Lockdown Week 10

MONDAY

Half term this week, so I’m looking forward to some Bracer holiday fever – lockdown style. 

Unfortunately we’re not off to a good start. Everyone was awake until all hours last night, after seeing one of my favourite films, Amadeus. The eight-year old is too young, so he happily watched YouTube in the other room until his bedtime. I think he enjoyed watching without me constantly tutting.

It’s a powerful film with some real ‘jump scares’ and incredibly dramatic music. There were a few moments when the 15-year-old climbed up the back of the sofa, and the 12-year-old assumed the foetal position next to me. But neither of them wanted to stop. 

When they finally went upstairs to bed, neither of them would stay there until we went as well. I think they were mildly traumatised.

So now it’s Monday morning, and I decide that 9.30am is quite late enough to be woken up, even in half term. The eight-year-old is sent upstairs to rouse them, as I don’t fancy being yelled at. 

Once I can hear the worst is over, I call upstairs gently to ask whether anyone fancies a banana smoothie. Moments later the kitchen is filled with gratefully beaming faces.

The eight-year-old quickly bounces back from his sisters’ onslaught – he’s resilient like that. Excellent parenting.

TUESDAY

All three children are quite good at doing nothing. I’m sure this is a useful life skill – emptying out your worry bag to allow space for new and better things. Or maybe it just allows space for more worries? 

The older ones have bits of work left over from last week, plus there will be online assessments of some sort next week. Neither of them seem worried, though.

My biggest concern is that schools may expect more year groups to return before the summer holiday. I’ll take a view on that if it arises - but I’m not keen.

The sun is shining, so I decide to work outside this morning. This begins well, and for 20 minutes I’m in my happy place, enjoying the peace of the garden. Then I notice two power tools whirring on either side. I convince myself that they’ll stop soon, but then a third starts chugging away in the next road. 

Okay, I can deal with that. But then, like a trumpet fanfare, a high-pitched, angry-sounding number starts up next door. This grim quartet is a step too far for me, so I close the laptop – now coated in brick dust – and sulkily head indoors. 

I slam the back door crossly. Just in case anyone notices. They don’t.

WEDNESDAY

The whole country is furious with Dominic Cummings, who decided to interpret lockdown rules - that he wrote himself - differently from everyone else. Really? Well, at least he and Boris have managed to unite the British population somehow.

Nonetheless, the rules have changed this week, and the 15-year-old is thrilled. She appears at the foot of the stairs mid-morning wearing skimpy shorts and lipstick, and informs me that she’s ‘off out’.

I haven’t heard this phrase from anyone for a long time, so I probe for more information. 

She tells me that the boy called Dom’s parents have said he can go for a socially distant walk with a friend, provided they stick to the rules. Okay, I say. But she really needs to check with me first.

After much eye rolling, she says she understands – probably just to appease me, but at least I’ve made my point. 

What she doesn’t know, is that Dom’s dad David has asked me already. Sometimes you just need to stay one step ahead.

THURSDAY

Another blazing hot sunny day today, and the eight-year-old persuades me to get the paddling pool out. I can hardly refuse, as there’s really not much choice for fun at home. And I’m pretty confident there’s no hosepipe ban.

This thing takes an eternity to fill, even though it’s not big. It usually looks a bit mucky and uninviting within about ten minutes. But they all love it, even the older ones.

The pool works its curious magic, and there’s squealing and excitement from everyone as soon as the first inch of water is in. Definitely a case of the fantasy outweighing the reality - but we all go with it. When they were small, they used to call it the swimming pool. Bless them.

We all join in with the final NHS clap this evening. Good to end on a high, while everyone still feels so positive. We’ve been using it as a chance to catch up with neighbours. A few people appear tonight who we haven’t seen for weeks, and there’s some sense of normality in the air.

I briefly wonder whether I should start apologising for the racket the children - plus the dog - made this afternoon in the paddling pool, but decide against it. I think people have other fish to fry.

FRIDAY

The eight-year-old makes me smile this morning:

'Mummy?'

'Yes?'

'You know Boris Johnson?'

[Deep breath - here it comes]

'Hmmm?...'

'What does he smell like?'

[Okay, I wasn’t expecting that]

'Ahhh, I don’t know. Why do you ask?'

'Well, that lady you sometimes see with him…'

'Er, yes – his fiancée?'

'She’s always pulling a face – like she’s smelt something gross'

'Ah, I see. That’s called love, darling.'

