Oh dear fucking God. I’m comfort eating crisps whilst trying not to have a panic attack. This is a dangerous combination of activities. There is a very real risk of inhaling razor sharp fragments of fried potato right now. School have just sent out an email to confirm that they will not re-open to my children until at least September, with the possible exception of the eldest who MAY (they wrote the word in capitals for added impact) get ‘some’ time in a classroom. This is fucking terrible news.
It is terrible for two reasons. Firstly, the eldest child is the one I least mind having at home. He can cook. He can fuck off and go running without needing a chaperone. And he doesn’t require me to teach him anything. This is partly because he’s old enough to get on with it but mainly because I am totally inept. It turns out that acing your GCSE’s over 20 years ago is today’s equivalent of just about scraping through primary school. His work is blissfully beyond me and so I am off the hook. Most importantly, he can make a mean vodka cocktail. As my friend reassuringly pointed out, ‘No one understands oblivion quite like a teenager’. And so he is more than welcome to stay at home.
This news is also terrible because it means that I am in charge of the younger children’s education for the foreseeable future. I honestly do love them but the thought of attempting to teach until the next academic year makes me want to kill myself. I must rank as one of the worst teachers on the planet, mainly because I really really don’t want to fucking do it. My children hate me teaching them. I hate teaching them. And they can tell. I really miss my children being at school so that I can be ‘fun mum’ at the end of the day instead of the shouting, frustrated, fiasco of a parent and educator that they now have to contend with.
It’s not just the teaching that is making it hard to breathe slowly enough and eat crisps fast enough. The mere thought of having children at home for many more months is terrible. Most of my conversations with them currently leave me wanting to shoot myself in the fucking face. I can no longer ask them about their day at school (I already know just how shit that was) and so we have to have inane chats about Fortnite skins, how hot Sommer Ray is looking, whether Tekashi 6ix9ine actually got bummed in prison and the rarity of Neon Bat Dragons in Roblox. Much more of this and there is a genuine risk that my brain might break.
The house is ahead of me and is breaking already. The poor place has never been so lived in. Literally. The building and its contents are cracking under the strain of 5 residents utilising the space constantly. The dishwasher has cracked, the tumble dryer has died and yesterday the door handle to the snack cupboard came off in the eldest’s hand. To be honest I’m actually amazed it lasted this long. The cupboard is opened and closed a billion times a day as the boys hunt for cereal, chocolate and crisps. Their hunger is outstandingly impressive. I’ve given up yelling ‘Don’t eat that, it will ruin your dinner.’ Because it fucking won’t. They’ll eat everything and anything that appears in their field of vision, like the pack of pubescent velociraptors that they are. Velociraptors that are staying at home. Until September. FUCKKKKKK.