I’m writing this post hiding in the bedroom pretending to be having a lie in. Yet again I’ve not posted for a while but please know that’s not because I’ve been finishing a good book, or going for long walks or listening to an interesting debate on Radio 4.
I have spent the last week drowning in an unending workload, the type where you sit down to tackle the to do list and three hours later you’ve only dealt with new emails or live requests.
Being freelance, I have half a dozen clients who all want things from me at the same time - no one considers (or cares) that I might have three other urgent deadlines from other people, they quite rightly just want their own assignments back on time.
And then, of course, there’s the three hyper demanding clients I picked up on March 23rd - the irrational, illogical, unreasonable clients who want me at their beck and call 24/7 but pay me only in kind. Usually in the form of sticky kisses and invitations to wipe their bum.
It seems these three small people can’t fathom that every time they interrupt me to ask when I’ll be free to give them my attention, they’re just delaying that moment.
I’ll shut myself away to work somewhere quiet only for them to sneak away from Andy and hunt me out, asking me if I’ve seen a particular T-shirt they need to wear that day, or do I have some blue food colouring, or do I know where a Happy Meal toy they acquired in 2017 is RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT?
If Andy and I are talking to each other they CANNOT hold a thought in their heads until we have finished a sentence, let alone the conversation.
If they are eating a meal we have to chivvy them between every single mouthful. Henry can have a plate of food in front of him for five minutes before he even notices it - despite the rest of us sitting round the table eating - and he’s not yet been known to eat two consecutive mouthfuls without putting his cutlery down and launching into an in-depth discussion about something that’s on his mind, which absolutely always and without fail begins with the words “Imagine if….”
Indeed I regularly offer him £100 to be silent for two minutes, knowing full well my money is safe but hoping he’ll take the hint. He hasn’t yet.
If I’m lost in thought while doing something vaguely domestic and mindless - cooking dinner, washing up, watering the garden - I am regularly dragged out of my train of thought at least twice to break up an argument, find an essential toy or let them ‘help’, which is simply a case of prolonging whatever I’m trying to do while they make a mess, hurt themselves or start another argument.
And after they’ve gone to bed we’ll just be sitting down to watch TV when we’ll be called back upstairs because they have an unquenchable thirst, they’re having ‘scary thoughts’ or the person in the other bunk has fallen asleep and is breathing too loudly.
I don’t mind in principle - as the mum of young children I should expect, indeed relish, the curiosity, the vulnerability, the desire for my company and attention - but after 12 weeks what I’m finding so incredibly frustrating is the endless, relentless interruption.
Not just to my actions but of my thoughts. I can’t focus on anything for longer than three or four minutes. As soon as I’ve resolved one issue for them I have to refocus my brain to what I was working on only for the next interruption to come moments later.
I find myself taking deep breaths before answering them, close to tears because I JUST WANT TO CONCENTRATE.
I work from home so in normal times I have got quite resistant to distractions when the pressure is on to meet a deadline, or when I need to really concentrate on a complex project: I’ll put my phone on silent, close down my email and - if things are really bad - go down to the library and plug in to some appropriate music, depending on the nature of the task.
But much as I’ve looked, there appears to be no mute switch for my kids, no off button. Instead they have been pre-programmed to ask inane questions and to provide a running commentary on anything and everything at all times.
I will often have several Zoom calls a day which, thanks to the slightly poor wifi connection upstairs, must take place at my desk in the hall. Trying to concentrate on what someone is saying when there’s a small drama playing out in my peripheral vision is nigh on impossible. I get RSI from clicking the mute button on and off hundreds of times during a call as I sense the whirlwind of incoming offspring.
Last week they both rocked over to stand at my shoulder while I was talking to a new client. She stopped speaking to say hello to them but when it comes to chit chat if you give Bella an inch she’ll take a mile so next thing I know the whole purpose of the call has been put on hold while my four-year-old gets to know the nice lady on the computer.
I don’t know whether that’s better or worse than the call a few weeks ago when she (Bella not my client) appeared naked beside me. She did at least just suck her thumb and stare at the screen for that one rather than hijacking the conversation.
I can feel the tension building up and I know something has got to give. I had actual stomach pains last week which I’m convinced was caused by stress. The frustration that everything takes twice as long as it needs to. The guilt that I am endlessly telling them to shush, go away, give me five minutes. Having to bat away requests to play, giving the same answer to ‘when will you be finished’ dozens of times a day (answer: never) and knowing that I am being highly inefficient because I’m so distracted.
The other night I did more work between 7.30 and 9pm than I had achieved all day, despite sitting at my computer for hours on end. Just having a free run at it was such a luxury, with neither interruption nor guilt that I was ignoring them.
But, sound the klaxon, come Monday Henry is back at school! For two luxurious weeks I will have a reprieve from home-schooling, sibling bickering and one set of pressing questions. And from 12-3 Bella, too, will be at nursery. And within that three hour period, if I’m very lucky, Xander may be asleep for 60 minutes.
All I’m worried about now is the emotional crash landing on 6th July when my small holiday is over and they’re back at home until September. But I can’t think about that right now, I’ve got work to do.
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