Next week’s lockdown will be something new, as schools start returning. There’s positivity in the air, but also fear that it’s too soon, that it will all go wrong and we’ll be back where we started.

There’ll be a new set of rules for us to get our heads around; we’ll then have to try explaining them to the children.

Maybe it’s time to crack open a new diary.

Lockdown Week 9

MONDAY

The language in this house is going downhill.

The 15-year-old and 12-year-old are careful not to say anything bad that warrants a proper telling off. Very clever. But the casual use of toilet vocabulary is getting a bit much. It’s become everyday Bracer vernacular, and there's a limit as to how many times I can hear the word ‘poo’ before I snap. An example:

‘You’re a poo-face’

‘No, you’re a poo-poo-face’

‘Well, you’re a bigger poo-poo-face’

‘Well, you’re a bum-fart’

ENOUGH!!! (me)

That’s the general gist. The 15-year-old finally informs me today, when I yell at them for the 14^th time, that it’s all my own fault for not allowing swearing at home.

On every possible level, that’s not good to hear.

TUESDAY

Academic productivity is in short supply, this being the last week before half term. The eight-year-old solemnly informs me that EVERYONE knows it’s hard to concentrate in the last week before a school holiday. I consider myself told.

On the plus side, there’s an overall sense of good cheer, which is a relief. The eight-year-old is having a lovely time, enjoying friendly chats with his classmates on school group calls, fun art projects and lots of free time. His teachers deserve a medal.

His sisters are a wee bit jealous that he’s having fun. After a gentle start, the older ones are being pushed more, and both have fallen a bit behind with deadlines. I refuse to allow them to worry, and the husband points out that the school can’t exactly give them a detention. True – but perhaps missing the point.

I treat them all to a salted caramel Magnum this afternoon – sometimes chocolate speaks louder than words.

WEDNESDAY

The eight-year-old decides to test Bertie-Wooster’s courage and reflexes with a couple of rounds of Cat versus Cucumber. Obviously I blame YouTube for this; I suspect the eight-year-old hasn’t been using his free time constructively.

He’s excited, but my hopes aren’t high. I think the cat may consider such frivolous nonsense beneath him. We wait until Bertie-Wooster is resting but awake – we don’t want to give him a heart attack. The eight-year-old carefully places the cucumber behind the cat’s head, holds his breath and…

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Bertie-Wooster turns his head slowly to look at the cucumber, then turns back. The eight-year-old is not happy; he grumpily snatches the cucumber away then tries again, hoping it will have more effect second time. The cat yawns, then stretches out a paw and rests it on the cucumber nonchalantly. 

Cat: 1, Cucumber: 0

The eight-year-old is disappointed, and I realise I’m genuinely annoyed with the cat for being disinterested. I think we’ve all been cooped up together a bit too long.

THURSDAY

This morning I wake up feeling unsettled, after having an anxiety dream about being back at work. In my dream I have a deadline I’ve forgotten about, and now I have just half an hour to submit 1000 words. 

The husband explains to the children that I’m a bit discombobulated, and I might need a few minutes to myself. His plan works beautifully, because then they spend ages talking about the word discombobulated, and they even try spelling it. The fifteen-year-old doesn’t believe it’s a real word at first, so they consult Siri, the universal voice of wisdom.

Since lockdown restrictions relaxed a bit, people are out and about more; there’s almost a sense of normality about the place. As we’re now allowed to drive for exercise, I decide to spend some time with Satchmo and take him for a long walk. I slightly regret this decision when he rolls in something disgusting.

On the journey home he completely stinks out the car, but he looks doleful and his ears droop. He must have picked that up from the children. I can never stay cross for long.

FRIDAY

It’s half term. Or at least, that’s what everyone seems to think, even though it’s only 9.30am. Nobody seems in any hurry to get moving this morning; they’re all still in their pyjamas.

Over breakfast I go through the schedule for the day, while everyone’s mouths are otherwise occupied. Generally that’s the only time I can get them to listen.

This half of term has felt like one of the most punishing stretches of time ever, so I think we’ll all be glad to draw a line under it. Though on the positive side, there has been a definite improvement in everyone’s computer skills – particularly mine. 

We have academic work on Google Classroom and Microsoft Teams; we have violin lessons on FaceTime – though we sometimes use Skype; we have dance lessons on Zoom; and there’s even a Zoom birthday party for the eight-year-old this evening.

Working with IT doesn’t come naturally to me, and it’s no coincidence that the children never ask for my help when the laptop plays up.  

The husband says I was born 200 years too late, and would have been much happier using parchment paper and a quill pen. Rude.

