If I had known that lockdown would last this long I would have taken contraception far more seriously. I only chose to have three children because I assumed that schools would educate them, other children would socialise with them and a variety of adults would be around to help turn them into decent human beings. It takes a village. Or at least it should. Now the entire fucking village is closed until further notice and the only other adult in the house is locked in the upstairs office. If my children grow up to be total dicks there will be absolutely no-one else to blame but me.

This feels like a huge responsibility. Especially because I have boys. I have no fucking clue what it’s like to be a boy. I don’t even have a brother. In fact, I literally couldn’t be any less qualified to parent a boy, let alone alone three of them. Having three boys is challenging at the best of times. (And by the best of times I mean any time pre-Covid when schools were open). Having three boys during a global pandemic is just plain brutal. Add puberty into the mix and there simply isn’t enough tequila. Which is ironic, given that tequila is partly what got me into this mess called parenting in the first place.

The other thing that got me into this mess is currently on a Zoom call. He is wearing his brand new shoes which he ordered specifically for the house, to wear for work. ‘Work’ involves sitting at the desk in the small box room up one flight of carpeted stairs. Footwear is completely unnecessary. Despite this my husband has decided that shoes make him feel more ‘professional.’ At the very worst I was expecting some ridiculous new trainers; a collab between a sports brand and some achingly cool Gen Z designer that I’d never heard of. But no. He ordered a severe looking pair of black leather shoes. At the end of the working day he now takes the uncomfortable things off, sighs and says ‘that feels better.’ As far as I’m concerned my husband has fucking lost it.

If shoes weren’t evidence enough you should see the rest of the things that have been delivered. Online shopping appears to be my man’s latest hobby. Random packages turn up. Some days I can’t get through the hall because of the sheer amount of boxes. Last week it was fake plants. Giant ones. Huge leafy plastic trees. If I could list all the things we need in our life, fuck-off-massive fake plants wouldn’t make the list. Ever. But my husband currently thinks otherwise and so our house, already full of real plants, now resembles an actual jungle.

I don’t particularly mind the plants. At least they’re impossible to kill. This is a good thing when everything else in the house is at risk from either Covid-19 or homicide. I’m personally really proud of myself for not actually killing any of my family members (yet). It’s a real achievement. I should get a badge. Especially today when I’ve been trying to explain how the fuck to work out the medians of grouped frequency tables with the help of a single You Tube video and a 4 line email from the maths teacher. I’m even more proud of the boys for not killing each other. The combination of lock down and a testosterone-surge-shit-fest makes death-by-brother a very real possibility.

I’m pretty sure my family want to kill me too but they’ll have to find me first. This will be a challenge given the huge amount of plastic foliage available to hide behind. Also I’m incredibly quiet. Because unlike my husband I’m not actually wearing any shoes.

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