Posts by Bring on Bedtime

I'm a mum of two daughters aged 13 and 10. I'm mad about them both, but I believe parenting was seriously mis-sold to me in my earlier years. That rosy glow of maternal contentment? Available only when the kids are asleep, and comes with a side order of guilt about How I Handled Everything Today. And not just parenting. Life in general. I'm still waiting for a proper grown up to come along and help me out. This blog is a tongue-in-cheek account of getting through the day. I'd love to find people that can relate to my experiences, or at least laugh with (at?) me along the way.

Lockdown and Aftermath – Week 23

Sorry there’s been a gap of a few weeks this time. We’ve filled some of the time with a lovely week in Dorset, some of the time preparing for the ‘back to school’ extravaganza, and the rest of the time I have been working flat-out in my non-furloughed role, job title ‘Professional Worrier’. It’s a lifelong, unpaid and stressful job, with erratic hours, but the upside is that it pays in wine, so…silver lining and all that.

After almost six months, it’s finally here. Both my children are at school! I have one at primary and one at secondary, and both schools have been utterly fantastic in the lead-up to the first day back. I can’t begin to imagine the difficulties and the work that’s gone into organising the new systems, but they’ve managed it. Even with the last-minute u-turn about face masks. They have communicated everything very clearly and done their utmost to set the kids’ minds at rest. Videos have been sent to us, detailing new routes into and out of school for different year groups, and giving us all the information we need about staggered start and finish times, how they will eat their lunch now, and of course all the new rules relating to hygiene.

Both my girls were excited and nervous in equal measure about going back. They couldn’t wait to see their friends, and do some proper learning. The kind where the teacher doesn’t get defensive about not remembering algebra and mutter under her breath about how nobody needs it anyway. The kind where the room doesn’t have to be vacated for 15 minutes every time the dog does a particularly vicious fart. And the kind where you can have a lunch break without being constantly shushed by the teacher in a furious whisper, because the teacher’s husband is on work call number 593 of the day.

They were therefore very excited to get back to a version of normality and interact with others. I say a version of normality, because of course nothing is ‘normal’ as was. Their fears were all centred around the new rules. What if I go the wrong way down the corridor? What if I forget, and hug my friend in the playground by mistake? What if I touch a door handle and then accidentally touch my face without using gel first? These are questions that no parent thought they would ever have to answer. Of course that’s all very strange and a little sad that these are the realities we are currently faced with. But before I got too carried away with the pathos of it all, I did have to remind myself that answering unexpected or awkward questions is par for the course when you have kids. Some of the classics I’ve had to deal with over the years are:

‘What does the Queen call her vagina? She’s quite posh so she probably calls it her front bottom.’

‘Do you think life would be difficult if Voldemort was an MP?’

‘You know Nana’s parents? Were they Celts or Romans?’

‘If our house is hit by an asteroid and we have to move in with Nana and Popop, will we have to move schools?’

‘Can the man who came to school last week to give us that talk, come to tea? I gave him our address’

‘Can we get a pet pig?’

The list goes on. We therefore got through the back to school questions quite easily, and the preparations continued. I ordered all the school uniform online, because they weren’t allowed to try it on in the shop. I was lucky that everything I ordered fitted, and I was spared the job of having to return things. Given that we’d already had to meet the standard annual seventy billion pound cost of new shoes, new coats, new uniforms etc. I think return postage may have pushed us into remortgaging territory.

One final job remained, which was to get the kids used to wearing the masks. So off we went for an afternoon of window shopping, where the following normally happens. The girls will:

1) Ask to buy almost everything in sight.

2) Lightly sulk when told no.

3) Offer to tidy, clean and redecorate the house in exchange for money to pay for said item.

4) Moderately sulk when told fat chance, given that they can’t even keep their own rooms tidy, and if I were to walk into either bedroom right now, I guarantee there would be at least three items that constitute biohazardous waste, as well as a pile of screwed up clothes.

5) Have a lightbulb moment and ‘add it to their birthday list’. The fact that their birthday might be in 360 days time means nothing, given that the second the clock strikes midnight after one birthday ends, they have already planned next year’s celebration and verbally invited twenty five of their friends to a party you had no idea was happening.

But before we could attempt any of that, the masks had to go on. After fighting with the straps for a minute or two, they were on, and within three seconds, my youngest was dramatically clutching her throat, gasping for breath and telling the world that her oxygen levels were depleting fast.

