My glimpse at the teen years
On week two of the nation’s lockdown, our writer is feeling the pressure and is almost at breaking point... Who w ill crack f irst?
MONDAY
AFTER the weekend and a break in our shaky-at-best routine, this family is more Shameless (the British version) than the allsinging and dancing von Trapps.
Personal grooming is limited (what’s the point, when nobody sees you?), both children and teachers are striking from home school due to general indifference and I have to keep biting my lip to stop roaring obscenities at anything that moves, including the poor bemused dogs who must be sick to the back teeth of walks by now.
And the phone. Have I mentioned my constantly pulsating phone, alive with teeming WhatsApp message groups, of which I must be a member of about 115? It doesn’t matter that I mute the notifications, I can feel them, burning in my subconscious.
I know I should be grateful for the human interaction, but the problem with constant notifications in a global pandemic is that you never know whether you’re going to get a funny meme or the latest death toll.
I feel like I have no ’me’ time any more. I go to the toilet, the five-year-old pushes past and gets there first. I go upstairs, the little one follows me up and plonks herself on my lap during the call of nature. I sit at my computer, the dog follows me into the office, then can’t decide if she wants to stay or not, so hovers at the door.
I let her out. The other dog comes in, trying to jump on my knee. I take pity and help the little fellow up (he’s not that bright) and then a leaf twitches outside and the pair of them run to the front door like a pair of lunatics convinced that whatever is there has been sent to kill us.
My husband, aware of my humour, is trying his best to stay away, but I can still hear him blinking, so that’s annoying. We spend the day playing ping-pong with the children (figuratively speaking) tossing them back and forth in a desperate bid to get some work done.
Layla jumps on my back as I’m about to send an important email and I lose my proverbial. ‘For the love of God, would things just stop jumping on me?’ I roar, to nobody in particular.
‘Don’t look at me,’ my husband mutters, retreating to his man cave. I know he’s feeling the same claustrophobia when he goes to get milk and doesn’t come back for two hours. Sigh. This is going to be a long week.
TUESDAY
AFTER spending some hours listening to pandemic-suitable literature on Audible (Resilience,
The Unexpected Joy of The Ordinary, How To Stop Losing Your Sh*t With Your Kids), I’m determined to make this a better day. I get up, throw open the curtains (trying to ignore the film of dirt on the windows) and make the children breakfast.
But, what’s this? The five-yearold has woken up like a briar, and I watch, in horror and fascination, as I am offered a glimpse of her teenage self. ‘No way to Namaste!’ she screams, when I suggest morning yoga, before running and slamming her bedroom door in temper.
I burst into one of her favourite Frozen 2 songs: ‘Some things never change...’ before she swats me away like a fly, growling, ‘Of course things change Mama!’
She insists on wearing her hoodie up for the day and puts her feet defiantly on the kitchen counter. The youngest, taking note of everything, kicks off. ‘That’s yucky!’ she roars, hurling her Weetabix on the floor and looking at her co-conspirator for approval, who nods sagely. Sweet Jesus, I need a drink, I think, and check my watch. It’s 11am.
They spend the rest of the day like small antichrists. I refer to my gratitude list (it’s very important in times of crisis, alongside some form of medication) and to my surprise, they are on top of it. So I breathe, repeat a self-soothing mantra to myself and threaten to put a big W for whinge on their behaviour chart and recoup their giant LOLs from last week.
I know, I’m very mean — but it works! They shake out of their funk to do some gardening, helping their daddy sow some grass seeds, and drown each other with the hose, hooting with laughter, which makes me smile — no mean feat these days.
Then we listen to Leo’s address and are informed that all nonessential shops are closing. Holy moly — quick!
I send Owen to the art and hobby shop and tell him to buy EVERYTHING — ignore the quotas!
WEDNESDAY
I THINK it’s become clear that if any person reading this is looking to find helpful advice on how to be a better parent/home-teacher/allround nicer human being during this incredibly difficult time, you’re unlikely to find it here.
If however, you’re seeking to feel better about yourself, well... you’re welcome.
This morning I ignore all the rules about excess screen time and subscribe to the Disney Life app. The small ones spend the next few hours in a fictional haze, and I alleviate my guilt by convincing myself they are learning about good (Sleeping Beauty) and evil (Maleficent).
