Today I woke up when the second child (soon to be the middle child – I am contemplating establishing a fund for all his therapy down the track but red wine wins every time) climbed into our bed at 6.48. Climbing into our bed means squashing the incubus, leaning on an ever-growing mammory gland (up two sizes in 21 weeks and counting), murmuring “I love you, Mummy” and then hunkering down.
SIX FORTY EIGHT. This is the equivalent to an 11.30am Saturday morning sleep-in during the divine dual income pre-breeding life that lived the mantra who needs property lets go out to dinner again.
It did of course, mean I was late to work.
Getting to work involved bundling everyone in the car and then bus-chasing down Pittwater Road. Nothing beats the exhilaration of a bus chase in morning peak hour. Actually, catching up to an express bus comes pretty close and somehow, I managed to be at my desk by 9.30. This is a dangerous success as of course now my subconscious knows that I can wake up every day at 6.48 AND wash AND blowdry my hair AND be at work by 9.30. That is a dangerous precedent. Of course I’m in plastic clothing – no natural fibres have touched my body for so long as ironing is for pussies – and there is no makeup, but gee, there’s a lovely bounce to my hair.