After very gently pointing out to her that thousands of key workers all over the world manage to wear them for hours on end and still have enough air in their lungs to get their jobs done, she realised that she was probably going to survive after all, and within minutes was chatting animatedly about horse posters.

I realised then that they’re both going to be alright, and they’re going to adapt fast. And I waved them off yesterday and this morning with a happy heart. Partly because they were going off to the place and the people they’ve been desperately missing for what feels like an eternity. But also because I was going to have some time to myself for the first time in nearly six months. FINALLY!

And the first thing I did with that incredible gift of free time, was to wander around the house wondering what to do, and what they were doing, and look forward to end of school time. There’s just no pleasing some people!

Bring on Bedtime!

Lockdown and aftermath – Week 19

Well the schools broke up a couple of weeks ago, and despite being at home, we still had the usual outbreak of Endoftermitis. Symptoms include fatigue, overheating, extreme irritability, picking fights over nothing at all, emotional outbursts, and a point-blank refusal to eat anything except chocolate and ice lollies. But enough about me. The girls did all the things they usually do at the end of term –got up later and later each day, displayed less and less enthusiasm for any school work, and made loud and frequent announcements detailing all the ways in which their sibling was failing at life.

Nevertheless, we made it to the end of term! Like everyone else, we made it through four long months of home schooling where we all learnt an incredible amount. Nothing about Maths obviously. But lots about patience, plenty about pulling together as a team, and most importantly, how to accurately convey the message ‘if you do that again, I will kill you’ through the medium of mime, because Daddy is on a work call and we have to be quiet.

Since the end of term, there has been great excitement in our house. As some of you already know, my daughter wrote a poem recently for a homework assignment. She writes a lot of poetry anyway, but this time, one of the teachers sent it to a contact at BBC South East, and the upshot was that they wanted to interview her for a piece about how writing helps her with anxiety. And with visions of suddenly becoming the next Meryl Streep, my daughter agreed to do it.

Because of the current restrictions, we were told that it would have to be done in an outdoor space, and our garden would be ideal. This was clearly mentioned with the optimism of someone who has no idea that our garden is really just a polite word for the dog’s toilet. Officially, there is a place to sit down, but given that it’s on the very decking that my husband put not just his foot, but his entire leg and half a buttock through a few weeks ago, we decided against it, opting to assume that the journalist was not in fact suicidal, and would probably prefer not to take the chance. We chose the local park instead.

They sent through a list of questions they would like to ask. This was the moment my stomach dropped down to my feet (I was going to say knees, but sadly it’s already pretty much there). It dropped because I realised that some of the questions were for me, and that I was expected to be part of the interview as well.

I immediately rang the organiser and tried to get out of it, but was told that they wanted to show the viewer that my daughter had the support of her family. And apparently warm vibes and thumbs up signs from 25 miles behind the camera doesn’t quite cut the mustard, so that was that. Plus, I’d shot myself in the foot by spending ages reassuring my nervous child that there was absolutely nothing to worry about, and nobody would judge her harshly. So I could hardly turn round and tell her I wasn’t setting foot in front of a camera, just because I didn’t want to showcase the very obvious results of my lockdown overeating on local television of all things.

Eventually, the day dawned and we were well prepared. My daughter had spent a long time sensibly preparing her answers and practising saying them out loud. I had carefully spent all my time cursing every single Mars bar I’d eaten over the last four months, and wondering if we could postpone for just a couple of years until I could fit back into even my ‘big’ clothes. Finally I pulled myself together, realised it was her moment, and off we went. Unfortunately my husband was working (that’s his excuse anyway), so it was just me and the girls.

The journalist, who was also the camera operator, was very kind and put us at ease. She carried out a lovely interview with my daughter, and recorded her reading her poetry. I was genuinely blown away by how natural she was, and how articulate she sounded.

Then it was my turn. I took a deep breath, told myself that if a 13 year old can do it, then so can I, and I stepped up. Where I proceeded immediately to act like a deer in headlights, look at the camera despite clear instructions not to, and forget not just my answers, but my name and reason for living as well. And while I’m not 100% certain, I’m reasonably sure that I smiled cheerfully all the way through explaining how anxiety makes my child suffer terribly. All I can do is pray and ask for three words to come true, namely ‘cutting room floor’.

