‘I’m woken by screaming every morning’ I explained to my colleagues, none of whom are parents themselves, proving once again that I am occasionally a poor ambassador for the child-rearing life. Someone’s alarm had gone off in the office, prompting me to tell them why I haven’t needed one in six years.
This is true. Since the birth of my kids, there has never been a day when they’ve stayed asleep long enough for me to risk being late for anything. For a good few months each year, I beat the sun to its desk. My daughter wakes up at 6.30am, and my day begins.
My son will have climbed into bed beside us at some point in the night so, while I am awoken by the aforementioned screaming, my first physical sensation is the delightful pain of his stubby little foot in the crook of my spine. My wife will grab our daughter and I’ll start the process of rousing we boys from sleep, then we get them dressed and head downstairs. Since my wife has a real job, she departs the house around 7.30 and I spend the next hour feeding, wiping and placating the kids as my brain slowly slides into consciousness like dog food from a tin.
Then, it’s time to take them to school and nursery respectively. This is a multi-part process, which has a certain dignity to it: the tedious and complex negotiation of shoes and coats and bags being packed that makes me feel like a good and responsible dad on those days I manage all of them, in the right order. On a good morning, it takes just 10 minutes and I have my daughter strapped into her buggy at 8.45, waiting by the radiator in the hall as my son gets his shoes, coat, water bottle and schoolbag ready for action.
I don’t leave until I absolutely must. This is due to the best thing about my life, possibly the best thing about anyone’s life on Earth: the fact that our house faces directly on to my son’s school. I’ve mentioned it before but, if I had my way, I’d mention it every week, and in most conversations, for it is a luxury that has never, ever faded since we’ve lived here. If I’m in my sitting room, which faces said school, I am closer to my son during his school day than I am to my own kitchen sink.
The problem with that is you can get cocky. Three days ago, I crossed the road to the waiting line of parents and gave the usual waves and smiles as my son ran up to friends and gave them hugs. This gentle bonhomie was only interrupted when I looked down to see my daughter had grabbed a pair of underpants I’d left drying on the radiator and was now waving them around her head like a (thankfully) white flag.
With shinobi swiftness, I stuffed them in my coat pocket, and told myself I’d acted before anyone had noticed. A glance at their kind faces told me nothing, so I trundled in, head bowed, wondering where all that surplus dignity had gone. For a few days to come, it’ll be me who wakes up screaming.
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Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78
