Awake to the sound of a six-month-old farting. She has been in your bed since 3am following her third wake of the night - later than the night before but not as late as the one before that. The farter is goldfish-mouthing for a nipple but is nowhere near and latches onto your elbow instead. Redirect her and wonder why she always snorts and gulps as though she's chugging a beer when she breastfeeds. So bloody noisy. Try to keep your eyes closed and will her fall back asleep, while she finishes guzzling her breakfast pint. No chance - she starts to burble and squirm, a sure sign she's ready for the day. Sit her up and give her a hairbrush to play with while you bury your head back in the pillow. Husband is in the shower which must mean it's 06.40. Sleep laps at the outer shores of your brain, before rapidly receding as you hear the wail of "Mummy, come and seeeeee meeeeee!" from son's room. Surround daughter with pillows to prevent a bed-to-floor tumble and drag your knackered corpse in to collect son from bunk bed that he still can't safely exit solo. Bring son back into your bed and inform him that it's very early so he should go back to the land of nod. For a brief, tantalising moment, as you crawl back under the covers, you think he might comply, but no, he's sits bolt upright again and the peanut butter toast demands begin. There's no going back now. The day has begun.
Husband emerges from shower, gets dressed and engages son in loud, animated discussion about underpants, before taking him downstairs for the inexplicable morning ritual of placing a banana in a laptop bag. Briefly check weather and headlines on phone before son is back, jumping on the bed and trying to steal daughter's hairbrush to vigourously brush her bald pate. Daughter wails and the first "gentle please!" of the day is issued.
You re-exit the bed, trip over various pillows, toys and clothes and locate a dressing gown. It needs a wash as the single marmite stain has now spawned three more, but your other one hasn't yet graced the washing machine after a tea disaster, so marmite robe it is.
Wave husband off out the window and perilously carry both kids down the stairs, because one can't walk and the other refuses to. Hope today is not the day that you slip and drop them both. Locate the remote, click on CBeebies, and stick the baby in her cardboard box playpen while toast is prepared. Wonder, as you have every day for the past month, whether today is the day to start giving the baby something other than boob for breakfast, but decide, once again, that you don't have the time or energy right now. Maybe when more stuff goes in her mouth than on the floor...?
Dole out toast and water and answer son's question of "What we doing today Mummy?" for the third time. Today is a nursery day. Still. Shovel own toast into mouth and down juice while checking Facebook before embarking on some washing up. But wait, what's that smell? Daughter has pooped up her back! Oh happy day.
Deal with the poomageddon, noting that the box of used Cheeky Wipes still needs to be washed and you still don't have time right now to do it, and throw poopy babygrow into the "to soak in stain remover" bucket by the washing machine. Return to find large puddle in the middle of the kitchen thanks to an upended cup incident. Spend five minutes persuading son to wipe it up, which he does, but so incompetently that you have to complete the job yourself. Do a little jig to the Hey Duggee theme tune and get momentarily distracted by its zany charm. Glance at clock. 07.45. Right, operation Get Dressed must begin. The washing up can wait.
Corral children up the stairs, repeatedly instructing son NOT to drop plate of half-eaten toast, before picking up dropped toast six steps from the top. Stick son in front of laptop and fight with Amazon Prime website and crap broadband speed until Paw Patrol reluctantly agrees to play. Install daughter on a mat on bathroom floor with a random collection of bath toys and empty shampoo bottles. Collect son's nursery outfit from his bedroom, plonk it on bed next to him with instructions to put it on while you are in shower, then strip off clothes, have a quick wee while daughter attempts to gum your toe and jump in.
Zoom through shampoo and conditioner, washing body with shampoo as you still haven't remembered to buy more soap, and step out into a puddle of milky baby sick which daughter is merrily swishing around the tiles with her pudgy little hands. Bite back a swear word, pick her up, rinse her off under the tap and stick her on the floor in the bedroom. Rinse foot, dry foot, dry everything else, wrap hair in towel, then streak down the hallway to the airing cupboard to collect a flannel, hoping the neighbours don't see your naked wobbly bits through the landing window. Wipe up sick with flannel and start brushing teeth. Continue brushing while attempting to rescue daughter, who has reversed herself under the bed, and put Paw Patrol back on for son, who has somehow opened an Excel spreadsheet and is busy populating every column with the letter k. Complete toothbrushing, moisturise and deodorise, then wipe up random toothpaste dribbles on duvet and daughter's head with the baby sick flannel.