At the end, the girls and I were filmed chatting on a bench, with no sound. We were meant to be chatting animatedly about my daughter’s poetry, portraying a vision of family fun and solidarity. What we were actually doing was pointing at the sheet of paper with the poem on it with a fixed grin on our faces, and arguing over whether the ice cream I’d promised they could have afterwards would be a single or double scoop, and would there be a flake?

So the deed is done, and if you’re in our area, apparently it’s going to be on BBC South East Today on or around 12th August. And as soon as we switch the tv off, I will be looking at houses in Australia.

Or at the very least, saying Bring on Bedtime!

Lockdown – Week 15

WEEK 15

I am officially declaring lockdown to be a personal success. I have been making a list of all the things I have managed to achieve during this difficult time. So far, I have:

1) Stuffed my face for three solid months with anything beginning with the letter ‘c’. Ok, not exactly celery and cucumber. More like cake, chocolate, cookies and cheese.

2) Consumed what amounts to a vineyard’s worth of wine. And that’s not even counting the gin.

3) Learnt all the things in Maths that I worked very hard to ignore the first time round.

4) Reached an understanding with my children. I now realise that they can’t compute the words ‘get up’, ‘wash’, ‘stop’, ‘no’, ‘quiet’ or ‘fruit’. In turn, they now know the exact note in my voice that signifies we are about to switch to DEFCON 1.

5) Educated my children about alligators by showing them my skin after three months of excessive hand-washing.

Given the outcome of the first two items in the list, not to mention the fact that the only exercise I get that raises my heart rate, is when I attempt to squeeze into my jeans each day, I realised something had to change. So, I decided the girls and I would begin the Couch to 5km running programme. Two things led me into a false sense of security. First was the fact that I had once run a half-marathon, so I felt reasonably prepared for what was coming, and second was that the girls were actually keen to do it.

So off we went one morning in our cobbled-together running gear, full of enthusiasm for as long as three seconds. That’s the point at which we remembered that we live at the bottom of a hill, and just walking to the post box is normally grounds for needing a lie-down. Nevertheless, we pressed on, and for our warm-up we walked briskly to the park. And by briskly, I simply mean that we walked very slowly indeed, but at least we didn’t stop to untangle ourselves from a dog lead, tie laces, argue, or do any of the other things that normally make up our daily outing.

Once at the park we were supposed to run for one minute, walk for one and a half minutes, then repeat the whole thing seven more times. Easy when you once ran for over thirteen miles, right? Er, no. Because I was a) years younger, b) stones lighter and c) minus two people whose sole purpose in life, is to moan until my remaining hairs turn grey.

The first couple of runs, surprisingly, were not too bad. It was halfway through the third that my lungs began to burn, and by the time we’d reached run number five, I had used up all my water because I was genuinely afraid that I might actually be on fire. All the while, I was shouting what I hoped were inspiring things to the girls. This is easier said than done, when all the breath in your body has made a bid for freedom, and what you say sounds completely distorted. Hence why my cheer of ‘keep going!’ sounded so much like ‘kill me now’. Or at least that’s what I told the girls afterwards.

During the final run, my ten-year-old decided to yell out something very encouraging as well. She shouted that she hated me and that I was trying to destroy her soul. It might seem odd that I would take that as a positive, but I was thrilled that at least she could pant in whole sentences.

But we got there in the end, and we were very pleased with ourselves afterwards. We did our stretches (which are surely God’s way of punishing people who exercise) and walked home, the girls laughing and arguing all the way over whether my face had turned purple, or was just a very deep shade of red.

I was happy to ignore this, smug in the knowledge that they were still unaware that Couch to 5km is a programme that goes on for weeks and weeks. But I thought I’d save that bit of information for when they’ll accept it best. I’ve decided I’ll whisper it to them when they’re asleep.

Bring on Bedtime!

Lockdown – Week 13

Over the last couple of weeks, in a bid to raise the kids’ spirits, I have been trying to come up with different things for us to do. One of these things was a ‘spa day’ for me and the girls. Strangely, my husband showed zero interest in taking part. ‘More fool him’ I thought, if he wants to miss out on de-stressing and blissful calm. I had of course, forgotten that I have children.

We began our experience with face masks. I got my selection out for the girls to look at, intending to talk them through what each one was for. I thought I might steer my teenager towards to the tea tree oil one, which is good for anyone who spends 5-7 hours a day picking her spots in the mirror. And I had earmarked the ‘invigorating’ one for my youngest, since she’d spent the last nine weeks moaning about how she’s too tired to do her Maths.

