With twinsdaddy and my helper struck down with the evil bug, I have had an eye-opening look at what ‘real’ motherhood might be like. You know, back in the real world we used to live in, before we were tempted by the smell of expat living.
On Monday morning, still feeling none too special myself, but in a much better state than twinsdaddy who was comatose; I was in sole charge of getting everyone out of the house.
Good grief it’s an operation!
The six year old is great at getting himself dressed and fed, but has no sense of urgency. To the question “are you ready for school?”, he optimistically replied “yes”, despite the fact he had no shoes on, no school bag, lunch box or swimming kit, and a 3 inch smear of toothpaste down his left cheek.
With the girls stampeding in their cots we left the house (732am!) for school. Numeracy homework was done en route before a kiss and run situation as I legged it back home for stage 2.
We threw some porridge around the dining room for a bit of fun then I piled the girls into the car for the nursery run.
Bag crisis number 2. We have to take snacks, water cups, change of clothes and of course, the critically important bag of “medsin”. Pyjamas count as a change of clothes right?
With both daddy and Joy out of action, it was critical that the girls passed the temperature test. I had a client meeting booked and the thought of taking the gruesome twosome to a 5 star hotel to recce for a press event, wasn’t top of my list of ‘fun things to do’.
I crossed my fingers and whispered a silent prayer as the thermometer’s went into the ears. Success. Kiss and run stage two.
Then back home to try and make myself look less like the bride of Frankenstein so as not to scare the locals.
With less than 10 minutes to leave the house it was a simple choice. Hair or make up? No time for both. I decided clothes were a pre-requisite so flung on the nearest dress I could find and pinned my hair up in what I hoped was a casual / chic bun. I fear messy / birds nest was more the result but something had to give.
At a time like this, valet parking applied more pressure to an already tense situation. The poor porter waited patiently at the driver’s door whilst I changed shoes, applied lipstick, smoothed down the bird’s nest and searched desperately for my business cards.
The Communications Manager who was meeting me was smart, sleek and coiffured, and wearing an elegant black suit. She was clearly familiar with a hair brush and undoubtedly had no children. (No sign of dribble on either shoulder).
A tray of cakes and biscuits were produced along with pots of coffee and my stomach did one of those worrying flips as I desperately prayed that the 2 gingers nuts that had sustained me for the past 24 hours, weren’t about to make a reappearance.
From meeting to home for a quick check on the invalids. Both still breathing. The best that could be hoped for.
And next? My son’s swimming gala. One and a half hour’s sitting poolside at school whilst 120 children thrash up and down in the sticky heat. I clung to my bottle of water and took solace from the thought that my public obligations for the day were almost over.
How on earth will I manage in the UK?