In which we wonder if we’ll ever leave the house in a good mood again…

In which we wonder if we’ll ever leave the house in a good mood again…

I can’t claim to be a morning person. But I don’t fall into the night-owl-who-loathes-morning camp either. Mornings are just there. Some days it’s easier to get up than others (small cheer for Dry January here) and some days I can be more arsed to do something passable to my hair than other mornings. But broadly, getting up, getting ready and getting out of the house doesn’t unduly bother me.

Except it does. Massively. Because The Boys take their dickishness to exciting new levels in the mornings. More specifically, in the mornings when I actually have to get out of the house at the right time so as to avoid the inexplicable 10 minute gap between Central Line trains that means I have to stand for 19 stops.

The Boys deploy a number of cunning approaches to making leaving the house as painful as fucking possible.

1) Playing Dead
They remain in bed, lifeless and apparently impervious to sounds, prods, threats and bribes until they are physically lifted from their pits and dumped on the floor (note this only really applies to the Big One, because the Little One refuses to sleep in a bed and just builds a nest on the floor anyway).

2) Being Outwitted by Clothes
Yes, putting your pants on your head is funny. On a Saturday. It is NOT funny when time is of the essence. See also, 2 socks on one foot, trousers on your arms and hiding under the fucking bed.

3) Breakfast Shenanigans
It’s cereal. Just. Pick. One. The Little One will point at a box, then the moment I touch it scream “NONONONONONO!! Not that one” and burst into tears. He’ll repeat this three times. Then eventually choose something acceptable and sit there banging on about Bagpuss (I am actually quite proud about that) and not eating it. Until the VERY MOMENT we need to get coats on, at which point he achieves levels of hunger equal to a post-hibernation grizzly bear and cannot possibly be removed from his chair until every scrap is gone.

Coats are put on using a blend of challenging yoga moves and brute strength. In fairness, we do generally get out more-or-less on time. The Boys are clean, dressed, fed and have their pointless book bags and water bottles (and spare clothes for the Little One for reasons we shall investigate another day).

I, however, am knackered, stroppy and very tempted to hammer on the door of the Drinking Shop (ideally placed next to the station) for a swift bucket of something soothing before I hit work.