Unfortunately I never got the chance to offer my suggestions, because a nanosecond after the masks hit the bed, my younger daughter grabbed the top one shouting ‘ooh purple’, ripped it open and slapped it onto her face, pleased that within 15 minutes, if the packet were to believed, she would look ten years younger. Even after being reminded that she was born ten years ago, and had looked a bit like a squashed grape, she was undeterred.

Naturally she had it on the wrong way round, and I wanted to help, but because I’d tried to talk her out of the mask, she had decided my intentions were nothing short of nefarious, and proceeded to move as far away from me as possible, using one hand to hold the mask in place, and the other to wave around in front of her, to ward off my advances. I did eventually manage to help her turn it round the right way, but it involved several minutes of my life which I will never get back, and some wrestling.

In the meantime, my teenager had chosen the one which promised to reduce wrinkles. Exactly which wrinkles she thinks she has is something I will never discover, because I chose not to fight that particular battle. I felt it was more important to conserve energy for the upcoming one about whether she is aware she owns a wardrobe, or does she genuinely believe that the true purpose of a carpet is actually a holding area for clothes?

Eventually we were all lying down, wearing our various inappropriate face masks, and I felt myself daring to breathe a little more slowly. This naturally sounded the special alarm that only children can hear, warning my kids that Mummy was beginning to relax. This was the point that they remembered we absolutely must have cucumber slices for our eyes! Given that the number of their combined spa experiences adds up to a big fat zero, I can only blame television for the fact that they knew this was a ‘thing’. So off I trotted to the kitchen to obediently, if wearily, slice up a cucumber, forgetting that I had green paste all over my face, and alarming my Labrador in the process.

When I returned to the bedroom, it was to find them arguing over the Spotify list. One of them wanted to play ‘yoga’ music, but the other one said that made her want to vomit, and she wanted to listen to her audio book about witches. In the end we all agreed that if they didn’t stop fighting immediately, Mummy would not only switch the speakers off, she would personally shove them into places that would make their plans to spend the day relaxing considerably difficult.

Fifteen minutes later, the face masks were a thing of the past, and we had moved on to massages. They both very sweetly decided to treat me to a foot massage. This involved each of them taking one foot, rubbing some moisturiser in for precisely five seconds, before falling about in hysterics over the shape of my toes. This may not sound overly calming, but once they’d finished gulping with laughter, they did at least admit that they weren’t as bad as Daddy’s flat hobbit feet, so I’m counting that as a win.

Our final spa treat was toe and fingernail painting. Normal procedure when painting children’s nails is to hiss at them every five seconds to stop wriggling around, try if possible to get more varnish on the nails than on the rest of their hands, then watch them failing to sit still for the required ten minutes drying time. This leads to eventual outrage about how smudged it all is, and how it’s not their fault they didn’t sit still, because ‘everyone forgets things’.

I was amazed that at the end of the day, both girls declared the spa to be a great success and want to make it a monthly thing. I said absolutely, but it’s not fair that Daddy misses out on all the serenity, so next time he should take part. They were thrilled. Daddy less so. But I didn’t care because by then I was in my happy place – which is anywhere as long as it involves a wine glass.

Bring on Bedtime!

Lockdown – Week Eleven

So we’re back to ‘school’ now for the last term of the school year.  My daughter has unfortunately been saddled with a lousy teacher during this home schooling period.  At the beginning I thought that my normal job of teaching adults would be of great benefit during this difficult time.  I generally pride myself on being a patient person, and reasonably good at explaining things, and I was looking forward to the challenge.

I quickly learned that it’s easy to be patient when you haven’t been woken up at 7am by your student accidentally poking you in the eye, and wanting to know if they can have an ice lolly.  It’s also easier if, before the lesson starts, you haven’t had to threaten your pupil with armageddon unless they go and wave a flannel somewhere vaguely near their body, for all our sakes.  Or had to cope with the resulting twenty-minute whinge about how I’m basically a prison guard, and can’t I see how unfair I’m being, since I made them wash YESTERDAY?

