Honest tales from the front line of motherhood
There hasn’t been a dull moment for mums this year. Four Telegraph writers tell us how it was for them
Family life for Kerry Potter has gone from spinning plates, pre-Covid, to feeling like an actual plate that been dropped on the floor from a great height.
It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times – as Dickens would’ve put it, had he been trying to write that novel while simultaneously doing fractions with recalcitrant children and running the world’s worst 24-hour diner, where the food keeps running out and service is with a scowl.
It’s not exactly been a vintage year for motherhood. I’ve had better. I’ve been better at it. Hasn’t everyone? With two children, aged 9 and 12, and a demanding job, I used to feel like I was spinning plates, pre-Covid. Now I feel more like I’m an actual plate that been dropped on the floor from a great height, viciously stamped on and broken into a million pieces, during a national superglue shortage. I’m just hoping the Government has put aside a few million pounds to build a nationwide complex of industrial-sized respite centres-cumspas in which to plonk all working parents when this is finally over.
The main thing I’ve learnt this last year is that there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to homeschool and exercise two bored, lonely children, keep on top of chores in a house that no one ever leaves, serve up three meals a day, provide emotional support to everyone and do my actual job.
I open my laptop, bleary-eyed at 5.30am to start work, blink and – whoa! – it’s 9pm and I’m still trying to complete the same task. In the meantime, however, I have aced a project on Mayan gods, revised French verbs, wiped away tears (not mine – although, that depends), conducted several counselling sessions, printed out 32 worksheets, made macaroni cheese and then, what feels like only 30 minutes later, eggs on toast, played football in the pouring rain and yelled, “Get. Off. Roblox” 24 times. Can I invoice for this?
I should pause to caveat the above – because the caveat is essential when you dare to moan during the Covid era. Yes, I know I’m lucky I have a job – and a job that is not on the front line. To have children. To have married a good man who does his fair share. Yes, I am lucky I’m not dead. But that doesn’t change the fact that, like every mother of dependent children I know, I’ve been driven to the brink of insanity and exhaustion. The frazzling workload knocks me out by 10pm; the relentless worry – will the children be OK? What happens if we lose our jobs? – wakes me at 2am.
But what can you do but sift through those broken shards scanning for some learnings; some positives to take into what can only be a perkier year ahead. For a start, I have mined hitherto undiscovered reserves of patience and resilience. Last summer, I managed to write a book, somehow hitting the deadline while my children jumped up and down in the paddling pool outside my window for a solid eight hours a day shouting, “MUM! MUM! LOOK!” I await my Olympic medal in recognition of this feat. Check me out, Dickens.
I have learnt to relinquish control of family life (and my hair, but that’s another sorry tale). Before, everything was organised to the nth degree – the meals detailed on a weekly planner, the endless birthday presents bought and wrapped in bulk, in advance. Military precision was my coping mechanism for a frenetic life. But that previously tight ship is now a flabby dinghy that’s sprung a leak. I wing it. For entire weeks or months sometimes. And I know now that I can’t fix everything. The painful fact that my children have not been allowed to go to school, to live their lives, for nine months out of the past 12? All I can do is be there, listen, console and provide a) hope that things will get better and b) Mini Eggs.
In a world shorn of its rituals, I’ve learnt to create new ones, because you have to focus on the stuff you can still shape. We do Joe Wicks workouts – well, my husband and I puff away while the children sneer at us from the sofa. Such a lovely bonding moment. We have a Saturday family film night, taking it in turns to pick the movie. Pro tip: don’t get busted sneakily scrolling through Instagram by a nine-year-old who’s outraged that you’re disrespecting his choice of Johnny English.
So the worst of times, yes, but I could think of worse people to be incarcerated with for a year. If I weren’t too tired to think straight, that is.