Cork mum: 'I decided to become the most organised human...life had other plans'

Friday morning

On Thursday evening, I decided to become the most organised human being who had ever lived. Not just organised. Future-me organised.

You know the type, the person who lovingly prepares life for their future self like a thoughtful gift. Thursday night me was absolutely thriving. Friday morning was going to be seamless. Effortless. Elegant, even.

Everything was prepped. Everything. Lunches packed. School bags ready. Uniforms washed and folded. Water bottles filled. Coffee cup ready to go. Even the effervescent Vitamin C tablet was sitting in the glass waiting to be heroically dissolved the next morning.

Honestly, if I could have eaten breakfast with the kids the night before to save time, I would have. If I could have slept in my work clothes, with my lanyard around my neck, I probably would have done that too. That was the level of organisation we were dealing with.

Future me was going to glide through Friday morning like a calm, capable woman who definitely has her life together.

At 5.45am the alarm went off. Up I got. Pilates done. Meditation done. Morning routine complete. Hair and make-up done and coffee made, Vitamin C dramatically fizzing away like I was starring in a health supplement ad.

The children were organised. Breakfast was ready. Bags were packed. Shoes were by the door. Everything was moving like a military operation.

I walked into work that morning feeling quietly smug. You know that feeling when you think: Yes, I have absolutely nailed this. I had drinks with me. Coffee. Water bottle. Everything is perfectly organised. Except for one tiny detail. My lunch. My own lunch. Which was sitting at home on the kitchen counter. Naturally. Because of course it was.

Later that morning, the caretaker and the secretary appeared at my door holding it like a piece of lost property. “Mommy forgot her lunch,” they announced. Nothing brings you back down to earth faster than being publicly exposed as the only person in the building who packed everyone else’s lunch except their own. But I decided not to let that derail me. No. I was staying organised. I was doubling down. Because the following morning, Saturday was going to require military-level preparation.

Saturday morning

Saturday morning meant a 9am football match in Bishopstown. Which, for anyone who lives in Cork, means leaving the house at a time that feels personally offensive on a Saturday.

About 45 minutes of driving. And that wasn’t even the end of it. Straight after that match we had another with another child. Which meant one thing. Food. Not the usual handful of random snacks. Proper food. Because if you arrive at a second match with hungry children and nothing but a bruised apple and a packet of half-eaten crackers, the meltdown will be biblical.

So Friday night I went into full preparation mode. Lunch boxes. Thermos. Chicken goujons. Extra snacks. Extra snacks for the extra snacks. A few emergency treats in case morale dropped dramatically halfway through the day. Because if you stop at the shop beside the pitch for “just one thing”, you will leave €30 poorer with a bag full of items nobody actually wanted.

I packed it all. Drinks. Energy drinks (even though I disagree with them, but today I just needed to keep the peace). Fruit. Everything carefully stacked into the car. Future me was once again going to be thriving.

And then there are the mouthguards. Nothing, and I mean nothing, causes more chaos in my house than mouthguards. They are the small rubber objects that will eventually be the death of me.

It doesn’t matter how many we own. We have dozens. There are mouthguards in the boot of the car. Mouthguards in the kitchen drawer. Mouthguards in sports bags. Mouthguards that I have personally hidden in safe places so they can never be lost again. And yet, five minutes before leaving the house, someone will shout: “MUM, WHERE IS MY MOUTHGUARD?” At this point, I genuinely believe mouthguards evaporate. Or migrate. Or develop legs and quietly leave the house during the night.

And the funny thing is, they hardly even use them properly. They chew them. They wave them around in their hands. They take them out halfway through a match like they’re a piece of chewing gum. But the moment one disappears, it becomes the single most important item in the entire house.

There have been moments where I genuinely thought: This. This is the thing that might finally push me over the edge. But even in the middle of the chaos, it’s funny. Because for the rest of my life I will probably see a mouthguard and immediately feel a tiny wave of panic.

And the other mornings

Of course, the universe always throws in a few bonus surprises. Like the morning you’ve washed the school uniform and it’s perfectly spotless… and then someone decides they want baked beans for breakfast. Beans. Everywhere. All over the top.

At that point you just stare at it and think: The teacher is absolutely judging me today.

Or World Book Day. Three weeks preparing a costume. Perfect outfit. Accessories ready. Everything immaculate. And that morning: “I don’t want to dress up.” Fantastic.

Or the dog deciding your child’s brand new Converse runners look like an excellent snack and leaving them half-chewed in the garden.

Or the moment you reach the door and realise the ‘packed lunch’ your child insisted on making themselves is basically an entire box of snacks. At that point, you just have to accept the teacher will see that lunchbox and think: Ah yes. A woman who has completely given up.

But the funny thing is, in the middle of all of it there are moments when it actually works. Everyone fed. Everyone dressed. Lunches packed. Mouthguards located. You arrive at the pitch on time. And for about five minutes you feel like the most organised parent in the world. Then someone loses a sock. Or spills a drink. Or remembers something they forgot. But that’s life, isn’t it? You plan. You organise. You prepare everything perfectly. And then life laughs gently and throws baked beans at your plans.

Sometimes, I think about the day when the kids are grown and gone. No socks flying across the kitchen. No frantic searches for missing boots. No early-morning matches. Just silence. A clean kitchen. A calm house. And I suspect after about two days of that I’ll sit there with my cup of tea and think: God, this is boring.

Because as chaotic and exhausting as it is, this madness is also the thing that makes life feel alive. The noise. The rushing. The disappearing mouthguards. The thermos of chicken goujons. The early mornings and muddy pitches. One day it will all stop. And strangely enough, I think I’ll miss every single ridiculous minute of it.

Even the mouthguards. Well....Maybe not the mouthguards.