Lock Down Week 2

Towards the end of this week with the chocolate supplies diminishing and even the blessed, saviour   milkman sold out of his extortionately priced chocolate hobnobs, I began indulgently dreaming of toffee crisps and donuts I had an urge to join in with the local festivities and spruce up the front of the house.

Well, I say urge…

If I’m completely honest it was driven by two Facebook posts I’d seen in the last half hour from two friends who had been visited by policemen giving out Easter Eggs to bored kids on lock down. I had the bored kids but was I communicating that fact sufficiently to the world?

Their wonderful kids had drawn beautiful uplifting rainbows, filling the street view with colour and hope as well as written slogans of gratitude to NHS staff and other key workers interspersed with love hearts and flowers. A fantastical sight for all on their daily constitutional!

Our porch had a rather paltry rainbow on display one that would barely be visible from the road, my youngest son – the artist - following his big brother’s tradition of doing as little amount of work as possible for each given task (part two of the tradition is starting it beyond the last possible point it would be sufficient to begin) had under duress painted it the week before.

He enjoys it when we do these things together honest, but I have never known a kid have so many excuses and distractions or a kid who can take so impossibly long to start any given activity from picking up a towel on the bathroom floor to the incredibly ‘painful for all’ weekly SATS revision homework. (The book says 10 minute activities, I do it with him while his brother goes to football practice and is out of the house for 2 hours – we’re often still doing it on his return…)

Anyway there was no way a policeman driving down our road would spot the rainbow so I had to take action! Now I am not callous enough to draw my own felt tip creations nor use my left hand to write child-like, misspelt messages of support for our brave key workers. That thought did not cross my mind.

Spurred on by the drive for ‘bear hunting’ that week – a fun way for children and soppy adults alike to enjoy their daily exercise by spotting cuddly toys in people’s windows, I lined up a selection of teddies the kids owned in my own bedroom window.

Actually, I went nuts, popping in Dobby from the Wonderful World of Wizardry, (Nearly 50 quid on the studio tour now confined to the blanket box), Paddington (better value at the cost of 3 empty marmite jars and postage and packing!), a Yoda, a meercat a dog, a traditional bear and finally an Easter Bunny lest we forgot the reason for this charade… free police chocolate!

Needless to say, I did not receive any Complimentary Easter Eggs from her majesty’s constabulary, though maybe I cheered up a daily walk or two.

Lock Down Week 1

I honestly don’t think I’ve never been as tense as I was that week. I had followed the deaths around the world and seen the horror in Italy and what once was a, ‘We might get an extra fortnight off work!’ kind of buzz became a serious and very sobering ‘Some of us might die’.

As I put the final little boisterous remainder of my class on the bus on the last Friday of school with a concluding side cuddle and a ‘Be good for Mum!’ he waved and I felt overwhelmed with the enormity of this situation. I wanted to get home, to be home, to be with my husband and my boys.

Because we had word to shield my husband and because we had already our children off school for a week, for the first 10 days, we decided I would try and social distance from the family, which meant my husband sleeping in his home office, me sitting on my own sofa whilst they squashed together sometimes in snuggly looking cuddles and sometimes in a frustrating ball of sharp elbows, awkward stretches and explosive frustrated complaints.

It felt lonely.

I struggled to stay asleep and woke early.

One morning at dawn waking suddenly, terrified, hearing a banging on the porch window feeling my nest was under attack.

‘Who was that?’ hoping that maybe it was Poppa, my octogenarian father, who I had invited to suffer lockdown with us, knowing he would not stick to staying home and worrying about his ever increasing ‘forgetfulness’ he does usually turn up at 5a.m. having always a burning desire to ‘beat the traffic’ on his hour journey to Manchester from Blackpool.

But even as the thought it might be him flashed through my mind, I knew it was not him - he could barely manage a weekend with us, the hustle of modern family life, the uproar, commotion and potential trip hazards of the older one and sulks of the little one and of course my regression to moody teenager when we are in each other’s company for too long.

I tiptoed down the stairs and peered around the corner of the front door, imagining the creak of the Hammer House - no one there, relief… then I heard it again, this time less of a knock and more of the irregular noise you might hear if you were being burgled and it was coming from upstairs.

I ran back up knowing I always left my window open and expecting a size 10 and a jogging bottomed leg to be halfway through the glass… relief again no! Skittishly, I ran to the little one’s room, him snuggled up looking angelic but snoring like a hippo.

I tiptoed into the teenager’s room remembering a recent tweet I’d seen, ‘I don’t have a favourite child, but there is one I try really hard not to wake up at the weekend.’ Peeled up his blind and heard the tap on the glass again. I jumped. Then looked toward Tiffin, happily awake and banging his little nose against the glass wall of the gerbilarium! Terrifying!

