Page 24 of A Manny for Christmas

He sighs, like I’ve just blown a hole right through his cunning strategy, and I allow myself a grin. Fucking kids. The hustling is constant. Exhausting.

‘Your mum told me specifically no TV on school mornings.’ She told me it distracts them too much and turns them into zombies (if they aren’t already, which Daisy definitely is) and makes it far harder to get them out of the house, because having their cartoons turned off is one more massive incentive to melt the fuck down.

I check my watch. Seven fifty. Where the hell has the past half an hour gone? It’s like we’re in some kind of time vortex. By my calculations, we need to be pulling out of the drive by eight-fifteen at the absolute latest.

I’ll allow a five-minute window to get them out the front door and strapped into the car, I decide. That should be plenty of time.

Check me, managing this leaving-the-house shit like a pro.

The actual eating process goes smoothly. I was planning on making myself a coffee and enjoying it while the kids eat, but I don’t have a spare second to put Angus’ swanky coffee machine on. I’m in a state of constant flux: putting round after round of toast on, buttering it, applying extra spreads of His Lordship and Her Ladyship’s choosing, cutting off crusts, fetching glasses of water, mopping up said water when Daisy upends hers all over the table, and making a fresh round of toast for her because the piece she had is now submerged and soggy.

I take a second to pop my head out of the kitchen doorway and am reassured by the view in the hall: two coats hanging on the end of the banister. Two bags and two sets of shoes by the door. I say a silent prayer of thanks to Molly for her organisational skills. Clearly the success of the morning session is dependent on getting all our ducks in a row the night before. There isn’t much margin for error in this schedule.

‘Right.’ I rake a hand through my hair and address Toby. I really need my fucking coffee. ‘Anything else before we go?’ Clean-up will have to happen when I get back here after drop-off.

‘You need to fill our water bottles.’ He points. ‘And Daisy doesn’t have her tights on.’

Oh yeah. Tights. Good point. Okay, so I just need to get tights and shoes on. And coats and hats. Fine.

I fill the water bottles and stuff them in their bags—it’s pretty easy to match Daisy’s pink bottle to the bag with all the fluffy pink key rings hanging off the zip. Back in the kitchen, I eye Daisy’s hair. It looks like a bird’s nest. I don’t recall any hair-related instructions from Mol.

‘Should I do something with her hair?’ I ask Toby. ‘Brush it, maybe?’

He shrugs. ‘Mummy uses the Tangle Teezer. There’s one in the dresser drawer.’

I have no fucking clue what a Tangle Teezer is, but it sounds appropriate. ‘Thanks, mate. You’re a great help, you know that? I’d be lost without you.’

He flushes with pleasure, and I give him a grin. He’s a sweet little guy, I’ll give him that.

I dig out a plastic mound with no handle. One side is covered in teeth. Gripping it in my hand, I approach Daisy like a zookeeper might approach an injured lion. ‘I’m going to brush your hair, all right?’

She ignores me. She’s eating her toast, carefully avoiding the edges, which makes literally no sense since I cut the fucking crusts off, but whatever. Her face is smeared with jam. I suppose I’ll have to do something about that before we head. I sigh.

I put the brush to the crown of her head and pull downwards. It hits a clump of knots and stops dead in its tracks. She screams, cartoon tears springing from her eyes.

‘Ow! You hurt me!’

Fuck. ‘Sorry, sweetie. You have a lot of tangles.’

‘You start from the bottom,’ Toby tells me, ‘and you hold the top of the bit you’re brushing so it doesn’t pull.’

I stare. ‘You may be the smartest kid I’ve ever met.’

I’m rewarded with a huge grin this time, his eyes crinkling up behind those awful specs. ‘I pay attention.’

‘I bet you do. Okay, Daze. Let’s try it Toby’s way,’ I tell her, gingerly picking up a lock of hair and patting it ineffectually with the brush, but she twists out of my grasp, the tears still coming.

‘No! You’remean!’

I put my hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, okay.’ Jesus. It’s not worth it. If her teachers don’t like her bed-head, they can sue me. Or brush it themselves.

‘Let’s just get on the road,’ I tell them wearily, slinging my coat on. ‘Daisy, I’m going to put your tights on now.’

I swivel her chair slightly so she’s at an angle to the table and I can access her feet. I put the crotch of the tights over her feet and pull. They don’t go anywhere. Her feet seem to be blocking the progress of the tights up her legs. I tug again, and she kicks a little.

‘That feels weird. Don’t like them.’

‘I know. Tights are weird,’ I agree, glancing at my watch. Eight-oh-five. Ten minutes till I turn that ignition on. I can do this. ‘But they’ll keep your legs warm. Let’s do it on the sofa, shall we?’

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