SUNDAYS, BEFORE CHILDREN
Wake, around midday.
Make uninterrupted love to your partner, for a minimum of thirty minutes.
Enjoy breakfast in bed.
Take a long walk and meander to the local pub in the crisp sunshine.
Return home to lounge on the sofa and binge watch box sets.
Order a takeaway and share a bottle of wine.
Go to bed, relaxed by the wonderfully calming day you have experienced.
SUNDAYS, AFTER CHILDREN
Wake up at 5.42am to what appears to be someone drilling a hole through your head, but in fact is your toddler attempting to insert their Tommee Tippee cup into your eardrum.
Beg, plead and cajole them to go back to sleep.
Remember that such a concept would require them to demonstrate reasonable behaviour, and that toddlers are the very antithesis of reasonable behaviour.
Observe them start using your face as a trampoline.
Hiss muttered threats at your fake-snoring partner, until one of you (You. It will always be you) is forced to get up.
Binge watch alternating episodes of Peppa Pig and Bing through your half-closed eyelids while your child leaps around the sitting room as though they have been out clubbing all night and are still on some kind of illicit drug high. Fantasise what you would do with those little bastards come Day One of the Revolution. Remind yourself that you are referring to Peppa Pig and Bing, and not your own children.
Serve up five separate breakfasts (90% of each which will end up smeared into the carpet) and realise it is still not yet 7am.
Thunder up the stairs as loudly as you possibly can and whisper into your darling spouse’s ear that if they don’t get out of bed now you will fucking MAIM THEM.
Get everyone washed and dressed.
All sit in your living room staring at each other wondering how you can possibly fill the hellish ten hours stretching ahead of you before you can legitimately deem it to be bedtime.
Pick from one of the following options:
A) A Day Out. One where you will spend your entirely weekly household budget on some kind of heinously overpriced activity, which will be packed with miserable looking families doing exactly the same and wishing they were dead. You are guaranteed at least four tantrums and one eruption of bodily fluids, and that’s before you’ve even got out of the car.
B) A Day In. One where every single second will feel like a fucking hour, and your day will be comprised solely of the following phrases. “Why don’t you play nicely together.” “Only boring people get bored.” “Don’t make me phone Father Christmas.” And, to your partner: “This is all your fault.”
Provide restaurant level quantities of meals, snacks and general sustenance. All of which will be loudly proclaimed to be: “DISGUSTING,” and eschewed for pre-packaged E numbers.
Spend half an hour getting drenched whilst wrestling a screaming and hysterical salmon, in the activity otherwise known as Sunday Night Hair Washing.
Put the children to bed.
Go into the kitchen to pour a pint-sized glass of wine… and be greeted by the washing mountain, which is approximately the size of a small bungalow.
Wash and dry enough clothing to outfit a full village with.
Collapse onto the sofa, grunt at your partner and stare shell-shocked at the ceiling.
Go to bed.
Get up on Monday morning and go to work and listen to all the child-free people telling you what a lovely relaxing Sunday they’ve had and how they can’t wait to do it all again next weekend.
Scream silently into your handbag and wonder if it’s too early for gin.