By about 8.30am yesterday it became very evident that not one of us could be arsed, quite frankly.
We all have off days - either Andy or I will just be a bit off kilter and spend the day moaning about it - and the other one will pick up the slack. Or the kids will clearly not be in the mood and we'll fight it for a bit then will just get off their case and write it off as a lost day.
Andy and I have an unspoken rule that when one of us is not feeling it the other does bedtime. Which leaves Donald Grump downstairs alone for maybe a full half hour to wash up and listen to the radio. Which is lockdown’s equivalent of a spa break.
That seems to right half the wrongs and then we only have to get through an hour of taking it in turns to go back up and down stairs responding to urgent requests for water, eye masks, obscure pieces of Lego he can’t go to sleep without and teddies that haven’t been seen since 2017 but are required at that exact moment in order for them to go to sleep, before we can be alone in charge of the noise levels, conversation and TV content.
But yesterday we entered a new league of lockdown lethargy. We just could not get into any sort of groove.
At 10am the kids and I were still in our PJs - a right usually reserved for the weekend. I only got dressed when my phone pinged a reminder about a 10.30 client call. On video, of course.
I didn’t even attempt to get them to do any school work - I knew they wouldn’t want to (because they never do) and I just didn’t have it in me to nag them.
Between 11.30 and 1pm they watched shouty cartoons on a loop and neither of us cared, and when I eventually got them reading to my mum - because she instigated it and I thought it was an easy win - I could feel her frustration coming through the screen as they dithered and fiddled and forgot the word ‘the’.
Andy had been waiting on an important work call from 9am which meant he spent five hours not really being able to engage in anything else and needlessly dashing off into another room every time his phone went. The call eventually came at 2pm. And then prompted a further two hours of follow up calls.
I took the kids off, alone, on their bikes which meant carrying Bella’s (newly stabiliser-free) bike, while pushing the buggy, up the hill till we got to a flat bit whereupon I found myself trying to keep her upright and moving forward and in a straight line while continuing to push the buggy.
Inevitably she fell over, screamed her head off and then announced she needed a wee. I’d normally try to cajole her and change the subject and generally press on but I didn’t have it in me so we just turned around and went home.
As we plodded back down the hill a friend pulled up beside us and asked if he could help. Me stopping to chat just led to Henry careering up behind us on his bike and screeching to a skidding halt, half an inch from where we stood.
And I lost it. If losing it is angrily shouting ‘FOR FFFF'GOODNESS SAKE!’ in the street like a hormonal fish wife. I was so grateful when, rather than look a bit alarmed at my outburst, my friend just laughed in recognition.
It was the tiny puff of air that just pushed me over the edge that I had been teetering on all day.
On another day I would have made light of the near-miss, relieving the moment of tension with a joke or a slapstick reaction to nearly being mown down by a six year old on a bike.
And that, I think, made me feel more guilty than the act of shouting itself.
The children never know from one hour to the next what mood they’ll find me in. They might skip into the hall where I’m working and I’ll give them a cuddle and send them away with a kiss and an empty promise to come and play in a bit. But if I’m in the middle of something that requires deep concentration I’ll snap at them and send them off with their tail between their legs.
They have no signals to indicate what mood they’ll find me in and there’s absolutely no consistency nor rhyme or reason to how I’ll react to the smallest thing.
I’ve noticed Henry has started asking me quite regularly if he’s in trouble. Or if I’m sad. My heart breaks that he’s walking on eggshells around me - and yet I can’t seem to rein in the mood swings.
It’s not so much a rollercoaster of emotion - where you have big highs and deep lows - but a waltzer, where you’re being flung up and down all over the place, whilst simultaneously being spun in circles by a bored teenager who is oblivious to your screams to stop. (That analogy doesn’t completely hold up but you get the idea.)
Not only are my moods erratic, my temper frayed and my reactions unpredictable - even to me - but there’s also then a heavy layer of guilt lying over the top of everything because I know I’m difficult to be around.
But like an addict who knows they should stop, wants to stop and can see the harm they’re doing to themselves and everyone around them, I can’t seem to get on an even keel. I’ll be in a good mood for days then something will happen to put me in a bad mood - a frustrating day at work, a reminder of something or someone I’m missing, a government announcement - and it can throw me off for days.
And there’s nothing I can seem to do to reset myself. There’s no escape, nothing to look forward to and no external influence to mix things up a bit.
There is no point to this piece - there’s no conclusion I’ve drawn or remedy I’ve discovered, sadly - so if you’ve read this far thank you and sorry. I don’t intend it as a moan, more an observation. I’m not depressed or delirious, I’m just a stressed mother with a tolerant husband and a few kids I really hope aren’t damaged long term by my behaviour.
But I do hope it makes others who may be in the same boat feel they’re not alone. And if anyone has any hot tips, I’m all ears.
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