I once read some woman’s blog post about her 6 a.m. “ritual.” She said the words “matcha,” “sun salutations,” and “intentional parenting.” I nearly choked on Albert’s sock.
It was in my tea. The sock, not the blog post. Don’t ask.
Our mornings start with screaming. Not always his. Sometimes it’s the door. Or the cereal box. Or my spine as I contort myself under his bed trying to find the one t-shirt he’ll wear this week—the green one with the faded tram on it. Not the red tram. That was last month. Get with the program.
You know those Instagram reels where the kids sit quietly at the table, smiling over toast soldiers and someone plays Fleetwood Mac in the background?
We have toast.
We have a table.
Fleetwood Mac would sue.
I tried, for a while, to fake it. Set out clothes the night before. Visual cues. “First we get dressed, then we eat, then we brush teeth.” I laminated things. Bought a tiny whiteboard. JC thought it was cute. Then he overslept and tried to help by giving Albert the wrong spoon. Meltdown. Full-body. Screamed so hard the cat left and never came back. (She lives three doors down now. They renamed her Pumpkin.)
Albert doesn’t like change. Or socks that feel “weird.” Or breakfast foods that make noises. Or pants that touch his ankles. Or brushing his teeth. Or—on Tuesday—me.
Tuesday broke me a little.
I poured coffee over cereal and didn’t even notice. Stared at it for ten minutes, wondering if this is just what parenting is. Just… being an unpaid PA for a person who doesn’t want to go anywhere, see anyone, or wear anything with buttons.
JC kissed my cheek and told me to breathe. Then he left his mug in the sink. I considered launching it at the bin. Missed. Obviously.
But then—just when I was done—Albert walked back in and said, “Mum, I fixed the sock.” It was inside out. That was the problem. He turned it the right way, put it on his foot, and grinned like he’d built a spaceship.
And that was enough.
Not a win. Not a breakthrough. Not a moment of triumph.
Just… enough.
I don’t have peaceful mornings. I have tangled ones, frayed at the edges, wrapped around toast crumbs and the occasional glimmer of something gentle. A glance. A laugh. A sock that finally makes sense.
Then it’s out the door. And it’s too bright. And he’s screaming again because the neighbour’s dog barked weird.
But whatever. We’re moving. That’s what mornings are now. Not peaceful. But moving.
And sometimes—on the really good days—we even make it to school on time. Sort of. Depends who you ask.