Therefore, my standard teaching style has left the building, and I am forging a new path through the wilderness of primary school education.  For Maths, standard procedure is to:

1) watch the assigned video with a look of fascination on my face in case my daughter sneaks a glance over at me. Try not to think about everything else I should be doing

2) read the first question with zero understanding

3) get annoyed

4) Google it

5) not understand a single word of the ‘easy explanations’ Google presents me with

6) wonder how I managed to pass Maths G.C.S.E.

7) ask my daughter what she thinks the answer is

8) say ‘well done’, regardless of accuracy, and move on to the next question

9) repeat, adding an extra 10% annoyance each time

In Science, my ten-year-old is learning about the importance of a balanced diet.  During these lessons I head off to the kitchen to prepare her a suitably healthy snack of fruit, yoghurt, or cheese.  I then proceed straight back to the kitchen to prepare my own snack.  This usually involves hiding behind the tall cupboard door and stuffing a Mars bar into my mouth as fast as is humanly possible, before I’m caught.  

Of course, kids have a radar for this kind of thing, so inevitably one of them will come into the kitchen the second the chocolate hits my taste buds.  I am then limited to two choices (unless you include confessing, which I don’t).  Firstly, I can speedily use my tongue to push the remaining chocolate into the side of my mouth and hope they don’t notice how it makes me speak like Kenneth Williams, not to mention the fact that I look like an oversized and particularly greedy hamster.  Alternatively, I can feign a coughing fit, spit the chocolate out into my hand and hope to God they don’t choose that moment to suggest a high five.

Once that hurdle is cleared, it’s back to school and we plough through the rest of the day’s topics with mutual dread and confusion, with the odd beacon of light thrown in (I was going to say English, but more accurately, lunch)

When the school day is over, it’s time to pack my entire day of work into the remaining couple of hours before dinner.  This leaves me with just enough fuel to fight the thirty or so compulsory battles before bedtime, finishing with the nightly decision over whether ‘she hit me first!’ is in fact, a valid argument.

By which time I’m ready to sink down onto the sofa and I have energy left for two things.  First, watching my puppy bark at the dustpan and brush for ten minutes straight.  And second, a glass of wine.  And by glass, I mean vat.

Bring on Bedtime!

Lockdown – Week Nine

Last week we received confirmation that my teenager will not be required to go back to school until at least September. My younger daughter is also unlikely to go back, because she is not in one of the listed years that may return in June.

I’m flitting between huge relief that we don’t have to make a decision about whether to send them in, sympathy for those that do (and for those who have no choice), and frustration and disappointment on behalf of my kids who are facing weeks and weeks more of the same.

They are coping brilliantly, but they miss their grandparents so much it hurts. They miss their friends, their teachers, the classroom environment, and they even miss all the kids that they would normally moan about. In other words, they miss normality, just like we all do.

Instead they have me. In fact, with the amount I’ve been eating they actually have me in double amounts. Well, physically anyway. Mentally I am functioning on significantly less cylinders than pre-lockdown times, but thankfully I only have to remember a handful of phrases these days, which tend to be variations of:

‘You may not be able to smell anything but I can. Get in the shower’
‘You’re not hungry, you’re bored’
‘It’s 7am, I’m not discussing pudding’
‘See if you can do it yourself’

And that’s just to my husband.

As for the kids, I’ve been encouraging them to keep a lockdown diary, hoping it would be a good distraction and also help with their writing skills. I told them all about the diary I kept as a teenager and hoped they would feel inspired. They did. They felt inspired to ask me whether I wrote it on a scroll, with a quill, and wanted to know whether it was now sepia coloured, since it had been written in the olden days.

After I’d reminded them who provided all the snacks around here, they agreed to listen while I told them of my visions of them as adults, reading the diary to their own children, describing all the difficulties and the poignant moments of these historic times. So they gave in and agreed to write one.

A few days later, I checked back in with them. So far, my teenager had written two things. Her name, and the lyrics to her favourite song. She had apparently been planning to write more, but was too tired from all the walks I made her go on, so it’s actually my fault. My ten-year-old however had written a considerable amount. Nothing about the times we’re living in of course, but plenty about how mean and unfair Mummy is for confiscating her slime, because it was obviously an ACCIDENT that she smacked her sister in the face. Although she also made the point that it was mainly down to her sister for putting her face there in the first place.

Based on this outcome, I thought we would go for Plan B instead. We would make a time capsule, filling it with things that would illustrate the life we’re living right now. I had already decided I was putting in a bottle of gin, my therapist’s number and a can of root-concealing hairspray.