Lockdown Week 8 (Fri)

FRIDAY

We’re all feeling full of Friday optimism today, which makes a nice change. I even hear the 15-year-old humming cheerfully to herself in the bathroom this morning. 

It’s nearly half term, which is obviously part of the reason for good moods. The sun is shining and people are out and about a bit more. Boris’ announcement about easing lockdown rules has left half the population feeling more relaxed - but the other half more fearful.

We don’t have to make any rash decisions yet, because the first phase of schools re-opening doesn’t include our children. This has impressed them hugely, although they keep saying they miss their friends. I think everyone is quite torn. 

After lunch, the 15-year-old offers to take Satchmo out for a spin around the block. He picks up on this suggestion and is eagerly waiting by the front door in a matter of seconds. Dog walks have been a bit thin on the ground lately. 

She quickly dismisses any offers of company from her siblings and bolts through the door. I’m immediately suspicious, and head upstairs for a sneaky look through our bedroom window. Sure enough, she’s waiting by the big lime tree – and a few moments later the boy called Dom is there too. 

They’re sensible about not getting close, and she looks so happy to see him. I realise this is the reason for her earlier good mood. I think that’s well worth a bit of secrecy.

Lockdown Week 8 (Thurs)

THURSDAY

It’s still surprising when you find out how unfamiliar words are pronounced, even as an adult.

At lunchtime I decide to cook quinoa, after finding a pack at the back of the cupboard pretending to be couscous. I can’t say which one of us bought it by mistake - it could easily have been me. The packets look EXACTLY the same.

After the recent dispute over pronouncing the word ‘Nike’, I suggest a competition to see

who can work out how to say ‘quinoa’ correctly. No access to Google, and all final answers

will be recorded.

The loser will have to eat quinoa for lunch. 

The children look slightly panicked but accept the challenge. They are all quite competitive, and love watching each other squirm. I remember the two girls getting the eight-year-old to stick worms in his mouth or up his nose when he was a toddler. Although I think he rather enjoyed it.

The quinoa competition works well, and none of them get it right. Feeling triumphant, I dish up a small amount of quinoa on each plate. The complaints far outlast the time taken to eat the tiny spoonful; and they do all admit that it doesn’t actually taste of anything at all.

This evening we applaud the NHS as usual, though no-one stays out for long. Many of the local children still bring out their pots and pans and give the same level of enthusiasm every week. The sentiment is certainly no less sincere.

Lockdown Week 8 (Wed)

WEDNESDAY

It’s important to remember how much I love my children. They’re my absolute world. But they can be quite annoying.

Their excitement levels have been soaring today. This is incomprehensible to me, although on some level I applaud it. Even if it drives me just a teensy bit mad.

I mean – what is there to be excited about, exactly?

Might be Lego? They all seem to get a buzz from that on some level – though the 15-year-old denies it. 

It could be the trampoline, which is the source of much squealing every day. If you’re a grown woman who values the remaining shreds of her pelvic floor though - swerve it. The husband sometimes bounces for a couple of minutes, then staggers away from it looking puce, like he’s about to be sick.

The older ones seem to think the protective net around the trampoline has some noise filtering mechanism which means I can’t hear bad language. 

They’re wrong. I can.  

Whatever it is that makes them run around in their pants (the eight-year-old), or dance like crazy to ‘Señorita’ (the 12-year-old), or do a full Joe Wicks workout but NEVER stop talking (all of them) - bring it on. I wish there was more to go round.

Lockdown Week 8 (Tues)

TUESDAY

Why do children have to be so loud? They should come with an in-built volume switch. 

I remember thinking this when the 15-year-old was a newborn. The husband and I are fairly quiet, so the noise levels generated by this new little person came as a shock in those early days.

By the time baby number three came along, we were resigned to it.

My ears are ringing. All morning, the three of them have been having a loud and pointless argument about how to pronounce the word ‘Nike’. The husband foolishly offers his own opinion, which two of them vehemently reject… and the volume increases.

I assure them that I don’t care how it’s pronounced (I REALLY don’t) and tell them to consult the Google cave. They do this, but then they debate the result - still loudly.

All this before 9.15am.

Finally I say enough’s enough, and ask everyone to settle down and start work. The noise

continues, so I decide extreme measures are needed: I threaten immediate removal of all phones and/or gaming equipment for the rest of the day. 

They all comply without further discussion. We’ve been here before, and they know I mean it. Sometimes you have to hit them where it hurts. 

