“I don’t wanna go to school!”
This is the refrain that echos off our sleep silent walls each morning, with the slight variation of “I don’t wanna go to ballet” on Saturdays.
Pillows are clung to and the covers are pulled up over a reluctant, pouting head.
A four-year old’s finger pokes me in the eye.
“Don’t be ridiculous mom. If you don’t take me to class who will? It’s already seven-four-six…” She says the four and six separately for emphasis.
I groan a feeble “I’m coming” and roll back over. Emilie has been up with the roosters (not that we have any) and has already helped herself to 2 pots of yoghurt and a sloppily poured bowl of cereal. I, on the other hand, have been smashing and snoozing my alarm for the past hour.
Smash, snooze. Smash, snooze.
Emilie dresses herself expertly while I lay lethargic in my swaddle of blankets. I peer at her through half closed eyes, checking that she hasn’t put her blouse on backward or her tights on inside out.
“Don’t forget your shoes,” I mutter, my tongue slick with sleep.
“I’m already wearing them mother.” This kid takes independence to a whole new level.
I am eventually coaxed from the confines of my cocoon and dress with the zest of a zombie. The brisk 15 minute walk downhill in the crisp, cold morning air puts life in my legs and lungs.
By the time I have deposited my darling daughter at her classroom door and tackled the journey back uphill I am alert, fully awake and all hopes of returning home to salvage my slumber has evaporated like the morning dew.
I pray for Sunday…