Being Super Human

Being Super Human

Sometimes, and this is often (but by no means exclusively) when I’m in the bathroom, scrabbling around in my own, ‘dirt’ trying to find a mucus-y bit for the sample pot, because the doctor told me the nasty beasties like to live there the most, I have this strange but compelling fantasy.

The whole medical establishment become fascinated with me and my seemingly super human ways.

“She cannot absorb vitamin xcy64? And has stayed around the 20 stones weight all her life?

She’s a miracle! 

No one else with this rare yet fascinating condition has weighed in at less than 40 – and that’s just the toddlers! – when this deficiency is usually picked up ”

“And is it a wonder she sometimes yells at her kids, (they can, to be fair be extremely disrespectful) most people with this rare yet fascinating condition are locked up in maximum security prisons, her mood,  disposition - well let’s just call it general ‘goodness’ until we find a new and better word for it, is astounding!”

“She holds down a job you say? Actually good at it sometimes? Moments of remarkable achievements? Wow, she is incredible; this condition barely allows people to shower and do their own laundry on time... just imagine what she’ll do with when we give her this highly effective treatment that of course has no side effects!”

“She manages to put down her phone occasionally to answers her children? What will power she must have! – a failure to absorb vitamin xcy64 always leads to addition to technology and difficulties in social communication! What you say she has friends, many friends? Wow! I need to study her further – whatever her body produces to combat this, well, it could be the key to developing the super human race we have all dreamed of!”

They will flock to my bedside and I will finally understand why I have never been stumbling around life failing, the bar was set too high, it was no wonder I could never get there on time, remember things, clean the inside of my oven or iron. 

It made so much sense why I fell asleep on the sofa at 7pm, always gave up on exercise and filled my face with refined sugar – I was defective but now, sweet miracle, now I could be fixed! 

And as the handsome specialist consultant who flew in from San Diego (he didn’t mind he loves to travel) timidly asks,

“Ms? So does that mean...”

“Sorry,” I sigh, “I’m happily married to a pretty good guy – but how tall are you?”

“6’2...”

“Good!” I say, “I think I can help both you and your colleague there, with the Jon Snow eyes!”

But then I’m back in the bathroom staring at what my body did to yesterdays food caught on a ‘home bargains’ bag, lamenting that for the first time in months the pile is mucus free and I remain, as I am with no excuse for the half-hearted way I live my life... 

Late

So this week the kids are at school and I’m not which gives me the pleasure of dropping them off and picking them up while my partner crams in more work – a fuller day than usually allows. 

You might think that I’m being sarcastic when I say ‘pleasure’ especially after what I’m about to tell you but no, dear reader, I am not.

Ok, I might, just perhaps, maybe, imagine the joy of being a ‘proper’ mum, (that is not a full time working mum) a little differently than it actually is, but it is a treat to drop them at school, be part of that most normal of routines and kiss them gently on their heads for protection against the busy school day ahead.

This morning, after 45 minutes of the youngest toilet time and a very late breakfast we flew out of the house with me, well let’s not say screaming, rather urging them to:

“Run, run, RUN, we are late!”

No time to even watch their normal ‘Ace of Cakes’ on the morning cookery channel,

“Look Mum, it’s shaped like a hot dog, coke bottle, dying Marie Antoinette!”

We got to school, me smiling and saying a cheery, ‘Good morning!’ to all the parents walking back to the cars, pushing prams back home or rushing to work themselves, whilst simultaneously trying a power walk down the ‘toddler on scooter’ ridden pavement.

It was no surprise then that the doors were shut when we arrived. The dreaded late mark.

But, no!

As the office staff buzzed in a casual supply, I (again let’s say) urged the eldest to run through the electronic doors. Which he did with a style and grace only matched by Indiana Jones in the Temple of Doom. All the kid needed was a hat to grab and it would have been a perfect re-enactment.

At that split second a range of thoughts buzzed through my head... Surely in a school there will be a safety device, the doors would not crush him, surely if they touch the precious flesh of my first born they will jerk open again, yes? Surely!

YES!

One down, one to go.

We ran around to the year 1 block – little one in the lead and me power sprinting behind.

“The doors are shut” he said in a resigned tone.

“Aha!” I said “Check the door!”

I had noticed that on occasion the doors appear shut but that the teaching assistant sometimes forgets to locks them, an instant Ofsted fail but could it work in our favour...

No. Locked shut.

“Can you see the teacher?” surely that cute face peering in the window, would not need a late mark?

I waved at his lovely, heavily pregnant teacher – she has a toddler too, she knows, she must know that the morning drama is not punishable but normal.

She smiles and lets us in,

“They’re struggling to get up this week.” I offer.

“Don’t worry.” She says.

I see all those mutual eye-rolling about government policy and bottles of wine at Christmas have not been in vain, I have an ally!

Winning!

I return home to find the front door left wide open...

