Thwack! That was the sound of a plastic maraca connecting with my forehead. My nine-month-old baby was waving the musical toy with the gusto of a professional percussionist, while I was picking up soggy toast remnants and wiping yoghurt from the cracks in between the floorboards.
It was one of those disaster mornings when leaving the house seems like an insurmountable task. I’m sure many parents can relate to this:
7:20am: Attempt to change baby out of pyjamas. This becomes a wrestling match with arms and legs flying in every direction, mine included, and ends with me cursing press-studs.
7:29: Sit baby up on change table. Baby then proceeds to spews milk all down outfit.
7:30: Change outfits again: Baby 2, Mummy 1.
7:40: Breakfast. Scoop yoghurt into baby’s mouth. Time slows down, every mouthful seems to take 10 minutes. I realise I haven’t fed myself yet, do so with baby spoon.