I think I lack the “mummy” gene to do mornings. The one that helps with getting the kids off to school and me off to work. Whatever new routine I implement, whatever time I get up, whatever organic baked individual fat-free fruit buns I buy really really early. The end result is not a smooth, on-time departure.
I have three kids and a husband who leaves for work at 6am. On a good morning, when nothing obvious goes wrong, I get to work in an outfit that still requires some tucking or rearrangement and my heart thumping. I tell myself it’s the coffee. I can feel it inside thumping as I smile at colleagues and pull out my chair.
Bad mornings often come out of nowhere. You’re good. You check the time. On track. We might even get out of here five minutes early. Then BAM.
The bad mornings feel like Adam Sandler has scripted them; there is humour in there it’s just really obvious and proves how low your standards have slipped. They can involve dog poo on the carpet, lost sports shoes, fights about getting out of bed, fights about why the bread I choose is so bloody boring, a stain on a shirt, a washing machine leak, just remembered early sports’ practice, a frantic hunt for $27.75 – exactly. A frantic hunt for an envelope. A frantic hunt for a pen. Some kind of fundraising mufti day where you can only come to school as something beginning with X. An unexplained thump in the car when I turn a corner. Oh, and a neighbour wanting to discuss details of their carport renovation.
Usually all at the same time.
The problem is I can’t stop for lost sneakers or $27.75 – exactly, or a chat with neighbours. If I stop I get behind. If I stop I run late. If I stop my internal monologue is going “come on, come on, come on, quick, quick, quick”. If I don’t clean my teeth while I check that the downstairs windows are locked or if I don’t put my make up on while calling down the hallway, “Have you got your key?”, “Remind me what everyone is up to this afternoon?” “Who has borrowed my black jumper?”.
I get behind.
So I keep moving through the house: efficient, task orientated and, admittedly, always slightly on the precipice.
I know everyone is busy and I know everyone is tired of the world talking about how busy they are. I promise I’m not bemoaning being busy because I don’t even know if I am. Busy connotes some kind of order.