Mum’s Morning at 5:30
Last Saturday, my husband Simon and I jolted awake at half past five, as if we’d been zapped by electricity—all thanks to my dear mum, Margaret Whitmore. For twenty years, she’d worked herself to the bone, labouring in France and the Netherlands, sending back pounds to keep food on the table. Now she’s home, bright as the sunrise, and that sunrise beams right into our faces at 5:30 on a Saturday! That’s when decent folk are still tucked in bed, dreaming of their day off, while Simon and I scramble about because Mum’s decided dawn is perfect for deep cleaning, roasting a joint, and deep conversations about life. I love her, truly, but some mornings I just want to pull the duvet over my head and pretend I don’t hear her chirping, “Emily, up you get—the day’s wasting!”
Mum’s a force of nature. Two decades scrubbing Dutch floors, caring for elderly French ladies, wiring money home for school and shoes. I’ve always been proud of her, even when I missed her terribly. A year ago, she returned, suitcase packed with stories, a habit of rising with the birds, and energy enough for five people. Simon and I insisted she live with us, thinking she’d finally rest. But rest, to Margaret Whitmore, is a fairy tale. She “rests” when she sleeps, and she hardly seems to sleep at all.
That Saturday, I craved a lie-in. The workweek had been brutal. I wanted lazy coffee, telly, silence. But at 5:30, clattering came from the kitchen, followed by Mum’s voice: “Emily, Simon, rise and shine! I’ve got pastry rolled—come and help!” I cracked an eye open. Simon had his face buried in the pillow, groaning, “Em, your mum’s going to be the death of me.” I whispered back, “Bear with her—she’s my mum.” But inside, I braced for another whirlwind.
Downstairs, chaos reigned. Mum, in her floral apron, kneaded dough, a beef roast simmered, and a bowl of chopped veg sat ready for Yorkshire puddings. “Mum,” I said, “why so early? We could do this at noon!” Without looking up, she replied, “Emily, the early bird catches the worm! Life’s passing you by while you snooze!” Life? At 5:30? Simon, ever the diplomat, offered, “Margaret, shall I put the kettle on?” She waved him off. “Tea can wait, love—can you peel these potatoes?” Poor Simon, who’d only ever seen spuds pre-boiled, obeyed.
I adore Mum’s vigour, but it wears me to the bone. Cooking isn’t just cooking—it’s a military campaign. In an hour, we’d prepped veg, rolled pastry, and fried sausages because “a roast isn’t proper without bangers.” Simon tried sneaking off to “check emails,” but Mum cornered him: “Simon, scrub that pan—Emily won’t manage!” I shot him a sympathetic look. He clearly regretted leaving bed.
As we worked, Mum spun tales of her years abroad: struggling with French verbs, baking scones for Dutch neighbours, aching for home. I listened, warmed by her voice, yet thinking, *Mum, why can’t you just sleep in?* I ventured, “Maybe next Saturday we could lie in till eight?” She laughed. “Eight? The day’s half gone by then!” Half gone? It hasn’t even started!
By noon, the kitchen gleamed, the roast crackled, and Simon and I looked like marathon survivors. Mum, fresh as a daisy, set plates before us. “There, my loves—*this* is living! Eat up before it cools.” The first bite was heavenly. Simon muttered, “Your mum’s a tank, but blimey, can she cook.” I giggled, but deep down, I knew: Mum fights this hard because she’s fought her whole life. Now she wants us to live just as fiercely—even if that means 5:30 starts.
I moaned to my mate Sarah, who laughed. “Em, she’s a gem! She’s teaching you to *live*.” Teaching? Maybe. But I still dream of a Saturday where we wake to silence, no Mum declaring, “Up, up—the sun’s burning daylight!” I tried bargaining: “Mum, what if we bake Sundays and sleep Saturdays?” She shook her head. “Sundays are for the garden, love!” The garden? 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 sun’s too blazing. I’m grateful for all she’s done, for her roasts, her endless spark. But I’ll keep working on that one quiet Saturday. Until then, I take a bite, savour her cooking, and wonder: maybe 5:30 holds its own magic. I just haven’t seen it yet.
So here’s the lesson, hard-earned: love isn’t always convenient, and the people who’ve fought for us sometimes fight to keep us moving too. The early hours might steal sleep, but they gift us time—time we’ll one day wish we’d taken.
