Wednesday Morning

This morning I got myself up, showered, washed yesterday's smeared make-up off and applied fresh, dressed myself and two children, made their beds, reminded two others to do their own, breakfasted with four children (five if you include their father), cleared the table, cleaned three sets of teeth, made a packed lunch, found two pairs of mislaid shoes, a smock, a fleece, kitted out one child with full outfit for his Roman assembly including life-size red and gold cardboard shield (borrowed, emphatically NOT made by me) rounded up assorted homework from the kitchen table and playroom floor, tested eldest on French vocab while washing up breakfast, waved goodbye to husband, unloaded a child's bike from the car, loaded five children into the car (1 of neighbour's), drove to first school, dropped off three, returned to second school, dropped off two (one forgotten book bag the only known casualty so far), filled the car with petrol, listened to a discussion on the Today programme about how women are on average cooking only 9 different dishes for their families.

Nine? That sounds like a lot. Agree with Arrabella Weir that this sounds like one more stick to beat mothers with. What? Only nine different meals to shop, chop and cook? Can't you do better than that, you slattern, you failure of a mother!? What are you doing with all that time you could be pouring over cook books thinking of delicious and nutritious new dishes to serve your offspring who will in any case say Yuk! and refuse to eat it after you've spent hours being creative in the prison of your own kitchen.

I come home, sit at my computer and realise it's not yet nine o'clock.