The girls quite liked this idea and proceeded to make a list of what they felt should go in. First up was loo roll. I assumed this was a reference to all the panic-buying at the beginning of lockdown, but it turns out it was because my eldest had been caught short at two minutes to eight last Thursday, and had been forced to show her support for the NHS by clapping heartily from the toilet seat. Even when one hand became unavailable for obvious reasons, she insisted on slapping her thigh with the other one so that the neighbours could be sure she was joining in.

They also suggested putting in some dog poo, because of the time last week when Mummy accidentally trod in some and then walked it through the entire house before realising that the smell wasn’t Daddy after all.

Eventually we settled on at least some sensible things like newspaper clippings and photographs and it was complete. We ceremoniously buried the time capsule and went indoors, talking excitedly about when we thought someone might uncover it.

Precisely thirty minutes later we had our answer when our Labrador puppy came bumbling in looking very pleased with himself, with one paw stuck in the toilet roll and a newspaper in his mouth. We never did find the gin.

Bring on Bedtime!

Lockdown – Weeks Six and Seven

I must admit I’ve found the last couple of weeks a bit of a challenge. People I love have lost people they love. Half the country seems to think that 600+ daily deaths is now a cause for celebration and freedom from lockdown. My kids are having more ‘low’ moments than ever, and I’m trying to find more and more new ways in which to lift their spirits.

I watch them every day, looking at kids from different families playing together, and feeling angry that they have to follow the rules while others don’t. They are bright kids, they understand why we are doing this, but it’s hard on them to see other people doing the opposite, right under their noses. And of course these experiences are nothing compared to what many are facing right now. So we take it day by day, and minute by minute if we have to.

We have been back to ‘school’ for the last fortnight, where I have been reminded that year five is the year they learn about sex education. Having already been through this once with my older daughter, I didn’t forsee any problems. What I didn’t bank on was the power of sisters.

Years ago, I had carefully explained all the facts to my daughter, and questions were asked and answered without embarrassment. While I was busy congratulating myself on a job well done, it turns out she was busy imparting a watered down and only partially correct version of the birds and the bees to her seven year old sister, scaring the living daylights out of her. I should have known when I heard them playing in the bath together at the time. One of them had named her doll ‘Vagina’ and the other one was casually wondering whether or not Vagina would like any cake.

So I had to start from scratch. Apparently a few years ago when my older daughter was learning about this subject, the teacher got them to get any giggling and embarrassment out of the way by shouting out the names of certain body parts as loudly as they could. This is a great idea, but given that our windows have been constantly open with all this lovely weather, I couldn’t face explaining to the neighbours why my child was screaming ‘penis’ repeatedly first thing on Monday morning, so we abandoned it in favour of a slightly more traditional approach.

And I did have to try not to laugh at some of the random and unexpected questions. My ten-year-old wanted to know whether it’s important to go to the loo first. At which point my thirteen-year-old sighed, rolled her eyes and said in a don’t be ridiculous tone ‘Mummy has had two children, she won’t be having any more sex’. The look of horror on her face when I suggested otherwise, was worth its weight in gold.

There swiftly followed a lightbulb moment for her, when she realised there was a possibility that we might have another baby. An idea suggested by her and extinguished by me in two seconds flat. This resulted in a tantrum because apparently she ‘really really wants a brother or sister’. Cue outrage from….her actual sister.

With that hurdle cleared, I manoeuvred my way through the sex education topic fielding questions about shape, size, colour (?), and smell (???). One of them wanted to know whether her boobs would eventually drop off, to be replaced by new ones after the ‘boob fairy’ had visited. This led to a discussion about how much money they could expect to receive should this be the case, and the unfairness if it was directly linked to size. Although they did say that it might be great because Mummy’s could make us all millionaires. Bless her for the exaggeration, but even I had a wishful thinking moment at that point. Who needs the lottery?

But we got there in the end and my youngest is now hopefully aware of enough facts, but not too many. We’ve managed to get over the ‘asking your grandparents over video chat whether they still have sex’ phase. Now all I have to do is get through the current phase where every time she leaves the room, she asks me and Daddy if we’re going to ‘do it’. Then it’s my turn for the don’t be ridiculous tone. Doesn’t she know there’s a lockdown on, and I’m far too busy drinking?

Bring on Bedtime!