Note that son has not yet even removed pyjamas. Gently encourage son to do so by slamming lid of laptop shut and stating there will be no more Paw Patrol until he is dressed. Brush hair and drown out whining with hair dryer, then tie hair up to keep it out the way of sticky baby gecko hands. Rummage in wardrobe for outfit that fits and doesn't have any major holes, then get dressed while simultaneously putting on son's socks. Leave him to complete dressing while daughter is wrestled into clothes, generating customary screaming fit. Return to bedroom where son has still not donned his trousers, but has made a den out of the bedclothes, in which he is now sitting, building a road out of husband's cufflinks and loose change. Instruct him in no uncertain terms that his trousers must go on NOW, and that the cufflinks and change must go back in the cupboard before you count to 10. Count to 7 quickly and loudly while son provides full range of reasons why he should not comply (but the road isn't finished and his invisible friends won't be able to get to nursery without it!), then 8..... 9.... 9 and a quarter..... 9 and a half.... 9 and three quarters.... Son madly scrambles to find his trousers and return all items to husband's wardrobe. 10!
Usher son into bathroom for toothbrushing, and precariously balance daughter on knee while attacking son's teeth with brush. Tell son to "open wide, look at me, stop talking" at least five times, then get him to rinse and spit, which he does, half in the sink and half down his t-shirt. Towel him down the return to bedroom to collect phone and put on socks. Note baby is yawning and check time. 8.35. Ten minutes to exit house. Go to find son who has gone very quiet. Discover him on toilet, singing. Curse too loudly. Pooping takes ten minutes minimum. Wait outside bathroom on son's insistence while he rattles through all the kid's TV theme tune classics - Paw Patrol, Peppa Pig, Go Jetters, Octonauts - asking him of he's finished every 30 seconds. Briefly feed baby who is now due a nap and is grizzling and check Facebook again. FFS what is he doing? Poke head round door and note unravelled toilet roll pooled on floor. Deliver usual lecture on waste while rolling it back up, then wipe bottom and wash hands, before beginning another countdown to get son to pull trousers back up.
Wonder what happened to your life as you chase son downstairs. Grab pushchair and strap in tired and howling baby, then grab nursery bag and instruct son to put on shoes. No, not those shoes, those are Mummy's. Not the wellies either. Where ARE your shoes? Hunt for shoes and discover them in plant pot. Ram shoes on son's feet and throw coat at him. Shush baby while pulling on own boots and bump pushchair over discarded wellies and out front door. Return for coat. Return for keys. Return for son who is brandishing a pair of kitchen tongs that he wants to take to nursery. Return kitchen tongs.
Haul pouting son onto buggy board and gently jog down road. Three minutes to get to nursery. It can be done in three minutes, can't it? Breathlessly discuss son's invisible friends LeafHead and CutterHedge who are apparently going to be doing some tree felling at nursery today, say hello to some cats, have a dispute over who should open the park gate, underline that there really are NO MORE BLACKBERRIES on the brambles because it's November now, then run across park, sending wet grass clippings flying everywhere as son yells "faster, faster!" followed by "Why we going so fast Mummy? Are we late?"
Arrive at nursery a hot sweaty mess and ring the Buzzer of Shame because the teacher on gate duty has already gone back inside. Apologise for tardiness as teacher writes 09.05 on sign in sheet, and hurry son into building, brushing wet grass off both of you as you go. Give son a hug and a kiss as he merrily tells teacher he is late because he had to do a big poo, then push daughter back out of the gate and across the park. Watch as she slowly nods off and breathe in the fresh air and silence. Walk rest of way home listening to tunes from your youth and wondering where that person went and whether she ever realised just how free she was, how unencumbered, how energetic, how untested in the patience department. Curse her naivety for thinking children would be a brilliant idea, then look at beautiful sleeping daughter and thank her to the stars and back. You wouldn't have it any other way. Especially when they're at nursery / napping...