Mum’s Dawn at Half Five
Last Saturday, we jolted awake at half past five, as if struck by lightning. It was all because of my dear mum, Evelyn Harris, who spent twenty years working her fingers to the bone in France and the Netherlands, only to return home and transform into a human alarm clock, beaming sunshine straight into our faces at an ungodly hour on a weekend! That’s when decent folk are still lost in dreams of a lazy morning, yet there we were—my husband, Simon, and I—stumbling about the house because Mum had decreed dawn the perfect time for a deep clean, a pot of stew, and a heartfelt chat about life. I love her, truly, but sometimes I long to burrow under the duvet and pretend I can’t hear her chirpy, “Emily, up you get—the day’s wasting!”
My mother is a force of nature. Two decades she toiled abroad to keep my brother and me afloat. While we grew up, she scrubbed floors in Parisian offices, tended to elderly ladies in Amsterdam, and sent back pounds for school and clothes. I’ve always been proud of her, though I ached with missing her. A year ago, she came home—suitcase brimming with tales, a habit of rising with the larks, and energy enough for five people. Simon and I offered her a place in our cottage, so she could finally rest. But rest, it seems, is a myth to Evelyn Harris. She only stops when she sleeps, and she sleeps—if at all—a mere wink a night.
That Saturday, I’d craved a lie-in. The workweek had been brutal; I wanted to laze in bed, sip tea in peace, binge a telly. But at half five, the clatter of pans echoed from the kitchen, followed by Mum’s voice: “Emily, Simon, rise and shine! I’ve kneaded dough for pies—come lend a hand!” I cracked one eye open, glanced at Simon—he was face-down in the pillow, groaning, “Em, your mum’ll be the death of us.” I whispered back, “Bear with her—she’s my mum.” But inside, I was bracing for another whirlwind.
Downstairs, chaos reigned. Mum, in her floral pinny, pummeled dough, stew bubbled on the hob, and a bowl of shredded cabbage sat waiting. “Mum,” I tried, “why this early? We could bake pies at noon!” Without pausing, she said, “Emily, the early bird catches the worm! Life’s passing you by while you snooze!” Life? At half five? Simon, ever the diplomat, offered, “Evelyn, shall I put the kettle on?” But Mum waved him off. “Tea later, Simon—can you chop this cabbage?” My poor husband, who’d only ever seen cabbage in coleslaw, obeyed with a sigh.
I adore Mum’s vigour, but it wears me to the bone. She doesn’t just cook—she turns the kitchen into a military campaign. In an hour, we’d shredded three pounds of cabbage, kneaded another batch of dough, and fried a stack of sausages because “stew’s not stew without bangers.” Simon tried to sneak off, muttering about checking emails, but Mum intercepted him: “Simon, scrub that pot—Emily won’t manage alone!” I shot him a sympathetic look—he was clearly regretting not feigning sleep.
As we worked, Mum spun yarns from her years abroad. How she learned French just to argue with her boss, how she baked pies for Dutch neighbours, how she missed us terribly. I listened, warmth in my chest, yet couldn’t help thinking, *Mum, why can’t you just sleep in?* I ventured, “Maybe next Saturday we could lie in till eight?” She laughed. “Emily, by eight the day’s half over!” Over? It hadn’t even begun!
By noon, the kitchen gleamed, pies browned in the oven, stew perfumed the air, and Simon and I looked like we’d run a marathon. Mum, fresh as a daisy, plonked bowls before us. “There, my dears—*this* is living! Eat up before it goes cold.” We did, and I had to admit—the stew was divine. Simon muttered, “Em, your mum’s a tank, but she cooks like a Michelin star.” I giggled, but deep down, I knew: Mum’s like this because she’s fought, worked, survived. Now she wants us to live just as fully—even if that starts at half five.
I moaned to a mate about Mum’s crack-of-dawn antics. She chuckled. “Em, it’s a blessing! She’s teaching you to seize the day.” Teaching? Perhaps. But I still dream of a Saturday where Simon and I wake to silence, no Mum bellowing, “Up, up—you’re wasting light!” I even proposed a truce: “Mum, what if we bake Sundays and sleep Saturdays?” She tutted. “Emily, Sundays are for digging the garden!” Digging? Simon nearly spat out his tea.
Now, I’m learning to balance love for Mum with sanity. She’s my sunshine, my hero—but sometimes that sunshine’s blinding. I’m grateful for all she’s done, for her stew, her boundless spark. But I still hope to negotiate *one* peaceful Saturday. For now, I just pick up my spoon, taste her cooking, and wonder—maybe there *is* magic in a half-five start. I just haven’t seen it yet.
