Horizontally unconscious

It was one of those rare mornings where I was not woken up by my human alarm clock son. I was fast asleep at 7:30 am when a loud knock at the door jolted me awake.

It was Michelle, the nursery owner, at the door, for Eli’s pick-up. As usual, as she does every nursery day. Except this particular morning I was very much horizontally unconscious. I remembered having woken up at 6. I had looked at the time and closed my eyes for 5 more minutes of sleep. Famous last words… Gosh, how long had she been waiting?

I jumped out of bed and flew downstairs and apologised through the fog of sleep. And then went full headless-chicken. Into the kitchen, where I threw together what I can only describe as a tragically bad tuna sandwich. Sorry, Eli, you deserved better bread-to-filling ratios. I threw in a banana and a packet of his favourite mango yoghurt in his dinosaur lunch bag, to make up for my pathetic show that morning.

Meanwhile Richard hauled our very confused son out of bed and dressed a boy who had not, in any real sense, woken up yet. Poor little guy just blinked at us, wondering what on earth was happening.

The whole time, a nursery friend waited patiently in the van, and I could hear Michelle out there chatting away to her while we scurried about like the house was on fire, cramming Eli and his bag together. We finally got him buckled in and off he went, his breakfast completely forgotten in the chaos.

I sat down on the sofa after the van pulled away, trying to gather myself, cringing so hard at the events of the morning that I could have folded in on myself. I was overcome by guilt for having made Michelle wait and for sending Eli off without his breakfast (the poor thing!). I sent her a grovelling apology text. (More cringing followed)

She replied: “Please don’t worry. Eli is enjoying his breakfast.”I quickly loaded the video that followed her message. There he was -  Eli, sitting at the table in Michelle’s kitchen, happily scraping yogurt off the bottom of his bowl, working through a bowl of cereal and a pain au chocolat. I could see a half-eaten banana on a plate next to his cereal, and I was told he had washed it all down with a tall glass of milk. Completely content. Breakfast for champions that was.

I’d woken up in a panic, certain I’d messed up the entire day. And there he was, perfectly happy, scraping that bowl clean without a care in the world. I must have watched the video a few times because it was proof that he was happy, fed, and looked after.

I’d been prepared for a raised eyebrow and a “this can’t happen again” or at least a look of slight annoyance on Michelle’s face that morning. But there was no telling-off or guilt trip, no making me feel like the worst mother in the postcode. I was then able to shake off the guilt and the cringe, and go about my day (after having discussed this incident in depth with my inner circle ofcourse lol😛) 

I think this is one of the things you’re not prepared for when you move your whole life across an ocean: you spend so long focussing on the people who won’t be there that you almost miss the ones who are. Michelle didn’t have to feed my son at her own kitchen table. She didn’t have to film it, or send it to me, or find the exact words to unknot the guilt I’d tied myself into before 8am. But she did, because she’d stopped being a business owner and had become part of the village I never planned for.

They say it takes a village to raise a child and mine doesn’t exactly look like the one I grew up picturing. It’s further from home, stitched together with my in-laws, Michelle and her wonderful team, and all my mum friends who show up when I need them.