While I may rather insist that as Mrs Beeton suggested, the Mistress of the house should be an early riser if there is any hope at all of her winning the battle against all things domestic, in reality getting up early nearly kills me and at the slightest opportunity I will bury my head under the quilt and shut the world out for another five minutes or sixty five.
You see I do believe that this here body of mine was designed to rise at nine o’clock and not a minute before. That the world is up and doing it’s business long before that is sheer misfortune and merely serves to remind me that I am always at odds with what is the correct way of going about things.
Half term doesn’t help. Being the darling little cherub that he is, Finley resets his body clock during the school holidays and instead of charging around the house at the ungodly hour of 6.15am, as he is prone on a school day, he instead, lies in until the beautiful hour that is 8.30am, then wanders into my room and languishes under my quilt, relaying the kind of school playground gossip all Mommies secretly love to hear if only so that they can firmly establish the pecking order of their babba’s in the ranks of the cool kids. After which, following a game of tents, where we both pull the duvet over our heads and share the silliest memories from Finley’s babyhood, we pull on dressing gowns and make our way into another day.
This slow, snuggly hello to the morning suits me, and I feel good and alert and not constantly as if the world has dragged me kicking and screaming out of another pleasant dream and forced me to tackle an unwilling child into uniform or my own shivery body into the shower long before we are awake.
But such is life, and everyday can’t be holiday and there are morning routines to be performed and childish outraged outbursts to be endured and work to be done and a life to be lead and and try as you might you can’t wash the dishes in bed, nor present yourself and pyjama clad child in front of the sternest of headmistresses wearing a nightie and a dreamy expression.
Boring as it may one simply has to get out of bed.
And so I do. I get up horribly early, and don my Domestic Goddess head and perform my routines because if I didn’t the world would fall apart as I so blissfully let it during the holidays, and I make breakfast and cajole a moaning child and wipe surfaces and stuff laundry into the machine and pack school bags and rub concealer under puffy eyes and forget important things and truth be told, there is a little bit of me that resents every minute of it, until the clock strikes nine and I give the universe permission to force me into enthusiastic action!
So how about you? Do you get up with the lark, joyfully whistling a happy tune, or do you growl your way through the morning, cross with the world until you feel awake? What does your morning routine look like? Is it hectic or heavenly? Are you organised or the housekeeping equivalent of Mad Mary??
Oh and tell me Sweethearts, am I the only Vintage Housekeeper in the land who secretly wishes, that on the subject of early rising, dear Mrs Beeton had kept her mouth shut??