I’ve had one of those mornings.
Every single seemingly simple task was derailed by disaster.
I somehow managed to forget there was no fresh bread for the school sandwiches. Cruskits it is.
I left my slightly feverish 3yo son alone in the bathroom for 2 minutes and came back to find him standing proudly on a mountain made from one entire, unravelled toilet roll. Great.
My daughter’s hair had morphed into matted dreadlocks overnight, impossible to pull a brush through without her sobbing and me swearing. A lot.
My phone was pinging every five minutes with messages from work colleagues and the kitchen clock’s hands seemed to be on fast forward as they inevitably span towards the time when I would miss my bus.
And then, just when everyone was dressed and ready, my son had a small coughing fit. And projectile vomited all over himself, the living room, and me…
Cue my partner and I looking at each other and saying, “Who can stay home today?” Cue a tussle about who’s got meetings they can’t miss, who’s got deadlines that can’t be pushed, and who is more likely to not get fired if they spend a day working from home with a sick child who will soon be pushing all the buttons on your keyboard.
Today, that was me.
And today, I am dreaming about being John Ahern.