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.