Lost in a Good Book

My six year old has discovered reading – I’m so happy! I don’t mean the Biff and Chip kind of force yourself reading. I mean actual reading for pleasure. I am so delighted! This morning he came into bed with my husband and I, snuggled between us and read whilst we both read…bliss! (And certainly beats hands down the Ma, ma, me, me ma, ma, me, me more milkshake days!)

My nine year old took a little longer to catch the reading bug. He had always loved listening to (and sometimes telling!) complex and elaborate stories but for him reading did not come easily. The phonic de-coding just didn’t come and so he has to painstakingly learn almost every word he comes to. He does love reading now though and is spookily working his way through the Goosebumps series a kind of ‘Tales of the Unexpected’ meets the ‘X Files’ for kids.

Now yesterday the six year old went to a party that I had forgot to RSVP too and today he missed a party I had put in the new shared ‘this’ll make our lives easier ‘deluxe super online calendar at the wrong time… human malfunction, human malfunction, modern life is complicated and all that. (Argh!)

Anyway the party yesterday was in a soft play centre, in fact the biggest play centre I have come across. All frames and ladders and spiral slides and bright colours and karaoke disco a real full on senses assault adored by most sugared up kids.

My husband went to pick him up as I taxied the big one home from drama, we had managed to fit in an Asda shop in between the glamour, the glamour!

(Star purchase a ceramic plated, steam iron – we left our last one in the house we moved out of… ahem… seven months ago, crinkles are fashionable n’est pas?)

As he got there he chatted to the mums and dads and kinda waited, party bags were given out, kisses goodbye received and ‘thank you for having me’ said until finally it was only my husband and the birthday boy’s family left.

‘So, I guess he’s still playing?’

Calmly at first, but with ever increasing panic he began to search this mammoth play centre, not failing to bang on all toilet doors, bravely squeezing through mangle rollers (thank heaven for his snake hips!), masterfully climbing netting despite his slight fear of heights and even diving in ball ponds all assisted by the now worried but calm exterior family.

If he had been wearing a heart monitor, I believe it would have been approaching an ‘A’ bomb type boom when finally after half an hour of the most scared a grown man can ever be he found him.

Squidged into the dead end of a tunnel with a perspex window, legs crossed, Tom Gates book on his lap, absent mindedly flicking the book mark between his fingers totally engrossed. Lost in the adventure, the world of this character Tom, Uncle Kevin and best friend Derek.

Frosty

This week after three days of tiptoeing around in the morning, creeping out of bed and getting dressed in the dark, kissing three sleepy faces and wrapping up warm to steal out into the pre- dawn frost I finally commented,

‘ You know lots of men clear their partners cars in the morning!’

(By lots I actually meant one that I had seen enviously on facebook.)

I slumped off into the bathroom, followed by my tractor pyjama wearing entourage...

By the time I was dressed and fishing my packed lunch out of the fridge my car was cleared and using the patented two key, road parked, scallie –proof system, warming gently.

So far so good you might think.

Well it was nice not to have to do it myself but...

What I was expecting when I said ,

‘You know most men clear their partners car in the morning...’

Was more of a ‘You know most women pick their kids up from school, cook the family dinner, hoover, take their eldest to swimming lessons and O.T. appointments and the list goes on...’

You might think my partner is above all the petty niggles and arguments about gender stereo-typical roles, that he is being a great role model for my boys, that he works hard at all his duties boring or rewarding, that he relishes his family and does all he can to keep them safe and happy. That working till after 11p.m. every night because his working day is interrupted by the school run and craft on the kitchen table is a reasonable pay off.

I can only assume he realised it was my ‘star’ week.

Privacy Settings

This week the lock on our bathroom door broke.

In fact I think it might have just given up.  

The bolt bit just disappeared and I have to assume it dived out of the barrel in despair wondering why oh why it was so infrequently used.

I mean, I say the lock broke this week, it could have been ages ago for all I know... I haven’t locked the bathroom door properly for about 6 years since son number one was born. 

I learnt quickly -  it only took a couple of despairing screaming, battering, sessions for me to realise that although I may only be gone for two minutes, discretely into the littlest room it will be precisely the two minutes that I am needed by everyone in the house so desperately that it couldn’t possibly wait – teeth must gnash, whining must wail, screams of abandonment must fill the air, the door must be kicked, hit, rammed, pulled and so on... it’s just easier to let them in.

Almost every time I try to have a relaxing bath the three year old finds his way in to play ‘sharks’ or ‘boats’ plunging his little hot hands deep into the water and bubbles until his top becomes wet and there is another emergency while he screams about his top being wet and he insists I ‘dry’ it – despite my many explanations he still thinks I can just rub off the wet with a towel...

It’s not really conducive to candles a glass of wine and a good book any more.

There have been several times when I’ve been in the bath – and this is regardless of time of day or night - when joining me in the room are both the six year old filling the toilet and the three year old filling the potty... there is no amount of lavender sleep inducing bath oil that can mask that!