…is that they precede a Saturday morning.
Usually, this should be a cause for joy, signalling a lie-in and a leisurely cup of tea. But, recently, Saturday mornings (and Sundays come to think of it) have meant something altogether different.
You see, from Monday to Friday, I am long gone by the time Frog wakes up. I leave the house at 4.15am for work, which means the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine plays the role of Gok Wan in the morning, dressing our 20 month old non-toddling toddler and negotiating all the relevant tantrums.
But this is not the case at the weekend.
It’s not the dressing of the child so much as the dressing of the Mother that I find a problem. (I’m on about myself here, not my own mother. Thankfully she’s not reached that stage quite yet. Hi Mum.)
Because to even put on a pair of fresh knickers requires patience of the highest degree. My daughter is obsessed with clothes, you see. Her lust for shoes and skirts and pants and tops knows no bounds. Frog’s obsession makes the likes of Paris Hilton look positively frugal in the clothes department.
Getting dressed with a clothes obsessed non-toddling toddler is one of the most stressful experiences of my life. I rate this on a level equal to coming up with a top line to a breaking news story 20 seconds before going on air.
Getting your clean knickers onto your bare, wobbly behind is just the first challenge. The next part involves battling with the child to stop them putting the dirty pair on their head. That disaster averted, the bra comes out. And, obviously, is snatched from your grasp. So the nipples enjoy 2 more minutes of freedom while an alternative item of clothing is brought forth.
Five minutes of tears later (the child loves a pair of skinny jeans, apparently) and it’s back to the bra. Except the bra has gone missing.
It goes on this way for approximately 45 minutes. And we haven’t even got to dressing the non-toddling toddler yet.
Bring on Saturday morning. *sigh*