Morning madness

A mother is late for school and work and rushing with her children for a funny stress concept on a white isolated background.

I’m feeling rather pathetic at the moment as I can’t seem to successfully carry out the morning school run without totally and utterly losing my shit.

Perhaps it’s not helped by the fact I’m up all night with a baby who fancies herself as an operatic heroine and spends the hours between 1-4am taking me through her vocal range but you’d think that someone who is up at 6am is able to get her life together by 8:50 in order to make it to the school gate on time.

These crucial three hours seem to go by in a daze of mindlessly gawping at rolling news headlines whilst attempting to get porridge into my baby via any orifice vaguely connected to her stomach; mouth, nose, ears…

The other morning I was showering excess breakfast off Georgia and I’d asked Scarlett to remove her jimjams ready for a quick wash but when it was time for her to hop in I found her still jimjammed in my bedroom where she had made an elaborate stepping stone bridge with every single book she owns complete with a ‘map’ which turned out to be my unread Grazia scrumpled beyond recognition for that authentic aged look. Cute but not when it’s 8:26.


Why is it that when you are in the most massive of rushes your child decides to move at pensioner pace? Usually she’s speeding around the house like a passing tornado but the bloody polar icecaps will have completely melted by the time my daughter finds her SODDING SHOES.

Finding the shoes is the first hurdle, actually putting them on is a whole other effort. Usually it involves me yelling “PUSH” with such pitch and urgency that a passer by might think I was assisting in a home birth.

I should make the packed lunch the night before but I am mostly snore drooling on the sofa by 8pm and completely forget meaning the next morning I’m scouring the fridge for anything that can be placed between bread. Cheese it is again then… and I’ll be shoving in some Pom Bears as I haven’t got time to make any organic falafel balls.

Only at the last minute do I suddenly realise I am still in my ancient Primark ‘satin look’ nightie. I usually get around 3 nanoseconds to splash a bit of water around my nethers and smoosh a bit of lippy on so I don’t look so much like a corpse.

I’d like to think I leave enough time to walk the 100 metres to Preschool but I almost always end up loading the girls into the car and driving in and out of the drive atleast twice to retrieve the forgotten lunch box or coat or my brain cells.

Just when I think we’re finally organised and we’re pulling away down the street I notice in the rear view mirror that I have an actual crusty moustache from excessive cappuccino quaffing and I spot my dog running alongside the car, the bugger must have slipped out with us and to top it all off a little voice in the back seat pipes up “Mummy, I need a poo.”

Someone told me it gets easier when they get to about 18






  1. Kathryn says:

    Ha ha are you sure you aren’t writing about my life every morning Chloe πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚?? Probably mine and EVERY other mother on the planet! Another fantastic article, well done ladyπŸ˜ƒπŸ‘πŸ˜ƒ

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