Before we had children, my wife and I could decide to go somewhere and be out of the front door in about ten minutes.
Fancy a walk?
Sure.
Coat on. Keys. Wallet. Done.
Now? We can start getting ready at 9am for a trip to the garden centre and somehow still be pulling off the drive just before lunch.
It’s not that we’re particularly disorganised. It’s just that leaving the house with children is no longer a simple task. It’s an event. A carefully choreographed production where every family member has a starring role, whether they want one or not.
And no matter how many weekends you do it, it never seems to get any quicker.
It Always Starts So Innocently
The conversation is always the same.
“Shall we go out somewhere?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
“We’ll leave in about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes.
It’s a lovely idea. Optimistic. Hopeful.
Completely detached from reality.
Someone Needs a Shower
Usually both adults do.
One disappears upstairs, leaving the other in charge downstairs.
Within seconds, one child wants a snack, the other needs help finding a toy they haven’t looked at for three weeks, and the dog has decided now is the perfect time to bark at absolutely nothing.
The person in the shower emerges feeling refreshed.
The person left downstairs looks like they’ve done a full shift.
Children Have Their Own Timetable
Adults understand the concept of getting ready.
Children… not so much.
The moment you say, “We’re going out,” they suddenly remember every single thing they’ve ever wanted to do.
Can we build some Lego first?
Can I finish this drawing?
Can you watch me do a handstand?
Can I just show you something?
Each request only takes a minute. Unfortunately, there are about thirty of them.
Everyone Is Suddenly Hungry
Nobody wanted food five minutes ago.
Breakfast was apparently more than enough.
Then somebody mentions putting shoes on, and suddenly it’s as if the family hasn’t eaten for days.
“I’m starving.”
“I need a snack.”
“Can I have a banana?”
You hand over the banana.
They take two bites.
The rest somehow ends up in the footwell of the car.
Where Have the Shoes Gone?
This is the stage that genuinely baffles me.
How can shoes disappear inside a house?
You don’t own that many rooms.
They were definitely by the front door yesterday.
Yet one trainer has vanished into another dimension.
The search begins.
Eventually they’re found under the sofa, in the toy box or, on one memorable occasion, in the bathroom.
Nobody knows why.
Just One More Toilet Trip
At this point, everyone is finally dressed.
Coats are on.
Bags are packed.
The front door is actually open.
Then somebody says the words every parent expects.
“I need a wee.”
Fine.
They disappear upstairs.
Their sibling suddenly decides they should probably go too.
Then one of the adults thinks, “Actually…”
Five more minutes disappear.
Packing for Every Possible Emergency
Leaving the house used to involve grabbing your keys.
Now it feels like preparing for an Arctic expedition.
Water bottles.
Snacks.
Wipes.
Spare clothes.
Sun cream.
Raincoats.
Favourite teddy.
That random toy dinosaur which apparently cannot be left at home under any circumstances.
The irony is you’ll probably only be gone for an hour.
One Parent Is Always Waiting
Every family seems to have one.
They’re standing by the front door with the keys, convinced everyone else is ready.
They’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes already.
The other parent is still checking nobody needs another drink, another snack or another emergency visit to the toilet.
Neither is wrong.
It’s just the natural order of family life.
Eventually, somehow, everyone makes it into the car.
Seatbelts are fastened.
Engine started.
You exchange a look that says, “We actually did it.”
Then, from the back seat, comes the inevitable voice.
“I forgot my water bottle.”
Or…
“I’ve left Teddy inside.”
Or my personal favourite…
“I need a poo.”
Somehow, It’s Worth It
The funny thing is, if you’d asked me ten years ago why parents always seemed late or why it took them so long to go anywhere, I’d probably have assumed they just weren’t very organised.
Now I know the truth.
It’s not one big delay.
It’s fifty tiny ones.
It’s answering questions, tying shoelaces, finding missing socks, cutting apples into exactly the right number of slices and making sure everyone’s actually happy to leave the house in the first place.
Individually, they barely register.
Together, they somehow turn twenty minutes into two hours.
And despite all that, once you’re finally out—whether it’s the park, the garden centre, the beach or just a trip to B&Q—you usually forget about the chaos that got you there.
Until Sunday morning, when someone cheerfully says, “Shall we pop out for a bit?”
“Yeah,” you reply.
“We’ll leave in twenty minutes.”