I timed it once, out of morbid curiosity. Twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes to get a three-year-old into a t-shirt, leggings, and socks. The actual physical act of dressing takes maybe ninety seconds. The other twenty-three and a half were negotiation, chasing, and one incident where she hid under the dining table wearing nothing but one sock.

Mornings used to go like this: I’d hold up a shirt, she’d say no. I’d hold up a different shirt, she’d say no. I’d pick the first shirt again and she’d scream like I’d suggested something obscene. Then she’d run. There was always running.

My first fix attempt was a flop of impressive proportions: bribery. “If you get dressed, you can watch a cartoon.” She agreed immediately — great! — then sat on the floor in her pyjamas watching the cartoon. When I pointed out the deal, she said, “After this one.” There is always another one. I had negotiated myself into a corner with a toddler and lost.

My second flop: letting her choose her outfit the night before. In theory, brilliant — she picks, no morning debate. In practice, the 7pm child and the 7am child are two different people. “I don’t LIKE the dinosaur shirt anymore!” she announced, as if the dinosaur shirt had personally betrayed her overnight.

What finally worked was three small things, and none of them is magic on its own.

One: two real choices, both acceptable to me. Not “what do you want to wear” — that’s thirty options and a meltdown. “Red shirt or blue shirt?” Both are clean, both suit the weather, I genuinely don’t care which. She gets control, I get a dressed child. Everybody wins.

Two: silly games. The shirt is a tunnel and her head is the train — “choo choo!” Pants are a rocket and each leg is a countdown — “three, two, one, blast off!” Socks go on the hands first as puppets who are very confused about where they live. Is it dignified? No. Does it work? Almost every time. A giggling toddler cannot simultaneously wage a clothing war.

Three: clothes laid out the night before — but I pick the two options, not her. Removes one decision from the morning entirely.

We’re down to about six minutes now, and most of that is the sock puppets demanding an encore.

Shoes, I’ll admit, are a separate war and I have not won it. She can put on her own wellies — has done it since she was two — but asks me to do her trainers every single morning, then critiques my technique. “Too tight. Too loose. The tongue is weird.” I’ve started leaving five minutes just for shoe negotiations. Some battles you win, some you schedule around.

One more thing that helped more than I expected: on nursery days, she sleeps in tomorrow’s leggings. I know, I know — but a clean pair of leggings as pyjamas hurts nobody, and it removes one entire garment from the morning battlefield. Pick your battles, and pick fewer of them.