Motherhood hasn’t come naturally to Daisy Leverington. Three years in and she remains wide-eyed, terrified and in awe of the little person she’s responsible for. This week, she offers an hour-by-hour account of an average day.
Spoiler alert! This column contains mild peril and scenes of a non-sexual nature
5.30am. The Bedroom
A Care Bear (possibly Sunshine Bear but it’s too dark to tell), is thrust into my unconscious face. “QUICKLY, TAKE THIS!” she screams, jolting me awake.
I stumble out of bed, a surge of terror as the coming apocalypse fine-tunes my ears to the sounds of zombie hoards at the door; or perhaps a murderer in the hallway.
I stand there, panting, I’m ready for this. Wearing a maternity nightie (not pregnant, just comfy) and armed with a teddy, I step into the darkness.
My husband, BLESS HIM, lets out a snore and rolls himself over automatically. He wouldn’t have lasted a single season of the Walking Dead. My child, the ears of this survival operation, has wandered back to bed.
The day has begun.
7.30am. The Lounge
Three cups of coffee have given me the strength to prepare a semi-healthy breakfast for my child. She ignores it. A fourth cup sends me back to the kitchen where I throw some Sugar Puffs into a bowl (no milk, obviously) which she finally eats.
I eat the remnants of her first offering. We are both fed.
Just what do you do when I’m not here, Mother?
My child sits fully clothed at my feet in the bath while I shower. I wash my hair with the wrong colour shampoo and she cries. She climbs out of the bath, now sobbing heartily. I am alone in the shower (BACK OF THE NET!) and she is loose and wet somewhere upstairs.
I get dressed and find the child has made a den in our bed. I hang the duvet out to dry and placate the traumatised toddler with the promise that she can choose her own clothes for nursery.
9.00am. The Park
We walk to nursery. I pretend not to notice the stares we get as my child runs ahead of me wearing a Gruffalo onesie and a tutu.
Actually, I pretend she’s not with me by joining in the ‘crikey that kid’s parents are obviously ill’ looks the locals are exchanging.
The child runs back to me with a leaf hanging out of her mouth. They all realise she’s mine and we walk a little faster.
I never know what I do during this brief few seconds between the start and end of nursery, but as per usual, it is unproductive, financially un-rewarding and generally needs redoing.
We talk about the child and agree she’s normal and all kids are weird, but secretly we both think she’s more weird than most.
The child is back. We negotiate a strange truce about the shampoo incident. She’s not letting it go and apparently been telling all her teachers about it. She accepts an apology.
We have three hours to kill before bedtime. It feels like 30. We paint, draw, read, watch TV, paint again and dress up as mermaids before I call time on the fun and begin the task of getting her to bed.
Husband comes home, I pretend I need a poo and grab five minutes to myself in the loo.
The husband and I cobble together a tea and do a bit of tidying. We talk about the child. We agree that she’s normal and all kids are weird, but secretly we both think she’s more weird than most.
He puts his arm around me and I know that really he wants to do sex things, but we’ve just bought a new Xbox game and I really want to play that instead.
The game is hard and I get stroppy, so we go to bed and watch fail videos on YouTube until it’s 5.30am and a child throws a Care Bear in my face.
Daisy Leverington - Actor, mother, expert at winging it.