When we went into lockdown we, along with a lot of other parents we know, took a deep breath and told ourselves we just had to get through it. If the kids weren’t too traumatised, hadn’t forgotten how to read and could still write by the time it was over, we’d consider it a win.
We just had to get through to the end of May and they’d be back at school, their education no longer our responsibility.
And then, of course, on Sunday Boris confirmed what we already suspected: that we were in this now, to all intents and purposes, until September.
In the early days I was on a serious rollercoaster of emotions - as this blog testifies. I was worried about home-schooling, impatient with the kids, frustrated by the claustrophobia, sad for our parents, angry that the government had moved so slowly that we had seemingly sleep-walked into a far worse situation than necessary….
But bit by bit most of those feelings have waned.
I am no longer worried about home-schooling - I think we’re getting by reasonably well. A for effort, B for attainment, C for attitude.
Much to my amazement I’m not as impatient with the kids anymore - whether it’s because we’ve all got used to the set up, whether my standards have lowered or whether I just know it’s not worth getting stressed about, I don't know. Don’t get me wrong, they’re still extraordinarily annoying but I’ve developed a greater immunity to their behaviour and they - I think - have started to read the room a tiny bit quicker so possibly step back a fraction of a second before I completely lose my shizzle.
I’m no longer claustrophobic. In fact I worry that the next time I have to leave the house for any length of time I may feel homesick.
I’m still sad for my parents, but we’re making the best we can of the situation and I have certainly seen more of my mum over these past few weeks than I have since I left home. Aside from missing their grandchildren they’ve not got such a bad set-up, and the main thing is they’re healthy and safe and, my goodness, the party we will have when this is over!
I’m still beyond furious with the government, with Boris Johnson, with the morons that make up his cabinet. Every time I see Michael Gove I have a visceral reaction. The fact he has any say in all of this makes me want to emigrate. Though I do find myself developing a small crush on Sir Patrick Vallance, which has rather taken me by surprise.
But every ounce of energy that went into all these emotions has, I think, been directly transferred into one overarching feeling that lives within me constantly, that is either directly affecting my mood at any one time or always lurking somewhere in the back of my mind: I am so absolutely and desperately sad for the children.
Their lives have been completely thrown up into the air, with no explanation or answers. Kids are adaptable, especially if they have a familiar constant throughout, but this is all so wrong.
Henry asks me every day if ‘coronavirus will be gone by my birthday’, which is August. Yesterday it was ‘Daddy’s birthday’, which is July. I thought he was becoming more optimistic but then remembered he used to obsess about us being Covid-free by my birthday, which is in two weeks.
Henry is a six year old boy. He should be running up the hill to school, tearing around the playground with his pals until the bell goes. He should be scoffing half his lunch in record time and throwing away the rest so he can get out to play football for as long as possible before class resumes. He should be running off to Beavers on a Wednesday night, excitedly dashing off to his swimming lessons every Saturday, clodding home in his football boots after school on a Thursday, laces trailing behind him, mud on every visible part of his body, dragging school bag, sports kit and coat behind him and breathlessly chobbling a flapjack while giving me a blow by blow account of every goal he nearly scored.
Bella should be trotting home from nursery telling me who she played with, begging me to have someone round to play, deciphering all her crap art ('Oh yes of course it's a unicorn, I see it now!') and clutching realms of paper covered in half a dozen scribbles that I’m expected to keep forever and ever.
Xander is only nine months old but for nearly a quarter of his life he hasn’t seen another adult besides Andy and I. He is becoming more clingy by the day and while that may just be an age thing I can’t bear the thought of him going off to nursery in September. By then he’ll be 14 months old and will have had next to no exposure to anyone besides us. The thought of his little face as I leave him with strange people in a strange place makes me want to cry.
So, I made a pledge as I got into bed after watching Boris extend our isolation. I decided that I can no longer get away with just muddling through the school work to ensure they don’t miss too much. Now I have to take things up a notch and start trying to make up for some of the other things they’re missing.
Now, I have to be Fun Mummy.
So 24 hours in I have found myself lying on the kitchen floor while they see if by working together they can drag me by my legs into the utility room. (They could.) I have played football with Henry while carrying Bella on my back - which while making her giddy with laughter was also a great free workout for me. We’ve learnt the actions to YMCA (coordination isn’t their strong suit), had a kitchen disco, eaten Coco Pops on a Monday and I’ve let Bella give me a makeover with no boundaries. (Or photos.) But the last laugh is on Andy who has agreed to sleep in the Wendy House with them one night at the weekend. It’s 5ft square. He is 6ft1.
And, weirdly, this attitude had a knock-on effect on my whole mood yesterday.
I was more engaged with my work, more relaxed about our chaotic day and more resilient when the kids were testing me. And I was less depressed about the prospect of the next few months.
Fun Mummy is clearly a good thing for us all. Now let's just see how long she lasts. I’ll be surprised if she’s still around on Wednesday.
Comments