don’t have an alarm clock. Don’t need one. My day starts at a grossly
inappropriate hour. Usually between five and six am. My alarm blares, grunts and
coughs and is aged between three and eight years old. It then shakes me because I am
returning the grunts with the action of placing a pillow over my head.
Monster Three has no pants on.” I
reluctantly drag myself out of bed, part the curtains and sigh at the fact that
it’s still dark. My body pulls my brain into the freezing cold and towards the
down the hall I’m not sure I want to get to the end. There’s light and noise
and a three-year-old running around with no clothes on even though it’s only six degrees outside. But I let the warm glow coax me towards the kitchen.
milk. Breakfast. Coffee, lots of coffee. Monster
Three requests one breakfast, takes a spoonful and decides she hates
yoghurt and muesli, has always hated yoghurt and muesli and how could I have
possibly served her such a thing! I laugh and say how would you know what it
tastes like when most of it is either on you face or in your hair. I get a
death stare for my comment.
breakfasts later, maybe she has eaten enough. I don’t know. It’s too late now.
The clock has somehow magically worked its way through a whole hour without me
noticing. I need to fit Monster Two’s
hearing aid, take it out because it’s tangled in her hair, do her hair and then
pop it back in again. I end up in hysterics when she asks me if I can hear her
ear better now? 'Sure, sure I can', I say.
have to begin the search for three matching pairs of shoes and try to battle my
way to the door and into the car. Somehow through this Monster One has disappeared. I search the house. He’s not there. I
run outside to see a dinosaur backpack, attached to an eight year old, swaying
back and forth high up in the oak tree in the front of our house. I wake the
entire neighbourhood yelling at Monster
One to get out of the tree while the horn is being bleeped by the other two
monsters who are at least in the car.
we’re all in. Seatbelts clicked, Iphone attached. Music on. The cars sloughs to
action and my brain switches to book mode. Monster One has asked me the same
question five times to which I have answered yes, no, what? Without registering
what he asked me. I can’t hear him because I’m in Russia, watching my
characters, picturing their faces when they react to situations, concocting
dialogue and feeling the snap of branches against their arms as they trek
through the low lying trees. I quickly mentally catalogue my ideas and Tell Monster One that No he can’t teach his
school friend how to drive my car. Why? Because neither of you can reach the
pedals. Probably the wrong answer.
pull up to school, Monster One and Monster Two file out, their red hair bouncing
over the top of their over burdened school bags. I pull out my notebook and
frantically scribble down my ideas while Monster Three screams that she’s
hungry. (Well she only ate three breakfasts!)