Quite frankly, it’s a miracle that you’re getting to read this article at all. I’ve just returned from this morning’s school run, and my brain already feels like it’s been pummelled with a cricket bat. It wasn’t a particularly difficult day – the big obstacle was removing a giant gluey bogey, conservatively the size of a golf ball, from the inside of a child’s nostril – so this might not seem like a big undertaking.

But, seriously, you try getting a five-year-old and a seven-year-old dressed and washed and groomed and brushed and out of the door by quarter past eight in the morning. It is impossible. I feel like I’ve spent the last three hours trying to wrestle a jellyfish into a thimble. And if you’ve got kids, chances are you do too.

A recent study of 1,000 parents has revealed that it takes an average of 40 minutes just to get children out of the door. Two thirds of an hour just to leave the house. That’s four and a half hours a week. It’s 18 hours a month. This means that, over the course of a year, we will spend nine full days screaming at our children – the people that we love more than anyone else alive – because they still can’t put their poxy shoes on properly.

This isn’t who I want to be. I always thought I’d be one of those cool dads, who could breeze through the day happily repelling all forms of external trouble. But I’m not.

I spent this morning, like I spend most mornings, standing by my front door flushed with stress, yelling: “SHOES! SHOES! SHOES! HAVE YOU BEEN TO THE TOILET? WHY DIDN’T I HEAR IT FLUSH? YOU’VE GOT THEM ON THE WRONG FEET. WHERE ARE YOUR WATER BOTTLES? HURRY HURRY! STOP MOVING YOUR HEAD AROUND WHEN I’M TRYING TO BRUSH YOUR HAIR! THEY’RE STILL ON THE WRONG FEET! READING BOOKS! COATS! SHOES! COME ON!” like a cross between a sergeant major in over his head and a prematurely aged festival drug dealer. It’s exhausting. No wonder I’ve gone bald.

And the worst thing is, this is the best time of the year for getting kids out of the house. A few weeks ago, getting through the front door meant applying sun cream in the hallway, which easily added tens of minutes to the routine. In another few weeks we’ll have gloves to contend with, which – and I’m not even slightly exaggerating here – fills me with non-stop, abject, pitch black despair.

In a just universe there would be a televised talent show about getting all of your childrens’ fingers into all the correct parts of a glove, and the winner would get full control of Planet Earth because it meant that they were the most impressive person alive. Right now, though, it isn’t even coat weather. This is as good as it gets, and it’s still punishing.

But, look, nothing is insurmountable. Yes, it’s stressful to leave the house with children at a set time, but I’ve found the best course of action is to cut as many corners as you’re comfortable with. Have my children ever turned up at school with smears of chocolate spread around their faces? Yes. Have their socks ever matched? No. Have I ever had to let them pee in a bush on the way there? Of course. And it doesn’t matter. The kids get to school happy and on time, and that’s the main thing.

Plus, I’ve seen the state of the school gates. Of all the hundreds of kids at my children’s school, there is only one child who arrives every day looking pristine, and he is an only child, and his mother permanently looks one small surprise away from a coronary.

And at least they’re not babies. You don’t need to pack an entire suitcase to cover every conceivable eventuality any more. They’re not going to run out of food on the way to school. They’re not going to crap all over the inside of their uniform, or be sick, or just burst into tears for no reason. So this is progress.

Yes, we’re losing 40 minutes a day to leaving the house, but five years from now it’ll be down to 20. And in ten years, god willing, they might actually be able to put their shoes on without asking for help. One can dream, at least.

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