaving the house. FML
Where are the car keys. We don’t have time to walk and if I don’t find the car keys soon we’ll never find anywhere within a mile radius to park.
Grab school bag. Yesterday’s water is fine. I think.
“Coat on. Put on your coat. Listening ears! Coat! Right. In the car. No. We don’t have time to walk”
So I strap one in the car and go back to the house for the other. Who starts screaming because he hates the car seat. He stops as the car starts moving. Thank fuck. Off we go. Shit. Traffic lights are red.
“The baby’s crying, Mummy”
“I can hear that, Darling”
Lights go green. Baby stops crying.
Turn into road from hell where there are cars parked fucking EVERYWHERE.
“No. You go back. It’s my right of way. Thank you”
Find parking spot. Get pushchair out of car. Get baby out. Get demented penguin out.
“No. No sweets before school. Come on!”
Paint on smile
Wonder to myself how the fuck do they (the other, well presented mums) manage to get up, shower, make up, hair done and coordinate their outfit and I’m wearing yesterday’s pants and I’m not sure if I remembered deodorant.