Days 68-70: Answers on a postcard please

With the latest wishy washy announcement from the newspaper columnist that is in charge of the country, came not excitement and reassurance but, for me, more uncertainty and confusion.

If six people can be together in a garden, do we count our children as individuals? If so does that mean as a family we can still only see one other person? And if so do we ask my parents to take it in turns to stay in the house when we visit, even though they live under the same roof and so would not be protected for very long from any germs we passed on from our two metre distance? Or should we leave a couple of kids in the car when we visit?

How does a blanket six person rule make any sense when it means we can’t see more than one person from another household, yet I could have five girlfriends round and in doing so risk mixing six different sets of germs?

And as some scientists have questioned the lifting of the lockdown, saying it’s too soon, why should any of us believe the latest amendments to the guidelines aren’t just a deliberate attempt to distract us from the behaviour of Dominic Cummings?

Indeed, if we’re really getting to the bare bones of things, I find myself musing on how we’ve got ourselves into a situation where Boris Johnson/Dominic Cummings and Donald Trump/his equally moronic children are in charge of their respective countries? (That’s slightly unrelated but it bothers me endlessly.)

I think I'd rather these two were in charge of the country.

These aren’t the only questions that lockdown has forced me to face.

For example, how is it possible that, ten weeks in, I have yet to find any rhythm with this new lifestyle. We have no daily routine, I very rarely know what we’re eating more than 10 minutes before I start cooking it, I constantly scrabble around for 15 minutes alone here and there in which to do some work, and when I do sneak off to my computer I rarely achieve anything significant. I have resigned myself to looking for a new job when this is over because I can’t believe I’ll have any clients left come Christmas.

I wonder if we’ve done the right thing by not sending Bella back to nursery next week. We decided we didn’t have enough to gain - we have the boys here anyway, she and Henry do occasionally play nicely together, she’s learning to read with my mum which she wouldn’t do at school - and what if the way they keep the kids apart is all a bit weird? So I declined. Was that wrong?

If she's at school we can't paint each other's faces for no reason

Is it just the fact that I have neighbours that stops me shouting at the kids any more than I already do? And should that concern me?

If the kids go in the paddling pool between lunch and bedtime does that cancel out the need for a bath?

How come when Bella falls over or off her bike she only ever grazes her right knee, and has any child ever required a skin graft from so many endless and unhealed grazes to one single patch of skin?

If Henry stops speaking for two consecutive minutes, will something terrible happen to the space time continuum? He clearly thinks so but I think some cold, hard proof would help me deal with the relentless chatter.

Why when we live in a house with eight rooms plus bathrooms do I very, very regularly find that all three of my children are touching me at the same time?

And, if you get chased by cows in a field, is it better to run away from them or run towards them? If you choose the latter and they aren’t put off by your approach could you jump atop them to avoid being trampled, and if you did would you simply end up riding them like a rodeo bull?

I digress.

All this time at home, waiting to be told what to do by an incompetent and exclusively self-interested government, is changing me - and not in a good way. I fear I have begun to just accept this new compliant existence. It is like being in a mentally abusive relationship where I look to my abuser to tell me what I’m allowed to do and when, even though I know they are not to be trusted, are only ever thinking of themselves and are no more qualified to tell me how to live my life than Alan who works down at the petrol station.

I don’t have any answers to these questions - sadly I do not think there are answers to be had - but as this blog has long been a form of cheap therapy I thought I’d put them out there and see if the universe - or my mother - has any answers.

I’ll wait to hear.

Kids up a tree photo #297