(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)
In the new life, take the time it normally takes to do a task, and multiply it by five. Maybe ten.
I shovel cereal and fruit puree into Sam’s little mouth, and leave him on the couch sucking down one last bottle of formula. It gives me enough time to drain my coffee and eat a near-expired breakfast bar.
I change his nappy. It’s only wet today, so the morning poo hasn’t come yet. I decide to risk it and put on a fresh nappy, then coax his wriggling limbs into a singlet, pants, shirt, jumper, socks, shoes, and a tiny jacket with Bob the Builder on it.
I check the pram. I make sure the tool kit is secure, I have enough cotton shopping bags, and some freshly loaded magazines for the rifle.
I comfort the boy. Ten minutes on the couch cuddling Sam after he bangs his head on the coffee table chasing his train. I pretend my hand is possessed by a tickling monster, and we spend another fifteen minutes chasing each other around the house with tickles.
His pants are wet. Forgot to check his peenie was point the right way when I put on his nappy. I change the nappy and his pants.
I put on yesterdays clothes and I hear him grunting in the corridor. The morning poo has arrived.
I clean him up. I change his nappy.
We are in front of the door. He is in his chariot. My hand is on the latch.