This was the boy at six thirty this morning. I had already been up for half an hour, making tea, packing his lunch box and dining on an extraordinarily cosmopolitan breakfast of spaghetti hoops on toast. I didn't have the heart to wake him at six as he was flat out. I am still insanely jealous that he basically gets to wear his bed, even when he has been taken out of it. The early alarm call wasn't half as brutal as I had expected it to be though, simply by dint of it being such a bright and sunshiny morning.
I was soon back into the swing of running down the stairs in our building with several bags, running down the road to the car, driving the car back up to outside the house, and then running back inside to get the boy. By the time I get in the car to drive to work, I sometimes feel like I should be wrapped in a foil blanket, chomping on a Mars bar and swigging Lucozade.
Dexter seemed happy enough to be dropped off at nursery. His beloved Sarah wasn't there when I left him, but he gave the other girls some smiles and some analytical staring. School was fine. I started to catch up with myself and get on top of things, whilst simultaneously generating a to-do list the length of my arm, but that's the nature of the job. Mondays are meeting days, so it is a long start to the week, and a late collection at Huffle.
When I arrived to collect the boy. he was being pushed around/practising using his legs on a rather unique-looking, three (tiny) - person trike. Sarah was ably assisting with the pushing and Dexter barely gave me a second glance, and was fiercely determined not to let go of the handlebars when I tried to lift him off it. Two weeks of mother-son bonding has been over-ridden (literally), by the boy's love of anything with wheels.
I walked back through our door at thirty seven minutes past six. There was time for a perfunctory dunk, some rudimentary teeth-cleaning, a story at top-speed, and then back inside the wearable duvet cover. The school bag was opened and closed again dead on nine. All my evening has left in store is a hot bath and (ashamed though I am to admit it), the latest episode of 'Made in Chelsea'. I can't think of a television programme that depicts a 'reality' that couldn't be further removed from my life, but I think that's kind of the point. I'm not sure 'Knackered in Brighton' would draw in quite the same viewing figures, so I shall continue to write about it instead.