This is written with the deepest respect and appreciation for all of your amazing social media posts but (and again I say this with the deepest respect) FUCK YOU.
FUCK YOU and your competitive quarantining.
Your pictures and your posts are admirable but I am barely holding on here and you’re really not helping.
While you're teaching your children a second language and how to play the violin and ensuring that ‘Home School’ runs to a strict schedule with set subjects and healthy lunches we’re all in our pyjamas. In fact, one of my sons isn’t even in his pyjamas. He’s just wearing pants. He wears them all day every day. Occasionally he goes outside to eat lunch in them but mainly he just lounges around inside. In his pants.
I don’t have a leg to stand on.
I can’t remember when I last washed my own hair. I’m wearing brown yoga pants and my breasts can’t recollect what it’s like to be bolstered inside a bra.
We’re letting it all hang out and just hanging out. It’s the most that we can manage.
FaceBook makes me feel sick. I don’t want to see pictures of your child’s incredible self-portrait oil painting that’s actually a genuine likeness. I don’t want to know that week two has been a wonderful success and your entire family are now almost fluent in Italian. I don’t want cute pictures of your children doing their Joe Wick’s daily workout. It starts at 9am. For fucks sake people! 9am. We’re usually still asleep. If we’re not asleep I’m either pretending to be asleep or we’re all up making pancakes and squirting fake cream straight into our mouths. It saves on washing up. And that’s a good thing. Because with five of us in the house 24 hours a day there is so much fucking washing up.
We’re on week four here and we (and by ‘we’ I mean ‘I’ - my husband has the luxury of an actual JOB still) are failing miserably at home schooling. My kids have been glued to screens for almost eight hours today. Some of that may possibly have been to discuss homework with friends but I haven’t bothered checking so it’s highly unlikely. Mainly it’s to play Fortnite or Crossy Road or to just connect with friends via House Party. And do you know what? I don’t care. I don’t give one single shit.
Last week we tried to do home schooling and it was a complete disaster. My children cried. I cried. (If crying was a competition then I won). Until today my youngest son hadn’t spoken to anyone his age in three weeks. And he was becoming depressed. Properly depressed. So I gave up and gave him the i-pad. He’s been playing bullshit games with four of his friends all day. And I mean ALL day. His eyesight may never recover and the muscles in his legs may genuinely atrophy and wither away. But he’s happy. He’s no longer lonely. My middle son has also played more Fortnite than should be legal. But again, he’s talking to his friends. He’s laughing right now in the front room whilst talking to mates on headsets and blowing up strangers. My teenage son stays up half the night watching horror films on Netflix Party with his crew. But fuck it. The virus has destroyed all of their social lives, their love lives and everything that makes being a teenager vaguely bearable. So Netflix away my son. Netflix away.
Life is currently mental. If you’re doing GREAT, then great. But please don’t tell me about it. If you’ve discovered that you can ‘Home School’ like a champion then good for you. Take your kids out of school. Do it forever! You’re clearly a born-to-be-teacher with the patience of a saint. But please just keep to it to yourself. Unless you’re braless, drinking wine, crying at the news and eating pizza then I don’t want to know. Before the outbreak of COVID-19 I hadn’t had a drink in 3 months. Now wine is the highlight of my day. That and going to bed. Because bed means that we’re all still alive, we’ve survived another day and the day is finally over.
So awesome Super-Parents, kindly please just fuck off with your Instagram and your Facebook. It reminds me of when I had a new baby and was leaking uncontrollably out of every orifice but could only see new mums online in their white skinny jeans, with large smiles holding babies dressed in cashmere knits. That shit should be illegal.
I’m sure there must be other parents out there who are a little like me. If our kids aren’t crying and we’re not crying then personally I think we’re doing brilliantly. We are surviving, and ultimately that is all that counts. Health and some vague degree of happiness is what matters at the moment. Piano concertos and further maths can wait. At least until all of the people around us stop dying. Dying! In the meantime, take your pretentious self-congratulatory parenting and fuck right off.
I’m switching off my phone now to have another glass of wine to celebrate my family being alive still. I might even change my pants.