"Shoes on, coat on!"

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Every day and every time we leave the house, these are the words that my wife and I find ourselves saying, often in a raised voice and always - without fail - repeated at least six times;

"PUT...YOUR...SHOES...AND....COATS....ON!"

It's a simple ask. I'm not requesting that my children craft their own shoes from whatever they can find in the recycling bin, nor am I asking them to sew together a homemade parker. These are the very basic elements required for a trip outdoors in the cold, be it to school, the shops or wherever we're next due to taxi them.

Shoe dunnit?

However, for my children, locating aforementioned items and attaching them to their person is like assigning a body of work to Ethan Hunt! It's also, for them, the hardest thing they have ever been asked to do, every time.

The protestations are endless, as if shoes are an optional, luxury item - the feet equivalent of earrings - that require marathon levels of physical exertion to put on. As for coats, they manage to find new ways not to wear, or to half wear, their coats every day. One arm in, one out; tied around the waist; half hanging down the back; hood only, cape-style or on, but entirely open to the howling gale and torrential rain that greets them as they step out of the door.

Procrastination also reaches new records whenever the time comes to don shoes and coats. The toilet is suddenly and urgently needed; brushing of teeth is remembered; socks need to be found (an entirely separate blog post required here) or truly fascinating dirt has to be played with. Anything to put off the practice of covering ones feet and torso for the outdoors.

It's a battle that drains my soul on a daily basis as no matter how much time is left to get out of the front door, it is never enough. The protracted shoe/coat drama has made us late more times than I care to remember, and it's turned me into a liar too.

Truth: "So sorry we're late, William took 15 minutes to put one shoe on and Molly threw her coat on the pavement."

Inevitable lie: "Traffic!"

So I feel it's time for an experiment. Starting tomorrow I am no longer going to say the words; "shoes and coats on." I am not going to remind, nag, shout or otherwise lose my rag, and we will leave the house on time, whatever state of dress my children are in. If that means going to school in slippers, or facing the next winter storm in a t-shirt, so be it.

I'm taking a stand for all similarly anguished parents. The drama stops here.

Now, where did I put my coat?

The joy, and pain, of Junior ParkRun

There is something fundamentally wrong about setting an alarm on a Sunday morning. Like wearing your pyjamas to work or serving beans on toast for Christmas lunch, it's just not something that civilised folk should ever have to do. Yet I find myself awoken by the unwelcome chimes of our Echo Dot each and every Sabbath as my family and I undergo a painful weekly ritual, otherwise known as getting ourselves to Junior ParkRun.

Children and hangovers at Junior ParkRun

For those moon dwellers unfamiliar with the concept of Junior ParkRun, these are free, weekly, timed runs of two kilometres, for children. Taking place in parks across the country - and sometimes alongside adult ParkRun events - they embody all that is good about the sport of running. Organised, run and marshalled by thousands of selfless volunteers, Junior ParkRun events bring parents and children together to enjoy the uplifting experience of a mass participation race; running together as a family and as part of a large group of like-minded families; embracing the opportunity to be outdoors and instilling a love for exercise from an early age. It is entirely good and entirely worthy. The issue is that it starts at 9am on a Sunday.

In our house, Sunday mornings are a battle. For starters, no one wants to get up and the alarm is routinely ignored until the last possible moment. This is immediately followed by intense 'I don't want to go' debates with children who are glued to Saturday morning television, rushed breakfasts, lost running kit, disappearing car keys and the weekly search for barcodes. The day of rest, in short, kicks off with the most stressful 45 minutes of the week.

Somehow we find ourselves in the car and arrive at the park with around 30 seconds of breathing space before the warmup begins. A quick glance around the assembled parents, however, provides comforting reassurance that we have not faced this battle alone. Every degree of hangover is present and the mismatched kit, unkempt hair and washed out faces are evidence of a single unifying fact that is common to us all; we are here for them, not us.

I feel the same, although I usually always follow Junior ParkRun with my own Sunday long run, which means I turn up looking spectacularly overdressed for the two kilometre race that lies ahead. Running tights, trail shoes and a water bladder with a couple of energy gels protruding from it, makes me the most over prepared parent here. The puzzled looks from those still half-asleep folk in jeans and odd shoes only confirms the fact. Rest assured though, should any of the youngsters need a pick-me-up a kilometre in, I'll be on hand with an intense carbohydrate hit for them!

The pain of the wake up call and the fight to get to the start line is, of course, completely forgotten once the race itself gets underway. Running with your children is a joyous experience. Whether they're pushing for a new PB or just happy to get around, the fact that you are there with them, experiencing a competitive race together, is fantastically special. It never fails to bring my little family closer together and the finish line - with proud parents cuddling contented, rosy-cheeked children - is one of the happiest places on earth.

It's also all over within 20 minutes, so you're all back in the car before you know it, smugly content that you have started the day with a healthy dose of exercise and - if you're like us - contemplating breakfast number two.

No one ever regrets getting up for Junior ParkRun. So fight the Sunday morning battle, it's worth it.