Good bloody morning.

When? When will it end? These hideous early mornings. Four and a half years now and still our children rise well before 6am. Everyone said it was a phase. They'll grow out of it. Just wait till they're teenagers. Well bring on the bloody teens is what I say.

The problem, I've realised, is my husband. He has defective genes that means he naturally wakes at about 4am. He appears to have passed those genes onto our children. And I know I've ranted about this before and the solution is obvious -if he's up, he can deal with the children.

BUT, during the week, husband gets up early and hops on a train to London, going to a gym before starting his working day. Well done him. However, that leaves me to deal with the beastie boys.

I'll be fast asleep and hear the plodding of small feet. They always go to their father's side of the bed first because they know they're less likely to lose a limb that way. On seeing their father's empty bed, they immediately say: 'Is it morning? Can we go downstairs? Is daddy here?' On the mornings that husband hasn't gone into work early, I happily mumble: 'Daddy down, go.' And off they trot, ready to share the dawn with their dad. (I realise that this causes inconsistency and lets the children believe that it's ok to get up that early, but as a parent, you take the path of least resistance particularly if it means additional sleep.)

But should daddy already be hurtling towards the big city on First Great Western, the situation doesn't work out quite as well. In reply to the 'Can we go downstairs?' question, I mumble: 'No, snotmorningyet, getinmybedkeepquietandstill.' They crawl in and for about 5 seconds we have a lovely cuddle. And then the wriggling/inane questions/verbal diarrhea starts. 'Mummy, why don't dogs have wings?' 'Mummy, I'm not going to pre-school because I don't like my friends.' 'Mummy, when can we get a pet?' 'Mummy, when can we go to Disneyland?' 'Where's daddy?' 'My pillow isn't comfy.' 'I need more room.'

(On the subject of needing more room, we have the world's biggest bed which we bought in the USA. And let's face it, most Americans need big beds. Well ours is called a Californian Super King. It is roughly the size of a small football field. We bought it because my husband is six foot five and I like personal space when sleeping. Yet despite the vast dimensions of our bed, our children are still able to force me onto a postage stamp size space while they starfish their way around the rest of it.)

Anyway, so the child is wriggling and talking and elbow jabbing and toenail raking itself into my bad books. And just when I think it can't get worse, plod plod plod plod plod, and in comes the next one.

So once again we have: 'Is it morning yet? Can we go downstairs? Where's daddy?' I then growl: 'Snotmorningyet.Getinliestilldon'ttalk.' So obviously that works because then their are two bored boys who think it's much more fun to burrow down to the bottom of the bed to make a tent with the duvet than actually sleep. No tent is complete without pillows so gradually all the pillows make their way down towards my feet, including the last square of the one I'm attempting to use and I have my head unceremoniously yanked upwards as they attempt to free it.

Then the fighting starts about who owns which pillow and who's got more space. Elbows fly. Toenails dig deeper. The rolling and yanking of covers reaches its zenith. I snap.

'GET OUT OF MY BED NOW! GET OUT! GET OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT!' At which point they both start to wail as I obviously look like some kind of insane she-devil with hair standing on end, yesterday's mascara not quite removed and a look of death lurking in my eyes. 'But we want to sleep,' they wail. 'WELL THEN BLOODYWELL SLEEP. THE NEXT PERSON WHO SO MUCH AS BREATHES TOO LOUDLY WILL BE LOCKED IN THEIR ROOM.'

Silence and stillness descends for about 3 seconds. Then the giggling starts. Then 'Mummy, the clock says six one five. Does that mean it's morning yet?' 'No. It's only morning when it says six three zero.' And so they start the count down. 'Mummy, the clock says six one six.' 'Mummy, the clock says six one seven.......' etc.

My day would be infinitely better if I just resigned myself to the fact that I am by this stage well and truly awake and got out of bed. But I fight on, determined to win this battle. Each minute by minute announcement ratchets up my bad mood by several notches until we finally reach the magical 6.30am and I huffily get out of bed. They tear off down the stairs all excited to finally be freed from the confines of bed before starting the fight about who's going to have the orange milk cup. I pee. Make coffee. And curse my husband and vow that from now on we will enforce the no milk or tv before 6.30am rule and that they will be trained to sleep/read books in their room until the alloted hour.

But I know it'll never happen. Not until they turn 16 anyway.

Morning has broken

My children have inherited their father's delightful tendency to wake up before the birds do. After 4 and a bit years, 5am starts are getting a little tired. However, I can't really complain because my husband has been the one getting up with them most mornings given he's normally awake anyway. In contrast, I am a growling, surly, thoroughly unpleasant creature who isn't likely to start smiling until the first cup of coffee is down the hatch.

This morning though, husband appears to want to sleep in. Youngest beastie was in our bed at 5am doing his extraordinarily annoying rolling-like-a-crocodile manoeuvre (think David Attenborough documentary on a crocodile grabbing its prey and then rolling over and over and over until the poor creature is thoroughly drowned - that's what this child does with the sheets, until we're all in an incredible tangle and are thoroughly bruised from elbow jabs.)

So succumbing to the inevitable, I got up telling the child that he will be given milk, the telly will be put on and then I'll be returning to bed. Except I forgot. We didn't have any milk. Obviously. So with a wailing child in the background, I pulled some clothes on and staggered out into the rain in search of something dairy-related.

And then an incredible thing happened. I remembered how much I love being up before the rest of the world. It's not something you'll ever appreciate if you stay inside. But the minute you open the door on a new day before anyone else has, you feel as though you have the planet to yourself. So despite getting soaked and having to drive all the way to the service station to get the sodding milk, it was lovely. I was there so early that the newspapers hadn't even arrived yet. And the M&S Food place which is always open was shut. My dreams of hot croissants for breakfast disappeared fast. Lack of croissants and newspapers would ordinarily have annoyed me. But at least I'd secured some milk. And I'd stolen a march on the rest of the world. I was the first customer of the day. For some crazy reason, this made me feel a bit victorious. Perhaps I just needed some coffee.

Anyway, I feel doubly smug at my early start because today is the longest day of the year and I feel as though I'm going to be getting my money's worth and see all of it. Hoorah! Now if only we could actually see the sun, all would be right with the world.

P.S. While typing this I failed to have eyes in the back of my head so didn't see the aforementioned child sucking on a painted pet rock. The paint apparently isn't very good at staying on the rock. So he now has paint all over his face, his PJs and his tummy. I don't really want to go into the room where this incident took place because I have a sneaking suspicion that my positive outlook will rapidly evaporate when I find paint all over the sofa. sigh. Bloody artwork.