Ruth Walker: They disappear out the door, leaving a trail of toast crusts, socks, pyjamas, wet towels and books in their wake

FRIENDS often moan to me about the terrible morning they've had. "I had to cut my run short at the gym, I have soooo much to do." Of course, I'm a good mate, so I nod sagely and sympathise, but inside I'm a mass of seething rage. "Do you know what I've had to do this morning?" I want to yell. "You think you're busy? Try my life!" And so, for their benefit, and yours, here's a little taster of an average morning at Walker Towers.

The first alarm goes off at 6am. This is the Teenager, who likes a leisurely shower without any hammering at the door, followed by lengthy preening, catching up on any recorded episodes of Glee and, if she still has time, completing the homework that should have been submitted by last Monday.

I lie awake waiting for the tell-tale sounds of consciousness in other rooms. Silence.

The next alarm goes off at 6.30am. This is for the Mild One, who needs to get up for his paper round. But all I can hear are the insistent dulcet tones of Forth One coming from his clock-radio.

I eventually crawl out of bed at 7am and rouse both still-slumbering lumps before sorting out a load of washing. This is dumped in the machine, then the kettle is filled and I wash the previous night's dishes.

I go back upstairs to wake the Wild One. And the Mild One, who has gone back to sleep. At this moment, I'd like to have my shower, but the Teenager has taken up residence.

After eventually making his way downstairs, the Mild One slumps past like a hooded spectre to start his paper round, and I manage a sip of tea before the Wild One also appears, enshrouded in his Snuggie (that's the fleecy blanket with sleeves that everyone in the office roundly mocked as an aberration, but which proved this year's hit Christmas present). He demands a fried breakfast.

While the sausages are grilling, egg scrambling and baked beans bubbling, I rummage through my purse in search of lunch money, put away the by-now-dry dishes, empty the washing machine, hang up the wet clothes and sort out the items for recycling.

The Mild One returns from his paper round. I ask if he wants breakfast. Silence. I repeat the question, then realise his headphones are on (at least, I think they are; his hair's so long now it's hard to tell).

I try another gulp of tea but it has gone cold, so head for the shower instead. But the Mild One has got there first. I put the kettle on again and catch the news headlines.

A blood-curdling scream from upstairs is followed by a whirlwind of hormones as the Mild One attempts to wrestle 'his' shirt and trousers from his brother. I act as referee. All ends peacefully, and both boys, miraculously, wind up with a full complement of school uniform.

"Where's my tie?"

"I can't find my homework?"

"The Wild One spat toothpaste at me."

"What's happened to my school shoes? I left them at the bottom of the stairs last night."

"Where's my lunch money?"

"Is that all I'm getting?"

Then, as if by some act of God, they all disappear out the door by approximately 8.25am, leaving a trail of toast crusts, discarded socks, pyjamas, wet towels and forgotten school books in their wake. Meanwhile, the television is blaring Sky Sports News.

The 8.25am school run was recently named as the most stressful time in a modern mother's day. But for me, 8.25am is the moment I breathe a sigh of relief, put the kettle on again and head for the shower.

Then the phone rings. Still dripping, I rush downstairs to answer. It's the Wild One. He has forgotten his football kit for the team photo. Can I drop it off at school? Then I get a text. It's the Teenager. She has forgotten her French essay. Can I drop it off?

So, next time you think your day has got off to a bad start, spare a thought for me: I'll be having the mother of all mornings.

• This article was first published in Scotland on Sunday on 07 February 2010