**Mum’s Morning at 5:30**
Last Saturday, Simon and I—that’s my husband—were jolted awake at half past five as if we’d been zapped. All because of my dear mum, Margaret Whittaker, who spent twenty years working back and forth in France and Italy, only to return home and become a human alarm clock, shining right in my face at the crack of dawn on a weekend! That’s when decent folk are still asleep, dreaming of their day off, yet there we were, stumbling around the house because Mum decided dawn was the perfect time for a deep clean, a full fry-up, and a heart-to-heart. I love her, truly, but some days I just want to burrow under the duvet and pretend I can’t hear her chirpy, “Emily, up you get—the day’s wasting!”
My mum is a force of nature. Two decades she spent abroad, scrubbing floors in Parisian offices, caring for elderly ladies in Rome, sending money home for me and my brother’s schooling and clothes. I’ve always been proud of her, even when I missed her terribly. A year ago, she came back—suitcase packed with stories, a habit of rising with the larks, and energy enough for five people. Simon and I invited her to stay with us in our little house so she could finally rest. But rest, for Margaret Whittaker, seems to be a myth. She only recharges when she’s asleep, and even then, I reckon she only clocks a few hours a night.
That Saturday, I’d dreamed of a lie-in. The workweek had been brutal—all I wanted was to laze in bed, sip coffee in peace, maybe binge a show. But at 5:30 sharp, the clatter of pans echoed from the kitchen, followed by Mum’s voice: “Emily, Simon, up you jump! I’ve kneaded dough for pasties—come and help!” I cracked one eye open and caught Simon face-down in his pillow, groaning, “Em, your mum’s going to be the death of us.” I whispered back, “Hang in there—she’s family.” But inside, I was already bracing for another whirlwind morning.
Downstairs, chaos reigned. Mum, in her floral pinny, was rolling pastry, the fry-up sizzled on the stove, and a bowl of diced potatoes sat waiting. “Mum,” I tried, “why this early? Couldn’t we do pasties at lunch?” She didn’t look up. “Emily, mornings are golden! You’re missing life while you snooze!” Life? At 5:30? Simon, ever the diplomat, offered, “Margaret, fancy a cuppa?” But she waved him off. “Tea later, Simon—can you peel these spuds?” My poor husband, who’d only ever seen potatoes pre-bagged, picked up the peeler like a man sentenced.
I adore Mum’s spirit, but sometimes it drains me. Cooking isn’t just cooking—it’s a military operation. In an hour, we’d prepped three kilos of potatoes, rolled out another batch of pastry, and fried sausages because “a fry-up isn’t proper without them.” Simon tried sneaking off to “check emails,” but Mum intercepted him: “Simon, scrub that pan—Emily can’t manage alone!” I shot him a sympathetic look—he was clearly regretting not feigning illness.
As we worked, Mum spun tales of her years abroad—how she learned French just to argue with her boss, how she’d baked scones for Italian neighbours, how she ached for home. Listening, I felt warmth bloom in my chest, even as I thought, *Mum, why can’t you just sleep in?* I ventured, “Maybe next Saturday we could aim for eight?” She just laughed. “Emily, by eight o’clock, half the day’s gone!” Gone? It hadn’t even started!
By noon, the kitchen gleamed, pasties crisped in the oven, bacon perfumed the air, and Simon and I looked like marathon survivors. Mum, bright as a button, plonked full plates before us. “There, my dears—*this* is living! Eat up before it cools.” And as we did, I had to admit: the fry-up was glorious. Simon muttered, “Em, your mum’s a tank, but she cooks like a Michelin chef.” I giggled, but deeper down, I knew: Mum’s like this because she fought, worked, survived for us. Now she wants us to live just as fiercely—even if it starts at 5:30.
I moaned to my best friend later. She snorted. “Em, she’s a treasure! She’s teaching you to seize the day.” Teaching? Maybe. But I still dream of a Saturday where Simon and I wake to silence, no Mum hollering, “The sun’s up—so should you be!” I even tried bargaining: “Mum, what if we bake on Sundays and sleep Saturdays?” She tutted. “Emily, Sundays are for the garden!” Garden? Simon nearly spat out his tea.
Now I’m learning to balance love for Mum with sanity preservation. She’s my sunshine, my hero—but sometimes that sun’s a bit too *blazing*. I’m grateful for everything—her sacrifices, her cooking, her boundless spark. But I’ll keep lobbying for one slow Saturday. For now, I just pick up my fork, taste her food, and wonder: maybe dawn *does* hold magic? I just haven’t spotted it yet.
