A typical morning, in a typical home, that harbours a typical teenager of any gender. Translated for the parents of offspring who became teenagers while they weren’t looking, or for those whose au pair had an unexpected day off.

Yes, I use ‘Mother’ because… come on, you know why.

Eeerghh! Nah! Mother, dear, why are you waking me from my slumber at this ungodly hour? Can you not see that the sun has not yet risen, fully? Can you not understand that a callow youth such as I requires much more sleep than you allow?

Wot? Wot! Wot now? Dearest Mother, I did hear your dulcet call the first time. As much as I thrill to the sound of your perfect pitch I ask you for a little patience, please, while I gather my strength to raise my eyelids and then my body from this warm bed.

Awright, awright! Comin! Darling Mother, how I appreciate your noble efforts to help me extricate myself from these chainlike bedclothes in order to arrive at my place of learning on time. I am, as I speak, doing my utmost to obey your sweet, albeit unnecessarily repeated, commands.

Wot s’is? Oh, look, Mummy! You have provided seven boxes of different healthful breakfast cereal. How lovely of you to put them out so neatly, and in alphabetical order no less, next to a waiting bowl and spoon. Though there appears to have been an accidental oversight on your part. You seem to have forgotten to provide the Get-A-Load-Of-Suga-Choca Puffs that I’m so very fond of.

Wotsit to you? Sweet, caring Mater, it’s so like you to take such an interest in my education. Unfortunately, due to the fact that I’m a bit of a fluff-head in the mornings – no doubt brought on by the said ungodly hour of wakening – I’m quite unable to bring forth to my mind today’s lesson schedule. And yes you are so correct, again – I have not completed my homework, it being mislaid about my room.

Where m’clothes? Honoured female keeper of my body, soul and sartorial items, did you, by any chance, wash the jeans that I left screwed up under my bed? As you are well aware, I often have memory lapses – surely, again brought on by twice-said ungodly hour of wakening – that results in me being quite unaware of the existence of the laundry basket, let alone its geography.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Beautiful Mother of all bus timetables, I thank the Good Lord that you are here to remind me, every one hundred and twenty seconds, that I might miss the transport to my educational establishment if I don’t chivvy along.

Bye, Mum. I love you. Bye, Mum. I love you.


About the author: Helen Kreeger was born and raised in London, but has lived elsewhere for many years. She is woefully absent on social media but has been published in Blunt Moms (USA), ARC 25, 26 and 27 (Israel), Writing District, (UK), Café Aphra (USA), Scrittura Lit Mag (UK), Free Flash Fiction, With Painted Words (UK), and Café Lit (UK).


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