Page 23 of A Manny for Christmas

‘Good girl. We’re going to get dressed, and then we’ll go downstairs and you can show me what you want for breakfast.’

‘Want Frosties.’

Yeah, that’s not happening. She’ll be in a sugar coma by the time we get to school if she eats those.

‘Let’s see what the options are when we get downstairs,’ I say noncommittally. I mentally pat myself on the back.Never negotiate with terrorists.‘Come on. Sit up for me, and we’ll put your school shirt on in your cosy bed.’

Miracle of miracles, she allows me to pull her up so she’s sitting. I tug her soft pyjama top off and cringe slightly as I feed the colder, scratchier fabric of her school shirt through her little arms. She’s so tiny I’m worried I’ll break her. But her sleepiness is working in my favour—it’s making her more docile.

I can sense Toby still hovering behind me. ‘Go and get dressed please, Toby,’ I tell him.And put some pants on, for the love of God.

I pop Daisy’s tie on and hide the elastic under her shirt collar, then gesture at her bottoms. ‘Come on. Bottoms off so we can get your tights on.’

‘Later.’

‘But we need to get you dressed before we go downstairs.’ I think about the double-underlined section of Molly’s note.

‘Tights on after brekkie. Put my pinafore on,’ she orders, throwing me a sweet smile.

I sigh and mentally consign the tights to thebattles I can’t be fucked to fightsection of my brain. We get her little pinafore over her head and fasten it before tugging on her cardigan, an exercise which involves much theatrical flailing and pained groaning from Daisy as I attempt to get the too-narrow sleeves comfortably over the bulky sleeves of her shirt.

Fuck’s sake. Have they seriously not worked out how to improve the fit of school uniforms since my day?

I’m exceptionally proud of myself as I pick up the tights and lead an almost fully dressed Daisy down the hallway to check on her brother. He’s doing well; he’s nearly there. I help him get his sweater on over his shirt (same issue) and we make our way downstairs, the kids sliding and thumping their way down the steps in a way that has my heart rate ratcheting up.

In the kitchen, I consult Molly’s notes. Daisy isn’t allowed dairy. There’s oat milk in the fridge. Toby dislikes Weetabix. Yada yada yada.

‘Right.’ I point as they stand there, gaping. ‘Have a seat at the table. Porridge or toast. Which is it?’

‘Toast with peanut butter, please,’ Toby says.

Daisy sticks with her previous choice. ‘Frosties.’ She’s still in a zombie state; her voice is a scary monotone. I reckon she’s still half-asleep.

‘Not an option, pal. Too sugary for a school day. Porridge or toast?’

‘I. Want. Frosties.’

I squat. Fuck this. ‘That’s. Not. Happening. Your choices are porridge, or toast, or nothing, and you really need something in your tummy to get you through a morning at school. Okay? So what’ll it be?’

She glares at me with utter hatred. I push off the floor and get to my feet.

‘You know what? I just came from a country in Africa called Malawi, and the kids there didn’t even have clean water. They didn’t have taps they could just turn on. They had to walk to wells to get fresh water that wouldn’t make them sick. Because when they drank the dirty water, it was really, really bad for them.

‘And you two have a kitchen full of yummy food and nice fresh water.’ I point my finger at Daisy. ‘So. Just. Pick. Something. Porridge. Or. Toast.’

‘Toast.’

She spits the word out, contempt clear in her tone.

Fuckingyes. ‘Thank you. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?’ Max one, Daisy nil. Not that I’m getting any sort of satisfaction from point-scoring against a four-year-old, I tell myself.

As I busy myself with the toaster, Daisy clambers up onto a special kiddy chair at the table. ‘Mummy lets us watch cartoons at brekkie time.’

‘Unlikely.’ I push down the switch on the toaster with more force than necessary.

‘She does sometimes,’ Toby pleads. He’s sitting nicely in his chair.

‘Probably on the weekends. Am I right, mate?’

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