I hate Friday mornings. It’s one of those days where I set myself up for a fall, duty bound to deliver on all the promises of bribery that have got me through the week. This morning was no different, but it was a good reminder that real life isn’t a showreel – and there are a thousand lies behind every perfect Instagram photo.
Today, pancakes were my undoing. They’ve inadvertantly become a Friday morning tradition, waved like a carrot throughout the week as encouragement of what my kids will get if they’re good. “If you put your shoes on quickly we can have pancakes for breakfast on Friday” etc.
If you were to catch me on a good day I’d probably say pancakes were a lovely breakfast to enjoy together, and I’d take a photo for Instagram with some artfully arranged strawberries on a plate and my kids happily eating them. Catch me on a bad day though and I’ll tell you they’re messy to make, create loads of washing up, and I only do them because I’m a glutton for punishment and feel like I should because all happy mums make pancakes, don’t they?
Those sodding pancakes were the catalyst for a bad morning all round.
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