It Always Rains on a Monday

Woke up late at 6.45 to the sound of drumming rain. Put on kettle, feed the cat, gave my Daughter a call, made the coffee and had my fag. Daughter storms down the stairs, why didn't I wake her at 6.30! Now she's late! It seemed churlish to point out at the time that registration isn't till 8.45 and the school is 8 minutes walk away. It wouldn't have done any good, believe me.

Got daughter's breakfast ready and ran bath. Called Son but knew there was no chance of life until 7.30. Same with Husband. Its like two different shifts in this tiny house. The early's and the lates'.

Get in bath. Can't be arsed to wash hair. Start dreaming of my next fag. Daughter screaming behind the door, asking me where her locker key is (?), along with cat trying to get in so she can drink from the toilet. No wonder these bloody animals get ill!

I drift off. How did my little girl get so unlovable? I mean, don't get me wrong, i love her to bits but she really is at an age where only a mother CAN love her. I was the same at twelve and a half. Lumpy, spotty, greasy - with a personality to match. Not the shouting so much. More of a mumble through yellow teeth. (sadly some things stay the same).

I mean even the "golden children" , as my pal calls them, go through this unlovely stage. Before they bloom and look like teenagers in those American high school films. They have to look and act dreadful first.

Get out of bath and dry self. 7.20 am. I could sneak downstairs and have a crafty fag before waking Husband up. But not so, Daughter demands she gets dressed now and that I brush her hair. She has a pony tail now to prevent our mates the nits from making a return visit.

Manage to sweet talk her into waiting till 7.30 when daddy will be up. I have to go into the bedroom to get her clothes out of the airing cupboard. Nearly trip over Cat.

Half a fag then make lunch for both kids. Son comes down with tussled hair and Husband demands he goes to the barbers. Smoke the rest of fag.

Brush daughter's hair. She screams. Put tea tree oil in Son's hair. He screams. Ask if Son has done homework, he screams again. Find a really cool carrier bag (co-op biodegradable 6p!), he demands a lunchbox. Point out kindly that every lunchbag we fork out for ends up at school most of the week, smelly and forgotten.

Daughter disgusted at carrier bag proposal. She is class eco-rep. Find her a pretty bag I got from the St Margerets Fair. Won't see that thing again. That will be in her locker until the summer holidays. And of course, its pissing down with rain. Will have to be the car. Start dreaming of when they were little and you could strap them in and restrain them. Now, its less hassle getting the cat into her bloody box.

Son still hasn't got socks on yet. Have another fag break.