Mum’s Morning at 5:30
Last Saturday, me and my husband, Simon, shot up at half five in the morning like we’d been electrocuted. All because of my dear mum, Margaret Anne, who spent twenty years working her fingers to the bone in France and Spain, and now she’s back home, turned into this little ray of sunshine that beams right into your face at the crack of dawn on a Saturday! That’s when normal people are still fast asleep, dreaming of their day off, but me and Simon are scrambling around the house because Mum’s decided morning’s the perfect time for a deep clean, a roast dinner, and a proper heart-to-heart. Don’t get me wrong, I love her, but sometimes I just want to pull the duvet over my head and pretend I can’t hear her cheerful, “Come on, Emily, up you get—daylight’s wasting!”
My mum’s a force of nature. Twenty years she spent abroad, grafting to provide for me and my brother. While we were growing up, she scrubbed floors in Parisian offices, looked after elderly ladies in Barcelona, sent us money for school and clothes. I’ve always been dead proud of her, even though I missed her like mad. When she came back last year, she brought a suitcase full of stories, a habit of rising with the larks, and enough energy to power a small village. Me and Simon invited her to live with us in our house, so she could finally have a break—but “resting” for Margaret Anne seems to be a myth. She only slows down when she’s asleep, and I reckon she only sleeps about two hours a night.
That Saturday, I was desperate for a lie-in. The workweek had been tough, and all I wanted was to stay in bed, sip my tea in peace, maybe binge a bit of telly. But at half five, I heard clattering in the kitchen, then Mum’s voice: “Emily, Simon, up you get! I’ve got the pastry rolled out for pies—time to lend a hand!” I cracked one eye open, looked at Simon—he was face-down in his pillow, groaning, “Em, your mum’s gonna be the death of us.” I whispered back, “Hang in there, she’s family.” But inside, I was bracing for another one of Mum’s whirlwind mornings.
We trooped downstairs, and the kitchen was already in full swing. Mum, in her flowery apron, was kneading dough, a roast was simmering on the hob, and a bowl of veg for stuffing sat on the table. “Mum,” I said, “why so early? We could’ve made pies later!” Without even looking up, she just said, “Emily, mornings are gold dust! Life’s passing you by while you’re snoozing!” Life? At half five? Simon, trying to be diplomatic, offered, “Margaret, how about I put the kettle on?” But Mum just waved him off—“Tea can wait, Simon, can you chop these carrots?” Poor bloke, who’d never done more than toss salad in his life, took the knife without a word.
I love Mum’s energy, but sometimes it wears me out. She doesn’t just cook—she turns the kitchen into a military operation. Within an hour, we’d prepped a mountain of veg, rolled out another batch of pastry, and fried up some sausages because, as she put it, “a roast isn’t proper without a bit of banger.” Simon tried to sneak off with a weak excuse about checking emails, but Mum caught him—“Simon, scrub that roasting tin, would you? Emily won’t manage it alone!” I shot him a sympathetic look—he was definitely regretting not staying in bed.
While we worked, Mum rattled off stories from her years abroad—how she picked up French just to argue with her boss, how she baked pies for her Spanish neighbours, how she missed us like mad. Listening to her, I felt all warm inside, but at the same time, I couldn’t help thinking, *Mum, why can’t you just sleep in for once?* I tried hinting—“Maybe next Saturday we could lie in till eight?” She just laughed. “Emily, by eight, half the day’s gone!” *Gone?* It hadn’t even started!
By noon, the kitchen was sparkling, the pies were baking, the roast smelled incredible, and me and Simon looked like we’d run a marathon. Mum, fresh as a daisy, plonked plates in front of us and said, “There you go, loves—that’s living proper! Eat up before it goes cold.” And I had to admit, the roast was divine. Simon leaned over and muttered, “Em, your mum’s a tank, but she cooks like a Michelin chef.” I giggled, but deep down, I knew—Mum’s like this because she’s spent her whole life fighting, working, surviving. Now she wants us to live the same way—full throttle, even if that starts at half five in the morning.
I moaned about it to my mate later, and she just laughed. “Em, she’s a treasure! Just go with it—she’s teaching you how to live.” *Teaching?* Maybe. But I still dream of a Saturday where me and Simon wake up in silence, no Mum bellowing, “Up you get—daylight’s wasting!” I even tried compromising—“Mum, how about pies on Sunday and a lie-in Saturday?” She just shook her head. “Emily, on Sunday, we’re digging up the potatoes!” *Digging?!* Simon nearly spat out his tea.
So now I’m learning to balance loving Mum with keeping my sanity. She’s my sunshine, my hero—but sometimes that sunshine’s a bit *too* bright. I’m grateful for everything she’s done for us, for her roast dinners, for her unstoppable energy. But I’m still holding out hope for *one* quiet Saturday. For now, I just pick up my fork, tuck in, and think—maybe there *is* something magical about half five in the morning. I just haven’t seen it yet.
