I thought I had had a bit of a result today before my daughter kindly corrected me. I went out with two girlfriends yesterday and I used my spade in the morning to put on makeup in order to try and hide how completely knackered I look after spending the last 5 months at home with twin boy and girl and beautiful baby. However when I returned home slightly tipsy (understatement) clutching my shoes in one hand and breast pump in the other I managed to fall into my bed immediately completely forgetting to go via the bathroom to try and remove ‘excess slap’ from my face. The end result being that this morning I woke up late but already had full make up on. Albeit I had to rub away a few smudges of mascara here and there but all in all I was looking hot to trot for the school run.
(It is probably worth interjecting here that I also slept in my contact lenses last night which means my eye sight was not fully up to scratch this morning, also owing to pregnancy and breastfeeding my alcohol consumption is very low meaning my tolerance is even lower, so after a few cocktails yesterday I may still have been tipsy this morning.)
So the usual morning continued. Now we have adjusted to taking twin girl and boy daily to school we have a perfect routine in place. Twin boy gets up at six am and creeps like an elephant into my room and bellows ‘is it waking up time yet’. Once my heart has stopped hammering through my rib cage and I am convinced the shock of this rude awakening hasn’t finished me off I proceed to blearily remind twin boy that waking up time is when his Spiderman clock says seven, zero, zero. (this is actually seven, three, zero on mine and he who helped create them clock) twin boy then turns tail and clumps back to his room muttering four year old rants under his breath ‘not waking up time, not tired anymore, I wake up at six o clock, lets wake up twin girl now.’
At six, one, zero loud giggles and crashing noises comes from twin boy and girls room as they feed starving plastic hippos white balls so I and he who helped create them both lie silently willing the other to get their backside out of bed to quieten them down. As usual neither of us moves so instead we just get crosser with each other for not being clever enough to have made twins capable of sleeping to the magical time of seven am. By the time the clock hits seven, zero, zero our morning routine is fully underway but owing to the day before frivolities I am not an active participant. Instead I cower under the bed sheets hoping everyone will sort themselves out.
Eventually and reluctantly I prise myself out of my bed to join the morning fun.
And with yesterdays makeup intact and beautiful baby fed, I begin the military roll call,
Are you dressed?
Been to the toilet?
Got your lunch?
TV off and lets go.
The TV off evokes a mesh of cries and tantrums, twin girl goes into despair over having to leave her adopted parents Scooby and Shaggy and twin boy blows a fuse as apparently he never gets to watch TV (anyone who knows my parenting skills will know this to be an outrageous lie).
Tantrum means we are now late for school and my stress levels start to rise. For reasons I can’t remember we decided not to go to our local primary school but instead we have gone out of catchment to a school renown for appalling parking conditions; so being late basically means you need to be prepared to park in front of someone’s drive and risk being manually strung up by the PTA and neighbourhood watch scheme. However rather that than have the little darlings suffer a late point!
The stress levels are reaching danger zone level so I decide to ensure the whole street is awake by screeching in the garden for everyone to get in the car or we won’t be going to school at all. (Again another blatant lie – I am never going to stop them going to the place I have been dreaming of for 4 years and 8 months) Still I am pleased that although I am doing my best to sound like a wailing banshee I still look pretty good thanks to yesterday’s antics.
We arrive at school and I try to fasten beautiful baby into some complex baby sling which takes an extra five minutes up of my life and allows the older children to hear mummy’s whole range of ‘naughty words’. It’s all a little unnecessary as quite frankly she only weights 12 pounds so I could have probably managed to carry her to the school gate and back without the aid of some convoluted strap on system. The sling proceeds to upset baby as much as me and she retaliates by throwing up milk based substance straight down me and sling.
So finally, I arrive at the school yard, last night’s make up dripping down my face, hair sticking to my face through stress enforced sweat, sick cascading down my shirt, and three new wrinkles stretched across my forehead and twin girl ends my morning beautifully by proudly declaring,
‘Mummy, I think the other mummies are prettier than you today.’
Oh yes, I am one red hot momma!
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