I’m not sure who won the battle, but I definitely won that particular war – even though I cheated a bit.

Lockdown Week 8 (Mon)

MONDAY

Over the weekend I had another go at making sourdough bread. My attempt a few weeks ago ended up more of a crouton than a loaf, which was no great surprise given the number of potential pitfalls along the way. 

I don’t think I’m a natural baker.

This time was a little better, and everyone made appreciative noises as they crunched their way through it. At least no-one broke a tooth.

On Sunday evening we all sat down to hear Boris’ broadcast. I made the children watch it with us, in the hope that at least one of us would understand what he was talking about if he went off-piste.

No such luck; we were all left feeling confused: 

Can we go to work? Only if we drive there. 

Can we drive to work? Only if it’s not in Wales. 

Can we meet up with loved ones? Only one at a time. 

So if you have two parents, should one of them wait in the car? Only if you don’t go to Wales. 

Will schools re-open soon? Yes, for children under 5 and over 10, but still under 11. 

And don’t ask about Wales.

Aaargh.

On Monday morning, the media is in such a frenzy over the whole thing. So we switch off all the radios and focus on the week ahead. In lockdown. Again.

Lockdown Week 7 (Fri)

FRIDAY

It’s VE Day bank holiday and the sun is shining, but there’s a sense of apathy in the house. Even the dog is unusually lethargic.

To avoid any more conversations about DIY wall destruction, I suggest an afternoon walk, then quickly dig out the walking boots before anyone can protest.

Along some streets there are a few small socially distant VE gatherings. Many appear quite celebratory with bunting, flags and forties classics, but the atmosphere seems a bit muted. Some roads are deathly quiet. 

As we turn into our cul-de-sac on the way home, Satchmo suddenly strains on his lead, barking excitedly. The 15-year-old looks flushed, so I follow her eyes; the boy called Dom is standing with two men I assume are his parents, chatting with neighbours from the end of a driveway.

I decide we should take the opportunity to meet the family, and Satchmo is clearly keen to go over to greet his old pal. Dogs can be extremely useful for breaking the ice.

The 15-year-old clearly wishes the ground would swallow her up, grunting by way of conversation. We manage a polite exchange about the weather and VE day, and Satchmo definitely does his bit. 

It turns out that David and Patrick were the kind neighbours who left tomato plants on our doorstep. That’s it – we’re practically related now. 

Once we're home, I tell the 15-year-old that they seem like a nice family. She’s overcome with shame and disappears upstairs.

Lockdown Week 7 (Thurs)

THURSDAY

Following my WhatsApp plea for vegetable seeds, five little tomato plants have appeared on the doorstep. They look so helpless and in need of proper nurturing. Not sure they’ve come to the right house.

As I bring them inside, I announce that these plants absolutely must not die. This would do nothing for neighbour relations. The eight-year-old peers at them suspiciously, then informs me that tomatoes are in fact fruits - not vegetables.

Aha, so this means he’ll be happy to eat them, then? Apparently not. He only eats tomatoes that come with pasta; we still call this ‘red sauce’, just in case he starts refusing it on the grounds of its association with the evil tomato.

Some arguments just aren’t worth the oxygen.

Unfortunately, my track record with keeping house plants alive isn’t good. When the husband goes away for work, he leaves the 12-year-old in charge of watering. Mouldy the goldfish is left in the capable hands of the eight-year-old.

The husband has been avoiding me. I think he’s worried I might have ideas about what his personal lockdown goal might be.

This evening, he rifles through the kitchen drawer and brings out a tape measure. He heads outside, muttering something about finally knocking down that goddamn wall that we’ve been debating since we moved here five years ago.

Now, this is unlikely to happen for a number of reasons, not least because he knows I have an aversion to DIY projects involving brick dust. Smart move.

Lockdown Week 7 (Wed)

WEDNESDAY

This morning I start making a list. 

The husband looks nervous; he’s not keen on my lists, as it usually means some sort of change is imminent. Either that, or he’ll be asked to do DIY.

Six and a half weeks have passed, and I haven’t really accomplished anything NEW. Determined to find positives in the current situation, I decide that we should each make an effort to achieve at least one thing during lockdown that we wouldn’t under normal circumstances. 

Satchmo and Bertie-Wooster have already made a valiant start with their new diet regime, though I’m not sure they’re embracing the idea. They look appalled when no-one slips them treats at mealtimes any more.

I decide the children should try growing vegetables, to experience the satisfaction of reaping what they’ve sown themselves. I anticipate some resistance to this, not least the eight-year-old’s declaration from an early age that all vegetables are ‘gross’. This has been a daily battle since he was 18 months old; I’m still waiting for him to see things my way.

