How I get ready… with Pip Jones, author of her own undoing

I've been so busy writing for little people, it's been a long, long time since I posted here.

But I couldn't help it this morning.  I was inspired, you see, when I saw a lovely friend of mine (also a mum of two) had posted this article on Facebook… followed by about 19 of these 😂

So I read it.

'Good gracious [or something more sweary]!' I thought to myself. 'This doesn't sound quite right…'

So I wrote my own version. Et voila:

How I get ready… 

4.30: I wake up because I need a massive wee. I creep to the loo but step on Lego which makes me say “FUCKINGARSELEGOBASTARD” really loudly, which gets me really nice and awake. I have a long wee, then get back into bed for an hour, to lie there, eyes wide open, worrying about all the stuff in life/house/world/universe.

5.30: I flop out of bed and go downstairs to make builders’ tea. It tastes like crap without sugar in, so I put loads of sugar in it. Fuelled by caffeine and sugar, I get an hour’s writing in before my family wakes up and ruins it all.

6.30: Everybloodyone is awake now. We start the day doing some grunting and arguing. I feel really grateful that no-one is biting anyone else. I make breakfast pancakes for the children (who I definitely HAVE cuddled by now) and, while they eat, I stick my face in the fridge to de-puff my eyes.

7.00: I clear the breakfast table. It’s sticky. No amount of scrubbing makes it not sticky.

7.10: I shout “SHOWERTEETHHAIRGETDRESSED” in the general direction of the children.

7.30: Same

7.45: Same. The children play with Lego. I put the dishwasher on and load the arsing washing machine.

8.00: At 8am, it’s time for me to supervise the children actually washing and actually cleaning their teeth, in the manner of two robots who are losing power.

8.15: I supervise the children actually dressing, in the manner of two slaves who have been very heavily put upon.

8.30: I brush the kids’ hair. They cry a bit and tell me I’m evil for allowing their hair to get knots in it.

8:35: I go to the bathroom, pick empty loo rolls off the floor, then treat myself to a 40-second shower using bit of Johnsons No More Tears Shampoo, as it’s the only soap I can find. I cry a little bit (like a baby).

8.36: I briefly remember an article I read about a woman who applies some concoction of lipids and oil every morning, to make her face “juicy”. I slap on some Nivea which makes my eyes sting. Then I get dressed without being properly dry yet, into jeans which are too tight for me and (my current favourite), a snuggly top in a colour Dulux would have called ‘FFS’, and which has yogurt on it.

8:41: I’m all about ‘use as much make-up as is necessary to not scare tiny children on the way to school’, but the school gates will close in four minutes, so I don’t have time to think of tiny children right now. I round up the troops.

8.42: We spend a full minute trying to exit the house because, despite the fact we have lived here for seven years, my children still forget, EVERY MORNING, that the door opens INWARDS, and if they stand with their faces pressed against it, NONE OF US CAN GET OUT.

8.43: I jog/drag the children to school, avoiding eye contact with anyone, in case doing so confirms they have seen the yogurt on my top.

9.08: I arrive home just in time to see that not blow drying my hair earlier has resulted in an indescribable straight/wavy/frizzfest on my head. I vow not to open the door to anyone all day, even if it's Amazon bringing lipids.

9.15: After a strong, sugary coffee, I feel awake enough to realise I haven’t had breakfast. I remember again the lipid woman, who ‘pimps up’ her breakfast porridge with fruit and seeds, and wonder if it’s sort of the same thing to ‘pimp up’ my marmite on toast with a pint of ‘grown-up-grape-juice’ and a bag of peanuts.

9.30: Bin bag emptied and replaced, I’m off to the sticky kitchen table for another busy day as a grown woman who spends her day writing about pompous guinea pigs.