I’m really fucking proud of my kids this week. My eldest has actually ‘completed’ Netflix. Like it’s some kind of video game with different levels where ‘Tiger King’ is the end of level baddie. The middle one has started competing in Fortnite tournaments for money. I’m pretty sure that four weeks ago this would have horrified me. Now I’m fully supportive of a child in his pyjamas bringing in some extra income playing PS4. Most impressively, the nine year old has managed to bend time, miss out four years of childhood and progress straight to being a teenager. He’s currently watching a screen in his room with all of the blinds closed. I’ve tried to coax him out into daylight but he just sighs and rolls his eyes at me.
I’ve managed considerably less than my kids. The most productive thing I’ve done is pick the remains off my gel nails and massively fuck up cutting my youngest son’s hair. But at least it wasn’t so shit that I made a child cry. Unlike my husband. His attempts at using clippers have resulted in the eldest swearing a lot and insisting on wearing a hat to bed for the past three nights. My husband is now too scared to let any of us cut his hair in case we use it as an opportunity to take revenge. I’m fine with this. In a few weeks time I’ll be waking up next to a man with long greasy locks who can just about play the drums. Basically my teenage sexual fantasy is about to come true.
Whilst I’ve done sod all other than survive, everyone else seems to be baking sourdough by the mother-fucking batch-load. This level of productivity, whilst admirable, makes me feel seriously shit. I’m also very confused. Sourdough tastes like dust mixed with tarmac. Why is everyone churning out loaves with an intensity that suggests that sourdough is the secret cure for Covid-19? Bread flour costs more than actual bread right now. Just buy some supermarket bread people. Then you’ll have loads more time to ‘complete’ Netflix, play Fortnite like a pro or just cry.
Crying is my new favourite hobby. It’s really easy to pick up, it’s free, you don’t need to wear a bra to do it and I’m pretty sure it counts as exercise. Lots of things can make me cry at the moment. Everything Donald Trump says. People dying. The fact I had three kids. This weekend I did some really impressive crying when the Easter eggs we ordered in the online supermarket delivery didn’t turn up. It turns out that the Easter bunny has been temporarily replaced with a co-lab between Bernie’s Corner Shop and the Uber Eats delivery guy. It also transpires that three Easter eggs arriving by moped can cost enough money to make someone cry all over again.
On the plus side, I’m pretty sure I’ve single handedly guaranteed the survival of a local business for at least the next six months. I also reckon I’ve burned enough calories crying to eat as much ridiculously expensive chocolate as I want. As well as bread. Bread that comes from a supermarket and I didn’t fucking well bake. It’s delicious.