Lockdown – Week Five

I looked over at my daughter earlier this week and saw her beaming at me. My heart melted as I wondered what happy thoughts might be going through her mind. Then she said, ‘Mummy, I’ve been looking at your bum. It’s just like your back, only squishier and with a line in it’.

Now pardon the pun, but we all know hindsight is a wonderful thing. With hindsight, I would have just agreed with her. With hindsight, I would never have asked ‘Isn’t everyone’s?’ And with hindsight I could have avoided the twenty-minute monologue which followed, on the subject of ‘The Bums of Everyone I Know Or Have Ever Met’. So you live and learn. But you can’t get away.

And believe me, this week I have been unsuccessfully trying to get away from many things. Mainly my children. Specifically, the name yelled out by my children at approximately thirty second intervals for sixteen hours each day. That name is of course ‘Mummy!’ (full name ‘Mummy, can I have…’ or ‘Mummy, where is my…’)

I shouldn’t complain because I really do love my kids with a passion that burns as bright as a thousand suns. Well, when they’re asleep, anyway. It’s just that when you’ve heard ‘Mummy’ seventy billion times a day, and sixty billion of those are requests for food, you start to fantasise about being somewhere else. Exotic places like the car, or the end of the drive, or the depths of hell. It comes to something when the most exciting thing your husband has said to you in over a month is ‘I’m taking the kids and the dog out for a walk’.

It might not be so bad if the conversations differed occasionally. But they are always the same:

Child: ‘I’m starving’
Me: ‘you haven’t finished the last mouthful of lunch yet’
Child: ‘what can I have?’
Me: ‘a piece of fruit’
Child: ‘what else is there?
Me: *lists ten other healthy things*
Child: ‘chocolate?’
Me: ‘no’
Outraged child: ‘you never let me have anything nice’
Me: ‘you had half a giant Easter egg as a pre-breakfast snack’
Child: ‘but I’m starving’

This is repeated ten times until they moodily go off with the apple that they said they were allergic to, because they know if they keep going with that lie, there will be no more apple crumble in their future.

When it’s not about food, it’s guaranteed to be about something entirely unnecessary. Recently, I heard the cry ‘MUMMY, WHERE ARE THE TOWELS?’ I arrived on the scene to find my youngest standing in front of the airing cupboard, looking directly at about twenty towels. Turns out she wanted a red one.

Sometimes it’s, ‘MUMMY, WHERE IS MY TOP?’ This one’s easy. No matter which top is in question, the answer is always either ‘stuffed into the gap between your desk and your bookcase/ behind your curtains/in the dog’s bed (delete as appropriate).

And every day at some stage, they will shout ‘MUMMY’ right at the time that my patience has not just reached its limit, it’s gone around in a loop and reached it again. They will then be treated to a five minute rant where I will shout a list of all the things I’m trying to get done, what could they possibly want now, and is it too much to ask to get a second’s peace around here?

And that is the point that they will say ‘I just wanted to tell you I love you’. And even though I know damn well they were actually going to ask for crisps, but clocked the note of hysteria in my voice and did a rapid u-turn, I still add this to the list of ‘things to feel guilty about when they’re in bed’.

But every night along with the guilt, there is also hope. The hope that tomorrow I might get it right. I will somehow become a beacon of serenity, setting a brilliant example of how to cope under pressure. They will explain in future media interviews that this was their inspiration to become the only person ever to achieve world peace.

And then I realise the wine bottle is empty.

Bring on Bedtime!

Lockdown – Week Four

According to various sources, you’re not doing lock-down properly if you’re not happily and simultaneously baking bread, learning Spanish, losing two stone and building an annexe for your house out of old yoghurt pots and dental floss. Whilst singing. However, our experience over the last week has been somewhat different.

On Easter Sunday I was enjoying a blissful lie-in, when I woke to the sound of my children arguing over whether I was dead or not. I called out to them and waited for them to rush in, overcome with relief that their mother was still breathing, if not functioning entirely on all cylinders. This was naïve in the extreme. The news of my non-demise was in fact greeted by my teenager smugly hissing ‘In your face!’ to her sister, and her sister replying in outrage that anyone would have thought the same if they’d seen the way I was lying with my mouth open.

