Mum’s Morning at 5:30
Last Saturday, me and my husband, William, shot up at half five in the morning like we’d been electrocuted. All because of my dear mum, Margaret Thompson, who spent twenty years working her fingers to the bone in France and Spain, and now she’s back home, and she’s turned into this burst of sunlight shining right in our faces at the crack of dawn on a weekend! That’s when normal people are still fast asleep, dreaming of a lazy lie-in, and here we are, me and Will, stumbling around the house because Mum’s decided sunrise is the perfect time for a deep clean, a full roast, and a heart-to-heart. Don’t get me wrong, I love her to bits, but some days I just want to dive under the duvet and pretend I can’t hear her chirpy, “Emily, up you get, the day’s wasting!”
My mum’s a force of nature. Twenty years she spent abroad, scrubbing floors in Parisian offices, caring for elderly ladies in Barcelona, sending every spare penny back so me and my brother could have proper schooling and decent clothes. I’ve always been proud of her, even though I missed her terribly. A year ago, she came back—suitcase packed with stories, a habit of rising with the larks, and enough energy to power a small village. Will and I insisted she live with us in our house, so she could finally take it easy. But “taking it easy” to Margaret Thompson seems to be a myth. She only rests when she’s asleep, and from the looks of it, she barely sleeps three hours a night.
That Saturday, all I wanted was a lie-in. Work had been brutal that week, and I was desperate for a slow morning—coffee in silence, maybe a bit of telly. But at half five, I heard clattering from the kitchen and then Mum’s voice: “Emily, Will, rise and shine! I’ve got pastry rolled for pies, come and help!” I cracked one eye open, glanced at Will—he was face-down in his pillow, groaning, “Em, your mum’s going to be the death of us.” I whispered back, “Just hang in there, she’s my mum,” but inside, I was bracing for another whirlwind.
We shuffled downstairs to absolute chaos. Mum, in her floral apron, was kneading dough, the roast was bubbling away, and the table was covered in chopped veg for stuffing. “Mum,” I said, “why so early? We could’ve done pies at lunch!” She didn’t even look up: “Emily, morning’s when the magic happens! You lot sleep your lives away!” Magic? At half five? Will, ever the diplomat, offered, “Margaret, how about I put the kettle on?” But Mum just waved him off: “Tea can wait, Will, d’you know how to peel potatoes?” Poor bloke, who’d only ever seen potatoes pre-bagged at Tesco, just nodded and got to work.
I adore Mum’s energy, but good grief, it’s exhausting. Cooking with her isn’t cooking—it’s a military operation. In an hour, we’d prepped enough veg to feed an army, rolled out a second batch of pastry, and fried up sausages because, “What’s a roast without proper bangers?” Will tried to slip away, muttering something about checking emails, but Mum caught him: “Will, scrub that roasting tin, Emily won’t manage it alone!” I shot him a look—he was definitely regretting not faking a lie-in.
As we worked, Mum rattled off stories from her years abroad—how she picked up French just to argue with her boss, how she baked scones for her Spanish neighbours, how much she missed us. I listened, heart full, but part of me was screaming, *Mum, why can’t you just sleep in?* I tried hinting: “Maybe next Saturday we could push it to seven?” She just laughed. “Seven? That’s practically lunchtime!” Lunchtime? The sun’s barely up!
By noon, the kitchen gleamed, pies were golden in the oven, the house smelled like Sunday dinner, and me and Will looked like we’d run a marathon. Mum, fresh as a daisy, plonked plates in front of us. “There you go, loves—proper home cooking. Eat up before it goes cold.” And I’ll admit, that roast was heavenly. Will muttered, “Your mum’s a tank, but she cooks like she owns a Michelin star.” I giggled, but deep down, I knew—Mum’s this way because she fought her whole life, worked herself to the bone. Now she wants us to live the same way—full throttle, even if it starts at half five.
I moaned to my mate about it later, and she just laughed. “Em, she’s a gem! She’s teaching you to live proper.” Teaching? Maybe. But I still dream of a Saturday where me and Will wake up to silence, no Mum shouting, “Up you get!” I even tried negotiating: “Mum, what if we do Sundays for baking and Saturdays for sleep?” She shook her head. “Sundays are for the garden, love!” The garden? Will nearly spat out his tea.
So now I’m learning to balance—love for Mum and saving my sanity. She’s my sunshine, my absolute hero, but sometimes that sunshine’s a bit blinding. I’m grateful for everything, for her roast, for her relentless spirit. But I haven’t given up on one peaceful Saturday. For now, I just grab a fork, tuck in, and think—maybe there *is* something special about half five in the morning. I just haven’t found it yet.
