how fifteen minutes is a shit amount of time (chicco red bullet)

Yesterday I had fifteen minutes of time to myself. That was all. My day began early, awoken by the distressed sounds of the two children I Au Pair for, a Juliet-like sound to my sleeping Romeo. Getting out of bed is difficult for people, it always has been. If anyone reading this post has a contrary point of view to that, I don’t want to hear it, because you are mistaken, and I won’t accept it. I’m not saying that once you get out of bed you don’t feel good, that is perhaps true, but the physical and mental act of getting out of bed each and every morning, will always pose a serious dilemma to humans. It’s part of the human experience, like walking into a public bathroom after King Kong has just relieved themselves. It is purely unfortunate. My point is, as a child you get this wonderful opportunity when you wake up to embrace this fact and cry about it, and I mean really cry. Throw a phenomenal tantrum, refuse to get out of bed, and face little to no consequences at all.

Strictly speaking we all have this opportunity, however the consequences for self-sufficient adults are far dire. I could do this, but it would be quite difficult to go to work, and earn money to feed, shelter, and clothe myself if I woke up, cried, and refused to leave my bed every morning (unless of course I was a Kardashian, which is what I imagine they do each morning, not that I have given it much thought). Children, however, have this unique privilege. As such, each morning, I wake up, clothe, feed, and look after two screaming boys who look at me with such contempt it’s hard to not feel wounded. And life will go on, just as swimmingly as it always has for them.

These morning tantrums only begin to dissipate when we leave the house for school. On the bus the boys have usually stopped crying, and when this happens I’m sure it’s because they couldn’t possibly cry any longer. But I know that’s a lie, they most definitely could. What is actually happening, is that they have begun to realise that getting out of bed isn’t so bad. That they are about to arrive at school, their friends will be there, and they will eat glue, and play tag, and do kid stuff. They like these thoughts, so they let them enter their minds, and very slowly they realise that they are no longer angry, upset, confused, but actually happy, excited, and joyous to the extent that they now are the ones dragging me by the hand to their schools.

By the time we arrive, they have both completed perfect backflips on their initial outlook of the day. I score them a sigh/10. It amazes me how young minds are almost always completely self-invested, these ones revealing no hint of remorse for their prior behaviour. I guess remorse is just an emotion developed later on down the track, and with some people, never at all.

Anyway, back to fifteen minutes being a really shit amount of time. After I drop the boys to their respective schools, I walk to Spanish class. I don’t want to write anything negative about how my progress is going, so that’s all I will write about Spanish class. When class finishes, I walk back to their schools, pick them up, feed them, play with them in the park, and then walk them to music school. By the time music school has finished, the three year old has fallen asleep. It’s raining, and I carry him, his bag, my bag, his bicycle (because when he is awake it is a much faster mode of transport than his little legs) all on one arm, whilst holding the six year olds hand in the one I have spare. We walk a kilometre in the rain to the bus stop, and then we wait. I can feel the six year old coming full circle again; it’s nearly time for bedtime tantrum (I will write about this at a later time, and if I don’t, just know they are bad, but not as bad as getting out of bed tantrums). We catch the bus, and it’s just on seven o clock when we arrive home.

I eat dinner and speak with my host parents. We talk about my day, their day, their children. They tell me something disappointing. An hour later, I go to my room to start Spanish homework. It’s nine forty-five when I’m finished, and I have fifteen minutes of time for myself before I will need to sleep. I spend five of those minutes thinking about what I could do with this time, and then somehow more time passes and I only have five minutes of me-time left. I decide to sleep these last five. It won’t be long until I’m woken.

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