Conversations about death never ever go well in our house. The last one I can remember, began with my youngest announcing that she had decided what she was going to wear at Grandad’s funeral. It progressed to me saying ‘that’s lovely darling but try to remember that Grandad isn’t actually dead. In fact, he’s not even ill’. And it ended abruptly with an argument because she refused to accept that nobody wears wellies AND a floor-length party dress to a funeral anyway.

More recently, my eldest piped up at the dinner table with ‘Daddy, guess what? When Mummy gets cremated, I’m going to have her ashes made into jewellery’. Trying not to think about the cheerful tone of voice, I considered this. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely idea, but I did have to question her choice, given the certain fate of every piece of jewellery she has ever owned. I didn’t much fancy being stuffed into a pocket, then going three times through the washing machine before being laid to rest somewhere in the abyss underneath her bed. Probably next to a screwed-up pair of knickers and a used fork.

Luckily for me, she had an alternative idea. She wants to turn my ashes into a tattoo of the word ‘Love’, where the ‘O’ is a sun because I always sing ‘You are my sunshine’ to her. I was quite touched by this. Although not for long, because judging by the look on my ten-year-old’s face, World War Three was not far around the corner, approaching at speed. She declared that her sister was ‘hogging everything as usual’ and why shouldn’t she have half of me to put somewhere? After all, she had that little china pot she had bought that time we went to Menorca, and it wouldn’t take a second to tip out the paper clips.

So the rest of dinner time was spent reassuring my children that of course they could split me into two piles and no, I don’t mind where on the bedside table I go, and yes it was lovely that they definitely wouldn’t pick their nose out of respect for me.

With the matter finally settled, we were free to enjoy the rest of the week and the beautiful weather, and think about happier things. Such as where’s my wine glass, and when can we ‘Bring on Bedtime’!

Lockdown – Week 3

My daughters are a little scared. Before their very eyes, their once-familiar Mummy is going through a metamorphosis, without even the decency of first entering a cocoon. Although they are now fully accustomed to the lack of bra, every day still brings a new and upsetting adjustment for them.

At the beginning of the week, my youngest told me that she liked my grey eyes. Pushing aside my annoyance that in 10 years she might at least have worked out my eye colour, I patiently replied that my eyes are brown. After much confusion and pointing, it turned out she was talking about the shadows UNDER my eyes. I took the compliment anyway; you can’t be too proud.

As if that weren’t bad enough, yesterday my teenager asked me how I got that scar on my face. Investigations revealed it to be a new wrinkle. I think it probably appeared as a direct result of the eleven hours I spent trying to get them to do their thirty minutes of chores.

And it’s not just my eyes and face. My roots are growing out and the grey is not only back, it’s brought reinforcements. I don’t mind it, but my children seem to view it as a sign of my imminent death and keep asking if I need to sit down.

Don’t be fooled though, they don’t actually mean it. Like all children, they were born with a built-in alarm system, which sounds the second I even THINK about sitting down for five minutes.

This warning is their cue to yell out ‘MUMMY!’ at deafening levels until they get a response. It doesn’t occur to them to come down the stairs and into the same room to speak to me. I therefore spend the next ten minutes or so yelling up the stairs to inform them that I’m not going to keep yelling up the stairs. Their response is to shout ‘Mummy’ again, only louder. It’s basically a game of ‘who will get angry and give in first’ which I win every time.

Once we are finally speaking face-to-face, it turns out that 75% of the time, they want food (the rest of the time it’s the WiFi password). The obvious answer is to get them to do it themselves, but let’s not be too hasty here. Firstly, our versions of ‘snack’ differ considerably. My version involves something with a vitamin or two. Theirs involves me having to hoover up vast amounts of spilt sugar, which I will continue to find in surprising places for a fortnight afterwards.

However, this is still nowhere near as bad as when they attempt to be kind and make me something to eat. I am still recovering from the time they very kindly offered to make me lunch, and I was presented with lemon curd spread on dry Weetabix and hot vegetable stock to drink. I naturally declared it to be delicious, but I think I did too good an acting job, because they now think this is my go-to treat. They will bring Daddy hot chocolate and a Kit Kat, while I brace myself for the crackle of the cereal packet.

So I am greyer in the eyes and hair, more creased in the facial area and deafer by the minute. I’ve got less patience, more rolls of fat from all the stress-eating, and my blood is three parts wine to one part blood cells.

Despite that I am still here, still smiling (a grimace is a sort of smile, right?) and still saying ‘Bring on Bedtime!’