So here, in the manner of the original time and motion pioneers, is my last 24 hours. They measured the units of time and motion in therbligs, the creation of Frank and Lilian Gilbreth, the original Industrial psychologists. I like that it is their surname backwards, with the TH treated as one letter. Maybe they were more fun than they sounded. Either way, you probably know them from "Cheaper by the Dozen" , made into a film. They were the parents with 12 children, who ran their house on industrially efficient means.
11.45: go to son's room, his "feet are peeking out" the duvet, a terrible thing he cannot rectify himself, apparently. Sleep.
12.50: Daughter needs me to fish dummy out from under the bed. (SEARCH)
1am: locate it. Spend 10 minutes persuading her it IS the ruddy yellow one. (FIND)
2.30am: Son is "all shivery" and needs some juice. Take temperature, sense he is bluffing post-illness the other day, and tell him to sleep. Listen to dramatic sighing of son from my room. (INSPECT)4am: Daughter is trapped with a leg through her headboard. Extricate her, sleep, sort of. (POSITION)
6am: Kids get up. I moan. 6-8 is a rush of feeding, dressing, washing, getting out appropriate toys for kids to distract them while I shower. Wave to husband as he gleefully leaves for work. (ASSEMBLE)
8-8.10 I shower, quickly, before entering son's room to confiscate toys which have now become weapons. Dry myself and dress haphazardly with whatever is to hand. (Normally, on a playgroup day I leave the house at 8.30 to get to playgroup, drop son off, take daughter to Toddler group, then pick him up and home for 12.30.)
8.10-9 I make a cup of tea and leave it to go cold while I deal with getting shoes on daughter who likes to say "no, I do it" when she manifestly cannot. Simple tasks take ages. Engage in debate with son as to hat wearing. Yes, it is sunnier but it is also cold. Put in a wash, sort out airing cupboard airing wash from yesterday into piles. Son, daughter, me, him, note: no ironing pile. (POSITION ASSEMBLE)
9-9.30 Kids go mental in garden. Daughter, who needs to get in, refuses the buggy. Son, who should walk, wants it. Long, pointless debate only solved by happy appearance of rubbish trucks which provide distraction. (TRANSPORT LOADED)
9.30-11: I visit post-office, grocers and bank for stuff to fill in, cook, and cry over. Kids buy bits of tat for 10p from charity shops, then lose them instantly. I retrace steps to get tat. Visit bakers, walk slowly home with both kids out the buggy, admiring every woodlouse, ladybird, and twig, and exclaiming "Mind that, it's dog-poo". (PRE_POSITION FOR NEXT OPERATION)
11-11.45: hang out washing. Cook kids lunch. We all watch the terrible "Go Diego Go" whilst eating. Brief silence. (RELEASE LOAD)
11.45-12.15: deal with the inevitable poo aftermath of lunch. Realise I too need the loo. do this with an audience of 2. "Do you need the paper yet mummy?" (RELEASE LOAD 2)
12.15- 12.45: wash up, chop veg for tea, hoover downstairs and mop up milk from floor, real culprit unknown, as both kids now have the talent to lie. (GRASP<>
6.30-7.15: thankfully dump kids in front of Cbeebies and wash up dinner stuff. Eye wine in fridge. PRE-POSITION FOR NEXT OPERATION