Where do I even start?
Probably around 2:30 a.m., when Kane decides this is his 9 a.m. and the day has officially begun.
Once he’s up, I have to be up—because the last thing I need is for him to wake Evelyn. She’s not a morning person at the best of times, never mind this ridiculous hour. But, we move.
He doesn’t tire. He doesn’t drift back off. No—the day has started.
And imagine this isn’t a one-off. This ungodly hour wake up is at least 2/3 times a week.
The Early Morning Mayhem.
While most people are peacefully sleeping, I’m on high alert.
Because if Kane’s awake, the house is awake—whether I like it or not.
He’s got a fascination with the toilet. Socks, stones, spoons—you name it, he’ll flush it. If it fits, it ships.
By the time the rest of the world is brewing coffee, I’m already running damage control and wondering how I’ve lived this long without a plumbing degree.
The School Prep Olympics
Fast forward a few hours. It’s school time—which means the next battle begins: getting dressed.
Not because he doesn’t want to go. Oh no, Kane loves school. But he also loves watching me count to ten after the third failed attempt at putting his trousers on.
He turns it into a full-body workout—some kind of Matrix-inspired routine—while I try to stay calm and convince myself that deep breathing actually works.
Eventually, he’s dressed. Small victory. Then comes the big one: teeth brushing.
Let’s just say—if someone walked past our window during this part, they’d probably question whether to call the authorities. There’s movement, there’s noise, there’s me trying to reason with a small tornado.
Packing the Bag (Because Why Not?)
Now we move on to his school bag—which, of course, must include:
Six pairs of swimming shorts
Four pairs of pyjamas
No, it’s not swimming day.
No, he’s not going to a sleepover.
Do I know why he needs them? Absolutely not.
But I’ve learned to pick my battles. Some hills are not worth dying on, especially before 8 a.m. So, in they go.
And We’re Off
His travel assistant arrives. We go through our goodbye routine—which includes him kicking two doors and giving me a cheeky nip on the arm before heading out.
And just like that, he’s gone. It’s 8:30 a.m., and I’ve already done a six-hour shift with what feels like Mike Tyson on stimulants.
I’m overwhelmed, overstimulated, and running on fumes.
But I’m also so damn proud—proud that he walked down that path, clean, alive, and with his little bag of fruit I prep each morning to help him stay balanced for his five-minute journey to school.
And nobody—not one person—would ever guess what our “morning routine” really looks like.
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