ENTERTAINING A TODDLER AND STAYING POSITIVE

Ilook at the clock in disbelief. It’s 9am, yet in my mind it must surely be lunchtime already?

The day stretches away into the unknown, empty hours that I must somehow fill.

There is a loud clatter followed by the tell-tale “uh oh” from my two-year-old, a statement I have grown to dread in recent weeks.

Reuben has taken every single saucepan out of the cupboard, along with several baking trays and an electric whisk.

He sighs as I walk into the kitchen, then flounces out in a temper.

I yank my laptop from a pool of apple juice and check emails, before Reuben appears at my leg.

“Crisps” he screeches, pointing at the holy mecca which is the snack cupboard.

It cannot withstand umpteen raids, and I grapple with just how essential snacks are in the current climate.

After glancing quickly at my diary, which I find hidden in the airing cupboard, it’s time to play the ultimate trump card.

“We’re going for a walk,” I announce brightly, but neither the toddler nor the dog is interested.

We’ve covered every inch of the estate in recent weeks, and the thought of counting all the trees has clearly lost its appeal.

When bath time finally arrives, my chest feels tight and my head aches.

My other half, a key worker, walks through the door.

The relief at knowing I am off duty is immense.

I can hear my partner remonstrating with our son, something about not doing a wee on the floor.

I am incredibly lucky to be safe at home, and to have the option to continue working.

When lockdown commenced, I was naïve in the belief that the juggle was achievable.

I was already a working parent, so how hard could the transition be?

I’d write in the evenings once my son was in bed, and do interviews during the sacred nap time.

This has worked, to a certain extent at least.

There was the time I had to mime an enthusiastic clap, while asking important questions over the phone.

My son is in the middle of toilet training, and had proudly done his business in the potty as opposed to on our light-grey carpet.

Praise was needed, even if it couldn’t be vocal.

The line between professional journalist and hands-on mother has become increasingly blurred. Social media has also been deafening.

My news feed is filled with activity ideas, endless lists of how you can entertain your little one with educational games.

As I scroll Instagram late at night, the guilt begins to creep in. Every other parent seems to be embracing lockdown.

Their banana bread wasn’t runny in the middle, and their child didn’t lick raw egg off their hands.

Their trip out was a nature walk, where they collected materials to create a picture.

My son attempted to drag a branch home, and I’m pretty sure he trekked through dog mess.

It is easy to forget that social media is a highlight reel, where no one admits to breaking into the gin at 3pm.

As the days turn into weeks, my ambition to be the fun mum evaporates.

I don’t set out activities, or plan the toddler version of Bake Off.

I lower my expectations completely. In the midst of the chaos, there is love. We pick bright-yellow dandelions, because Reuben announces they are “pretty” to anyone who will listen.

He doesn’t care that they’re weeds, and we arrange them in a jam jar.

We plant cucumber seeds and strawberry plants, our hands both caked in dirt.

We are surviving, day by day. It is enough.

As another rainy afternoon rolls around, I arrange my son’s soft toys in a circle.

It is the most basic teddy bear’s picnic, with some questionable characters in attendance.

I watch as my son sits down with the dog and tucks in, his grin wide and exuberant.

In that moment, nothing else matters. I have triumphed.

Reuben enjoys a picnic with Alfie the dog and his collection of soft toys