My First Hour
It always feels too early to get up. Feeling fuzzy-headed, short-changed and dreading my phone's clock telling me it's an 'In Between Time'. This time is one of those times; early enough that the day feels like it's been stretched too much already, just late enough that I can't justify sending The Toddler back to bed.
With one eye forced open, my hand is in Arthritic Claw Mode but it functions enough to scoop up my phone, wince at it and let out a groan. The Toddler is rested and wants to talk to me at length about FIreman Sam. I'm not keen on the guy. I'm not keen on anyone at 5:30am.
I notice the new water marks on the bedside table. An upside to having all your furniture at least second hand means you don't sweat the small stuff. Down the hatch with the acrid tablets to make my bones scream a bit quieter. It'll take at least two or three episodes of Fireman Sam before I resemble something that could pass a Voigt-Kapff Test *.
I open the windows as we trudge downstairs, like a giant advent calendar of seagulls.
I don't care, flappy guys. The Pekingese will see them off as carries out his first patrol of the day.
The first meal negotiations of the day begin too. The Toddler, like Trump at NATO, pushes his way through to make hilarious demands:
"Butter and cheese, please!". I talk him down to toast and butter. The baby has the same and is soon a buttery mess, making a hooting noise while I attempt to drink a hot coffee. It's always an ill-fated endeavour but the only part of my First Hour that's just for me.
I jump at the noise. 'What the...?'
The Toddler has dropped the clunky porcelain plate I'd given him by mistake in my hypnagogic state. I look down, I've had enough of my burnt toast to reveal I've been eating off Thomas the Tank's plastic face.
My final act of my First Hour is to hoist the baby out of his high chair, and let his buttery-oiled face latch on for the morning feed, while I tut at Twitter and dream of detached houses.