6.30: the sound of the relaxing, not-too-loud alarm on my mobile phone. My trained hand swiftly grabs the annoying device and snoozes it. Just a few more seconds…
My daughter’s still fast asleep next to me, her small body motionless.
7.00: high time we got up. I hum softly to wake her, turn on the TV and pick a cartoon channel. She usually gets up while listening to Sponge Bob’s discussions with his friends.
7.30: time to leave the house, but we normally still negotiate the choice of clothes for the day.
7.45: we go out still discussing and rush into the car. Actually, I rush in while my daughter calmly places her toys on the seat. The toys „live in our car so that the child is not bored during the ride“.
8.10: we say goodbye at the kindergarten, like it’s the first time and we haven’t done it almost every single day for the past four years. I’m late for work.
8.30: I walk hurriedly into the office, with the coffee mug in one hand and the expression on my face signalling “don’t ask, you don’t want to know about my morning“. I start hitting the keys on my keyboard franticly like the doomsday’s just around the corner.
… the workday drags on, filled with the occasional calls from my bosses, co-workers and my mother, who has to discuss a problem with the neighbours/ her new medication/ what a friend had just told her and none of this can be left for later.
4.00: My co-workers usually knock off at this time, but I have to stay longer because I got in late. While the clock ominously ticks…
4.30: I start the car and step on the gas. I have 20 minutes to get to the kindergarten, park the car, pick up my daughter and drive her to the pool where she takes swimming lessons.
5.00: we finally reach the swimming pool after stopping at the baker’s to buy the pain au chocolat. She’s now happily chewing the pastry as if she hadn’t had a snack half an hour earlier. I change her clothes and go to take my spot by the window. I’ll spend the next hour there watching her dive like a duck (she plunges her head into the water, and leaves the butt and legs on the surface).
6.00: I dry her hair and help her get dressed. I’m assailed with a thousand questions (Did you watch the whole time? How was I? Did you see me dive? Did you hear the coach say that I was the best?).
6.15: Carrying my purse and the rucksack with the swimming gear on one shoulder and dragging my daughter with my other hand, I try to reach the supermarket.
6.45: I add a grocery bag to the purse and the rucksack. I’m still dragging my daughter, who is now almost at the final stages of starvation and exhaustion.
7.15: She watches Peppa Pig during the dinner
8.00: She has a bath with Peppa and George
8.15: She watches the cartoons while I pick up the clothes strewn across the floor and remove the dishes from the dining table.
9.30: My daughter’s asleep. Finally, up next – my quality time! Maybe I can watch a movie, read a book or a magazine, write my blog… or maybe I’m too knackered to do anything at all.
… Tomorrow is a new day, which will most certainly bring something new. Aha! We might skip the swimming lesson and go to a birthday party, take an English lesson or visit her dad instead… Yippee!