Packing, Parenting, and Other Things I’m Failing at This Week

⚠️ Warning: very little taxidermy ahead. Unless you count me trying to stuff half my house into cardboard boxes while screaming “STOP FIGHTING” every four minutes.

I wake up at 3 a.m. every day. Not because I’m noble, disciplined, or one of those “5 a.m. club” people. No, I wake up at 3 a.m. because it’s the only time of day when no one is yelling “Muuuuuum!” or asking for a snack. Also, because if I didn’t, the work wouldn’t get done, and apparently I enjoy living on the edge.

There’s a special sort of stillness at 3 a.m., where I can work in silence, caffeinated and alone… until I remember that I’m spending these blissful hours cutting up dead animals. At which point I wonder if I might be a psychopath.

By the time the small footsteps pad down the hallway — not thunder, pad — I’ve already made seven mice, prepped five orders, and answered emails. And then… the circus begins.

We’re deep in the summer holidays, which means I’ve got one dramatic, overly dramatic girl, one “most lovable rogue,” and a living room that’s currently hosting Unicorn Yoga (aka “jumping around screaming ‘Floor is Lava!’ until someone bumps their head or another bit of furniture gets broken”).

Why do my children need feeding every twelve minutes? Instagram mums have fridges stacked with Tupperware carrots and grapes; my kids treat a family pack of crisps as an amuse-bouche. Honestly, the summer holidays feel like a never-ending cycle of snacks, parks, soft plays, shouting “STOP!”, breaking up fights, and — in my particular case — endlessly yelling “Get your finger out of your bum!” at my four-year-old. This is my soundtrack. All summer long.

On top of all this, I’m moving house in two weeks. One hundred miles away. My house already looked like a bomb site, and now it looks like a bomb site that’s been bubble-wrapped. There are half-empty boxes everywhere because apparently my system is to start packing, get distracted, and then move on to packing something else entirely.

It’s not a secret that I am not very good at the “adulting” side of life, and packing a house is the most adult job there is. It turns out I’m failing spectacularly. Every time I put something away, a child suddenly discovers it’s their most treasured possession and demands it back immediately.

Somewhere in the chaos, I’ve lost several props — tiny books, tiny coats, and at least one tiny dildo. Don’t ask.

By 7:30 p.m., I’ve followed my scooter-obsessed four-year-old around until I look like a zombie, gone through four pairs of his trainers because he refuses to lift his feet, and packed approximately nothing.

I finally crawl into bed, exhausted… and outside, I can still hear people laughing in their gardens, clinking glasses, and generally living their best summer evening lives. I’d join them, but I’ve got a date with my alarm clock — in exactly 7.5 hours, it’s 3 a.m. again.

Before you panic — no, this blog won’t always be about my children’s snacking habits and my inability to pack boxes. Normally there will be taxidermy here. But right now, life has staged a hostile takeover, and venting to all of you lovely people is helping me survive it. The mice will be back soon, I promise.