Disney preferences can reveal a lot about children, you know. LanaRose, a romantic at heart, loves the idea of meeting a prince and having a big wedding, something which concerns me as, let’s face it, life’s not a fairytale — even Meghan will tell you that and she got her prince. I have more hope for Layla, whose new favourite is Maleficent. She spends the rest of
the day shouting ‘Fools! Idiots! Imbeciles!’ to all and sundry. No worries there.
We manage to clean the floors today, and this pleases me greatly. Had I known a global pandemic would strike, I would have rethought the interiors of the new house, which now, a mere two months after moving in, looks like it’s been through several lockdowns. Everything used to be white, but we really should have considered an earthier palette, with possibly an apricot-yogurt tone to complement, bordered by Crayola whatever.
The washing machine is a selfpropagating prophecy, as is the dishwasher. The skirting boards seem to silently scream ‘dust me’ and there are piles of laundry in the most unexpected places, like the hall.
I naively thought I could unleash my hidden Marie Kondo, or MrsHinch like cleaning skills with all this new-found home time. Ha — I barely have time to scratch! ‘You poor simple fools, thinking you could defeat me,’ shrieks Maleficient from the living room. Hmm, I think. Isn’t that the truth.
THURSDAY
TODAY starts well. The weather is pleasant, and so are the children — mostly — so we go on a walk to a nearby green to play a bit of hide and seek. On the way home, LanaRose spots an empty Heineken bottle and she informs me she knows how to play Spin The Bottle. I nearly drop her younger sister, who has decided she’s too tired to walk the kilometre home.
‘You have to kiss the person it lands on, girl or boy,’ she says conspiratorially, and I feign indifference as I ask her where she got this information from. ‘Eh, Team Titans,’ she says incredulously, just stopping short of rolling her eyes. Oh, yeah. Obviously.
That afternoon the girls FaceTime their best friends, and I am thrilled to discover that other families seem to also be living in chaos. One of the children is having a grade eight meltdown when we ring, over the usual — nothing in particular — but after a bowl of Coco Pops the mood improves considerably. It’s so sweet seeing the delight on the girls’ faces when they see their besties, and I make a note to try to remember that all this is taking its toll on them too.
Of course, the main topic between me and the mums is coronavirus, and the fact we no longer wash our hair. ‘It’s stuck to my head at this stage,’ I shrug, before Lana-Rose taps me on the shoulder to reveal that all humans have hair stuck to their heads. ‘Yes most of them have, at some point anyway,’ I say.
I’ve had a sense this week of a new normal, and I’ve almost accepted it. As a result, my anxiety has been curbed.
But tonight, it’s all changed, with the news that Covid-19 has taken ten lives in this country in one day. I feel fear flicker in my stomach as I put the girls to bed, hugging their little bodies for a little bit longer than usual. It hits me — there is so much more to come.
FRIDAY
FRIDAY. A day that would usually be met with treats (chocolate) for the kids and wine for Mama — except now things have changed. The treats have now become daily, as I use confectionery as bait to lure my children into good behaviour.
But you might be surprised to hear that Mama’s treat is no longer wine, and in fact has not been for the last three months. I started a 90-day alcohol free challenge on January 6, and I’m now on day 82, not that I’m counting (I am, down to every second). I honestly never factored in a global pandemic when making this life-altering decision, and I’m far too stubborn to give in now.
Also, I feel that dealing with small children 24/7 is difficult enough, without a hangover on top. But it’s hard, especially when it seems most others are drinking their way through it. No, my new treat of choice is the same as my children’s — chocolate — and come 8pm I’m raiding the much-rummaged treat drawer like a pig sniffing out truffles, to see what dregs have been left for poor old Mammy.
I don’t hold out much hope for tonight as it’s been a day plagued with injuries — imagined (the fiveyear-old clutching her head in supposed agony after being walloped by her ingenue) and real. Layla, already tired and emotional, fell three steps down the stairs — biting into her bottom lip, causing copious amounts of blood and screeching to gush forth.
She was inconsolable for a good hour, and I held her and kissed her and told her everything would be ok. She eventually calmed down, looked me straight in the eye and put her chubby little arms around my neck. ‘Thank you Mama,’ she breathed, her face still wet with tears. ‘That’s ok darling,’ I replied, trying not to cry myself. ‘That’s why I’m here’.
And at that moment, I realised, it was true. Nothing else matters. I was exactly where I was supposed to be.