#1 The noise. Oh my god, the noise. Once upon a time, Sunday mornings were quiet and tranquil times, and now it’s Mr Fecking Tumble and “I’m hungry/I’m thirsty/I’m pooing/I HATE YOU” from 4.56am as someone wakes you up by smashing a Tommee Tippee cup into the side of your head or presenting you with a nappy full of shit.
#2 The hangovers. Once upon a time you were one of those smug twats who proudly bleated “I never get hangovers”, and now you realise this was only the case because you had the luxury of sleeping through the whole thing and not having to be officiating a toddler version of WWF from before the sun is up.
#3 The breakfasts. Or brunch, if you will. Where once you might have enjoyed a leisurely chat with your partner over your avocado and poached eggs on sourdough toast, now you’ve made sixteen different breakfasts by 7am, all of which have been rejected and smeared into your soft furnishings, and your own breakfast is likely to consist of a single bite of cold toast. Which someone else has dribbled on.
#4 The sex. Sunday mornings were made for exploring position #864 of the Karma Sutra, right? Well, not any more. Not that is unless you want, at the critical moment, to hear a little voice pipe up “Oh, I know what you doing Daddy. You riding the train! Choo choo!” (This actually happened to me, and when I say I will never get over it, that is probably an understatement.)
#5 The ablutions. Sunday mornings are times for leisurely toileting and long hot baths. At least they were. Now if you want a long hot bath you will have to resign yourself to the fact it will also be full of Playmobil, at least one toddler, and, if you are really lucky, an actual human turd.