This morning was the perfect example of why going it alone is harder than you’d think. It’s not the guilt and the fretting and the tears, it’s the school run.

Getting three children up, dressed, fed, teeth brushed and ready for school shouldn’t be as difficult as it sometimes can be. On paper, it’s a breeze. Add in some teenage hormones, a whiff of aspergers and a feisty 6-year old and it’s a whole new ball game.

My son was up at 5:50 am, fully dressed, including blazer and shoes, ready for breakfast. I was asleep in the lounge on my temperamental futon, about to alight from an army helicopter (dreaming, obvs) with my subconscious aware that my alarm wasn’t going off for another half an hour. Five minutes later, said son, still fully dressed, was in bed with me watching The Dumping Ground, while I tried to recapture my helicopterial thrills and spills and bank another twenty minutes shut-eye. Five minutes after that, I was making tea and spilling coco pops over the carpet. Bleugh.

I absolutely did not resort to shouting and threat in waking the girls. Eventually the tween surfaced, grunted, ate brioche (which *may* have been a little out of date) and went upstairs to do her hair. With her phone, apparently. At least, she was clutching it like a hairbrush and staring at it.

Smallest girl, who is six going on sixteen, flatly refused to do anything and by the time we were ready to leave was having a full-on mardy and kicking off her shoes in protest. I shouted, cajoled, shouted and threatened no Stampy. The last one did it.

I work at the same school they go to, so in we bundled, vaguely on time and I felt my job was done. We were a little dishevelled and I *may* have heard my little one read in the car (who doesn’t?) but we got there, successfully.

Or, so I thought.

Turns out, six-year old was not meant to be in Rainbows uniform as they had a trip to the local cenotaph and I had to do a mad dash home for tights and uniform. I wasn’t the only one, apparently. Christ, with three kids I must get at least five Parentmails a day. It’s up there with LinkedIn for annoying emails to ignore. Possibly should have read the one about the trip.

Meanwhile, my free period was absorbed by the guilty parenting mad dash home and now I have extra marking to do. Oh, goody.


diary of a semi-detached woman

So, I have decided to start a diary. And this is it. Some may ask why I didn’t just choose to pen my thoughts in a personal journal…but there’s something liberating about flinging them out to cyberspace; airing them in public. It makes them more real, more actual, more…spoken.

There is then, of course, the question of why I feel the need to diarise my life at this current time. Well, after thirteen years of marriage (unlucky for some, it seems) and with three kids, I find myself separated from my husband and moving out to a small two-up/two-down in Oxford. Don’t get me wrong, it was my decision and it’s officially a ‘trial separation’, but it doesn’t make it much easier. Especially when you are (mostly) sleeping on a futon in the lounge and wake up with your head on the floor and your hair wrapped around your iPhone lead. It’s all a learning curve.

That’s what I keep telling myself.