I don’t know why this birthday has shaken me up more than the thirty five that preceeded it… Could it be that after a bedtime routine that involves 14 assorted soft toys that each have to be tucked in, three Charlie & Lola stories and four ‘night-night’ encores (and thats just the oldest child – dont start me on Miss I-havent-had-a-poo-in-three-days), I actually feel every minute of my almost-thirty-six years? Or is it that time these days seems to be whizzing by at a dizzying rate?
The alarm goes off at 6.30 every morning. I awaken to the dolcet tones of Ken Early on the Off the Ball repeat – is three hours of men talking sport the previous night not enough I ask myself? Then its on with the old jacket over the pjs, wellies, wooly hat and scarf and taking a deep breath I open the back door. The dog runs out, the cat runs in. I take care to catch neither in the door. Then follows what actually equates to the intricities of an Argentine Tango as I try to lead one horse out, grab hold of the other, all the time trying to whoosh the pregnant donkey out the door in front of me. Incidentally, there is no grogginess that the sight of a heavily pregant donkey at a brisk trot down a half-lit avenue can’t cure. Down the lane we go, and not for the first time I wonder why we didnt put the gate into the paddock nearer the house. Luckily Boris (the big German gelding with OCD) is placid and Molly (my darling coloured mare) is so busy trying to keep up with his big, loping strides, she hasn’t time to fool around.
Horses and co safely out I turn for home, and I can see the lights are on, which means the children are awake. Time for my second deep breath. If I feel the unleash-the-horses Tango is complicated, its in the ha’penny place compared to the Breakfast Fox-trot.
‘I’m not having porridge’
‘You are’
‘I’m not wearing that’
‘You are’
‘IIIIIwwwaaaannnnntttttooooogggggeeeettttttooooouuuuuutttt’ – that’s the seventeen month old who seeems unable to either walk or sleep but can speak in full sentences – well as long as the sentence starts with ‘I want’ it would seem.
I know TV in the morning is probably frowned upon but it seves a clock function in our house. Up out of bed for ‘The Little Princess’, breakfast during ‘Mr Men’ get dressed during the ad break betweeen ‘Mr Men’ and ‘Roary the racing car’, bye, bye Mammy during Roary and out the door with Daddy between Noddy and Fifi the Flowertot – if Daddy misses his window there he’s f**ked – Fifi is all of eight minutes long and Daddy has to be in Citywest by nine…
And then I’m in work. And its fine. The world seems to slow down, and sigh, and just waltz along… unless of course we have drama/issues/dilemmas but to be honest, it takes a lot to make it frantic. Thank God because four o’clock comes soon enough.
And I won’t bore you with the details of what happens between four thirty and seven thirty. Suffice to say don’t phone me during this time, actually don’t try to contact me in any way at all, and definitely don’t call to the house. I promise you. Its not worth it. It’ll be messy, they’ll be like lunatics, I’ll be embarrassed and you, well, you’ll probably just feel sorry for me and that will just make me even more embarrassed.
And then there is silence. They’re fed, played with, separated (several times), washed, changed, read to, hugged and asleep. And God help me but its a fantastic time of the day. Everything is done for the morning, Himself has done the Tango with the animals and we look at each other and think ‘what the feck just happend?’
Life, dear, life just happened.
And then we exchance furtive glances with each other, and we say things like ‘You wouldn’t believe what she said today,’ or ‘did you hear her that time when she-‘ and we’ll laugh, hesitant chuckles, guilty in case the other feels that admitting we wouldnt be without them might indicate a lack of exhaustion, or spawn a slew of ‘you-wouldnt-be-saying-that-if-you-were-here -when’ comments.
But the laughter fades as the book on ‘how-do-you-think-she’ll-sleep-tonight’ opens for the youngest. We take into account what she’s eaten, when she’s pooed, how she slept during the day, what the weather is like, how did she sleep last night, is she chesty, is she tired, and no matter what the complications of the algebraic formula, x always seems to equal ‘not-very-well-at-all’. For example on Tuesday, she woke at 12, 1, 2, 4 and 6. It’s never less than twice.

So that’s where I am now. In the dusk between their bedtime and mine.
In three hours I’ll be thirty six. Does it matter? No.
Because at six thirty tomorrow morning, the dance will start again….
Tango anyone?