The alarm rings, I promptly press snooze and enjoy those ‘5-more-minutes, mummy!’. Just as I complete my work-outs and 5-mile-run, the alarm beeps rudely, waking me out of my reverie. Sigh!
I stumble into the bathroom and search for the toothbrush in the dark (not wanting to awaken the rest of the family). Aah! I get hold of it, but it’s the wrong one. I then reach for the correct one, and it slips into the little dustbin that is placed conveniently under the washbasin. The new Cool Me doesn’t swear…she just picks it up with a resigned air, washes it and completes the morning ablutions in auto clock mode.
Now its time for the workouts I’d been dreaming of the last week. I search for my jogging tracks (not that I’m going jogging, but hey, you do need an outfit that motivates you!). I find them under a bundle of rubble, read: clothes meant to be disposed off in the local charity box! I yank it out, dust the spiders off lovingly and don it. Obviously, one can’t wear the going-out-shoes indoors. So I search for the old pair of sports shoes. The damn thing seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. But this isn’t going to deter me. I patiently clean the soles of the current pair of shoes until they are ‘shainey an cleen’ (as my son would say). (Let me omit the hunt for the perfect pair of socks). Then I take a deep breath of lovely, early morning air, and turn on the treadmill. I wait to begin running. And wait. And wait. For the treadmill doesn’t work. Like we do with our computers, I try a Ctrl-Alt-Del but the damn thing just won’t work (oops, no swearing!). I decide to do a bit of Yoga instead. So I get out of my sporty outfit and search for something serene. As I ravage the shelves of the messy cupboard for a pristine white dress, my little one wakes up. Sigh!
The chef in me is invigorated to cook a nice and traditional breakfast. Yes! Idli-sambar. I reach for the idli-maker that some idiot has thrown into the recesses of the kitchen loft. Who could it be? Considering that I am the only one to enter the kitchen. Anyway! I do find it eventually, and drag it out using an idukki(pakad). It lands plop, straight into my hands. I smile like I’ve just caught a match-winning wicket. As I turn, a plastic bag full of unused crockery follows the way of the idli-maker. Just that, this time, I am not available to hold it when it falls. So there it is, all over the kitchen table. ‘Shit!’ I mutter, and proceed to swipe it off into a big garbage bag.
What the **** ! I’m way beyond schedule. The husband’s late for work and sonny hasn’t don’t his poo yet. I thrust the little brat into his potty and hurriedly oil the idli-plates. Obviously, the little jar is almost devoid of oil, so I search for the new bottle. To save time, instead of replenishing the little oil jar, I pour it expertly, straight from the big bottle. Of course I should have known that it would simply ooze over and fill the entire idli-plate. Now I begin the cursing routine. I clean it all up and pour in the idli-batter and set the cooker on. Just as I keep the rest of the batter back in the fridge, I notice the little one is not to be seen in his potty. He has, however, very kindly left a trail in brown, to where he is at the moment. Playing with his train set, and glue-ing together the engine and the wagons, with someone that also looks brown and sticky. And I must say, he’s having a whale of time!
I’ve cleaned the trails, set out the breakfast table, and made sure the little one is perched in his chair. As hubby sits down at the table in complete awe of the shiny stainless steel plates and a clean little boy beaming across at him, I proudly open the idli-maker and take the stand out, in the process scalding my little fingers. I take a flat spoon (specifically meant for this purpose) to ease the hot, steaming idlies out of their plate, and onto ours. I am, however, unable to do so much, as to even pierce the edge of the idlis. I try, and re-try. But the little white rocks remain firmly glued to their plate. I resort to the knife. Now that has some effect! I manage to scrape little white stones into the casserole and finally bring it to the breakfast table, swallowing both my pride and my tears.
Hubby has left for work, and sonny has resumed his play. I clear the dishes and put the cornflakes back into the cupboard L. And suddenly realise that the train set the sonny is playing with, hasn’t been cleaned of the brown stuff yet.
Tired, and back in bed for a nap.
Moral of the story:
The benefits of rising early, are, but a myth. Mommies (and Daddies), just enjoy your beauty sleep as much as you can!
(I’m submitting this entry to (please click on the link) IndusLadies for the contest, as I think the tone of all the entries is personal parenting experience and not creative writing. Please vote for me if you like the submission!).