73. Morning routine

6:30 AM.  Rush hour in our house.  We all need to get ready and out of the house at 7 o'clock sharp. 

My husband is the first one up.  He goes downstairs to have his breakfast 'in peace': tea, radio and toast with salted butter and orange marmalade. This morning for some unfathomable reason our 12 year-old daughter is up and is chattering about being allowed to go shopping on her own and to go to parties.  This conversation would be infuriating enough at a normal time but at 6:00 AM it is just unbearable. I can hear him from upstairs:

'Go back to bed if that's the way you're going to be. This is the only time I can have some peace in this house. So be quiet, or be helpful and do your lunch box, or go back to bed.'

She picks the third option and howls all the way up to her bedroom and back into bed.

I am under the duvet, pretending to be asleep so I cannot hear what's going on. I am waiting for my cup of freshly brewed coffee. I cannot remember when this became a morning tradition but it is one I am going to  strive to maintain. Already the aroma of roasted beans drifts up the stairs and onto the landing. It gets more powerful as the cup makes its way (courtesy of husband I have to add not some kind of live-in male servant if you have been wondering) to my bedside table. If I fail to show interest, my husband will hover the cup closer to me sending wafts of the irresistible scent into my nostrils. Now I can open my eyes safely, knowing the world I inhabit is a civilised one. I can now enjoy the slightly bitter brew and its powerful taste awakens me completely. Feeling that is what queens must do I take part in the morning routine from my bed. 

'Please, remember it is a P.E. day today!'

Or:

'Make sure you get the cucumbers and carrots out of fridge and into your lunch boxes!'

Today our 9-year-old son has just discovered a hair-dryer and he has turned it on. 

'Wow! This is so cool!' he shouts excitedly.

I think what on earth can be so cool about a hair-dryer? And then I think, what is he doing with a hair-dryer?  

'It's so cool! It's like a freeze ray!'

I wonder if a freeze ray is the same as a laser saber.

Every time someone passes by his bedroom he 'shoots' them. There is quite a lot of traffic on this floor at this time in the morning and he shoots them all, on the way in, on the way out. Until the passer-by happens to be his father. Who is obviously not amused.

'This is an electric appliance, it is not a toy! Put that away right now!'

I feel it is safe to get up now, the kids are as ready as can be and anyway my husband is leaving for work. He hates being late, worse, he always wants to be first. Alien thought to me.

We are all almost ready to go. I pour myself a second cup of coffee and the rest goes into my travel-cup for the morning break. Of course now it is too late for a proper breakfast (I don't dare ask for a full breakfast to go with the coffee, I do have principles). I go into the garage, switch the engine on and open the boot of the car. As they come out one by one, I vaguely check what they shove in the back of the car: lunch box (is the cucumber in there?), school bag (in that order of importance), PE bag, water bottle (no plastic or I get told off by the teachers), and any other bit of random equipment such as cricket bats or art projects.

One's missing. Kid, I mean.

'Where is she?' I say, trying to sound cross but it is really too early in the morning.

I beep the horn twice briefly. It must be a common code shared by parents as the next doors kids come out of their house running and get into the car. I beep again. Nothing.

I get out of the car, into the house and catch my daughter rummaging through her brother's things and smuggling his shin pads into her own P.E. bag. I decide to be diplomatic here and pretend not to notice. They get a double punishment if they do not have shin pads: they are not allowed to take part in the lesson. All my kids think that this is just one of the worst punishments on earth. Others must do too as there is a constant demand for this item, I think there must be a trafficking of shin pads in that school. Even today when I hear this word it drives me crazy.

All doors closed. All seatbelts fastened. She looks at the four of them. They look reasonably presentable. Number 4 has not brushed her hair but that happens so often that I keep a hairbrush in the glove box. And we can take a bit of water from the water bottle to help tame that crazy lock of short hair, the teacher won't know.

We drive to school in a good mood, all has gone well. I drop them off at school on time, even a tad early. I am so good at this. I am now on my own in the car and driving to my work on time. Perfect!

I feel great! I get out of the car, walk around it to get my stuff out. I do not know why but I glance at my feet. And ... Oh no! I don't believe this is happening to me! Oh my goodness! I look again and I peer and I stare and it is a fact: I am wearing different shoes: a black one on my left foot and a white one on my right foot! In a panic I jump back into the car, in the passenger seat. I look stupid, as if I am waiting for my driver except I do not need to be driven anywhere! I have arrived at my destination. 

I slip both my shoes off, this looks more plausible, it is very hot and I could have forgotten I was going to work and was instead heading to the beach. Which gives me the idea to rummage around the back of the car where I found some dirty white Plimsolls a little too small, some neon blue Crocs and lots of flip-flops in various sizes and colours.

I, of course, opted for the too tight white Plimsolls, and spent a good part of my teaching day sitting at the desk to liberate my poor sore toes.