Sunday morning. I slowly roll on the Mummy’s side of the bed, now empty and cold, to glance at the bedside table clock. 6:42am. I try to remember how different Sundays mornings used to be not that long ago, but the memory is fading fast.

Now it’s decision time. I could roll back to my side of the bed, still nice and warm, hide under the duvet, and try to sleep through the noise Ben is doing downstairs. I could, but in a few minutes Mummy will send Ben to fetch me, so what’s the point? Instead, I could get up, grab a few clothes, leave my mobile phone behind, and escape quietly from the bedroom’s window. Always tempting, but I get flashes of an awkward conversation with my neighbour who greets me as I climb down the gutter pipe. I decide to do the only grown up thing: yell at the top of my lungs “Mummy.. how would you like a cup of coffee?”. By which I actually mean “Mummy, dear, be a star and make coffee for both of us, will you?”. One day I’ll actually say that, by mistake of course, and after saying that my only real option will be to run out of the window. Forget the clothes, the mobile phone, or the neighbour. Just run.

Time to sit on the bed for a few seconds and mentally work out how little I’ve slept last night, then get up and join the others in the kitchen, where Ben is sounding particularly jolly today.

Ben’s clearly a morning person. Mummy, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to share his cheerfulness and impish glee this morning. She stares at me for less than a second, tho she doesn’t say a single word. It must be one of this occasions in which I’m supposed to work out by myself what’s going on. As ever, I go with: “You have no idea what a nightmare last night was, I’ve been up since 5am, where were you for the last hour and a half, here’s your coffee”. I sit down and thank her for the coffee.. out loud.

Ben opens with “Daddy, Daddy”, pointing at the wall behind him, “Clock!”. I ask him what time the clock says it is, and as usual he replies 9. And as usual, I mentally reply: “I. Only. Wish”.

We go through the same routine every morning, without fail, but on Sundays the conversation has a particularly cruel streak. What’s this obsession with the time anyway? Is he implying I’m late for something? Has Mummy put him up to this? Why always 9? Do babies live in a different timezone? It must be it, that would at least explain why parents feel constantly jet-lagged.

I sip my coffee, slowly, while Mummy runs me through the written down, and unlikely long, list of errands for the day.

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