I send out a message on the neighbourhood WhatsApp, asking whether anyone has a few vegetable seeds they can spare. I have an ulterior motive for this: I noticed last night that the boy called Dom’s parents have now joined the WhatsApp group. 

This means I can do a bit of casual snooping about the 15-year-old’s love life, under the guise of growing veg. Excellent parenting.

Lockdown Week 7 (Tues)

TUESDAY

The sun is shining, so I head outside with a large cup of coffee and the laptop, leaving the children busy and contained on the other side of the back door. I call out to explain where I’m going. Usually they don’t listen when I talk, but today there’s a group ‘wait, what?’

Now, this is an expression I've come to terms with over the past six weeks, but I firmly believe 'wait, what?' is one of the most irritating teen-phrases in current usage - though there are a few contenders. 

I give my customary hilarious response, which is to freeze and ask what I’m supposed to be waiting for. This drives them all bonkers, particularly the 15-year-old and the 12-year-old. 

I just make my own entertainment wherever I can.

Just half an hour of non-child time is all I want. Half an hour where no-one asks me a question, shouts in my ear or peers over my shoulder while I’m working - then comments on what I’ve just written. 

Satchmo heads into the garden with me. Normally this is fine, but today he’s clearly sulking. I’ve imposed a strict 'no tit-bits' rule for seven days, to see whether it makes a difference to his waistline. He’s not impressed, and curls up at the opposite end of the garden, facing the other way.

Over the next ten minutes, the children also emerge one by one, each with a spurious reason not to be inside working. 

Finally Bertie-Wooster appears, and starts feebly digging in the flower-bed to find the perfect spot for his morning deposit.

I snap the laptop shut, and head back indoors for some peace and quiet.

Lockdown Week 7 (Mon)

MONDAY

Biscuits are an absolute essential in this house. We always need a couple of emergency packs hidden somewhere, or there’s trouble. 

This morning I discover that the back-up stash is running dangerously low. I’m not sure how this has happened, but it’s not good. We can't just pop down to the local shop for a pack of Hobnobs. We can’t really 'pop’ anywhere.

I decide to take action, and commission a batch of home-made cookies from the children - a wholesome yet fun after-school activity. I congratulate myself on this excellent parenting ruse: a bonding exercise which also happens to fulfil an important nutritional need. 

With freshly-baked biscuit smells wafting through the house, I suddenly notice that Satchmo and Bertie-Wooster seem to have put on weight. I’m about to remark on this to the husband, then realise I have too. I’m guessing this is due to general inactivity. And wine. And definitely biscuits.

It's clear that the dog, the cat and I should immediately begin a collective course of self-improvement, so I grab Satchmo's lead for a walk. He gives a little snort and heaves himself slightly reluctantly off his bed.

I catch sight of Bertie-Wooster as he slides past me towards the cat flap. It’s like he knows.

Lockdown Week 6 (Fri)

FRIDAY

JEEEESUS MUM, WHERE HAVE YOU HIDDEN MY GODDAMN HOODIE???

Pardon?

JEES…

No - just stop right there! 

This is the first thing the eight-year-old says to me this morning. I tell him in no uncertain terms that this is totally unacceptable, particularly from an eight-year-old. 

He’s generally polite and easy-going, but there are two reasons why he occasionally morphs into Kevin The Teenager. 

One reason is too much time spent with his school friend Harvey – a spirited lad ever since Reception, who chases parents’ cars down the road after school playing 'chicken'. Play dates are terrifying when he and the eight-year-old start trying out experiments with gravity. 

The husband knows to have a large glass of wine ready for me as soon as Harvey gets collected at the end. 

The other reason for the eight-year-old’s inappropriate language is teenage-speak picked up from his big sisters.

FOR THE LAST TIME, STOP TAKING MY GODDAMN STUFF. USE YOUR OWN GODDAMN LIP BALM. JEEEESUS!

[SLAM!]

I think the mystery is solved, as I hear the 15-year-old and 12-year-old getting dressed upstairs. I wince as I imagine the eight-year-old returning to school with a whole new dialect he’s picked up during lockdown. 

After this noisy start, the day settles. Productivity is a bit patchy, but at least something is getting done, even if it’s only Art homework and Lego construction. There are a few hours of restful harmony around the kitchen table, so I decide not to rock the boat by asking too many questions.

Sometimes you just need to enjoy it while it lasts.