Motherhood&…Optimism in Lockdown

Emily, Wednesday 29th April, 10:30

Well, my lovely, how the ruddy hell are you? I feel like it’s finally time for us to address the germ-riddled elephant in the room. We’re in our sixth week of officially being in lockdown (we started the week before, because we’re over-achievers, so it’s seven for us) and I wonder how you‘re doing — you’re looking after three small people and I bet people ask about them all the time, so how are you holding up? I feel like I’m pretty much institutionalised now, and have found a rhythm in this slowed down strain of an existence, with only fleeting bouts of pulsing staccato anxiety (usually at around 5pm every day; note to self, limit news intake). Looking after O without the usual merry-go-round of sensory classes, baby cinema, National Trust trips and visits to relatives is hard (not helped by molars/dropping down to one nap a day/disturbed sleep/TANTRUMS) but I keep reminding myself that we are the lucky ones.

Rachel, Thursday 30th April, 15:20

Argh, there are so many facets of this. Here’s the one that came first for me: having the schools shut and the country lock down felt hugely momentous. I’ve always felt drawn towards that point in 1939 when Chamberlain announced over the radio that we were at war with Germany. Gives me a chill down the spine when I see it in old footage. Because there are pivot moments in your life where, even in the second they’re happening, you know things are changing permanently: there is a before and an after, and the point in the middle is marked by this moment you’re in now.

Obviously this is not a war, and comparisons to WW2 already feel trite, but I did feel like that, when lockdown started. A kind of held breath, and a trepidation, and an awareness that I was living in something that would make it into history textbooks. Teachers have commented how flat and empty it felt, sending the children off home on the Friday and not knowing when they’d see them again, when we didn’t yet have many deaths or drama. It was a weird weekend.

So how does that intersect with parenting? I think knowing your child’s experience of childhood is being disrupted by something huge can come with a lot of sadness and fear. I feel intermittent grief for all of the normal experiences they’re missing. My older two were doing so well in their classes — they probably won’t ever go back to that particular teacher. They were learning to swim. They had playdates with friends. As adults we’re more aware of those ramifications than they are. What do we do with that sense of momentousness and loss on their behalf?

My only answer, so far, is to empathise with the loss when they feel it, and to emphasise for them the things that stay the same: our safe house, our family love and routines.

What would your answer to that be?

Emily, Thursday 30th April, 21:55

If I think too deeply about the negative aspects of this, I get quite panicky. O loved going to baby classes, swimming lessons and spending time with our families — I’ve found the loss of the latter, in particular, really hard. I hope it won’t have any lasting impact on O’s confidence or development — luckily, she is still so young she really doesn’t have any idea what is going on. I really feel for older children who are missing their friends and school.

It is strange that something so life altering and horrendous is so deeply rooted in the mundane — most of the time I feel annoyed and bored and frustrated. But then every so often, the enormity of what we’re living through hits me. The fact that we all tune in at 5pm to find out how many people have died that day is so Orwellian and awful. I think a lot about something we studied at university — ‘the sublime’ — which is, basically, the idea that you can find something beautiful, but also terrifying in its scale and scope. I liken it to the feeling you get when you stand under something like the Eiffel Tower — that sense that this is too big, it’s too much.

I try not to let my mind wander into ‘too big, too much’ and focus on whatever beauty I can find in the mundane day-to-day. A couple of months ago I felt nervous at the thought of going back to work, and wished I could just stay at home with O every day. Well, I got my wish — not in a form I would have wanted or even thought possible, but it’s here. And there’s nothing we can do to change it. All I can do is keep O safe and try to enjoy this experience of back-to-basics parenting as much as possible.

Has anything come out of this that you’ve unexpectedly appreciated or welcomed the opportunity to explore?

Rachel, Sunday 3rd May 20:45

Whew, that is an amazingly apt comparison to the sublime: ‘too big, too much’ describes exactly what my brain does when confronted with the scale of this thing every day.

Of course you don’t want to be all ‘this has been GREAT for ME!’ when so many people are suffering. This ain’t Eat Pray Love. But on the other hand, I think about what Naomi Alderman said about being in New York after 9/11: when everything was rubble, people were able to see what they wanted more clearly, decide which parts of their normality they wanted to return to, and which they wanted to leave behind. She said ‘Not being able to hold it together is a kind of freedom’. And I think it is: take everything away, and you feel like you’re starting from scratch, with all the leeway that implies.

So there have been small discoveries. Walking every day, we’ve had to find new pathways to stop getting bored, and have found magical things: hidden bluebell woods, over-friendly cows, tucked-away churchyards. The kids have never seen Tim so much. We are video calling family — everyone’s home, so the time difference isn’t impossible to work around. I don’t yell at anyone to put on their shoes and find their coat, anymore. It seems odd now that I ever did.

For me, that clarity-in-the-rubble thing: I was surprised by the depths of my grief at giving up my job. I really liked you specifying what I’ve had the ‘opportunity to explore’, because raging and crying at my new roles of teacher, secretary and cook has not been fun or positive, but it has been meaningful. I’ve realised that my job is essential to me, that it’s alright to treat it as essential, because if it’s not trivial to me then it’s not trivial. So I feel empowered to get back to it with more drive and creativity when this is all over. I think there’s a lot of value in letting your feelings be, whatever they are from day to day, and trying to see what they can tell you.

Have there been any new in-the-rubble clarities for you?

Emily, Tuesday 5th May, 11:20

I’ve always had this fantasy of living a more simple life — my husband laughs at me for it because it is quite ridiculous, truth be told. It mostly revolves around me owning a vintage bike and being able to cycle to a nearby bakery on a Saturday morning. I’d put my neatly packaged carbohydrates in my bike’s basket, and maybe stop off at a florist to pick up some yellow tulips and possibly even a newsagent to purchase a newspaper. It’s a tiny dream but I’ve had it for ages, and in some ways this experience has confirmed that I do like a simple life, abundant in meaningful details that are special to me but rooted in ordinariness.

But I miss working. Or at least, having the quiet and mental headspace to work properly — I daydream about having a full day to myself to really get things done, rather than trying to cram as much as possible into snatched snippets of time. There is a reason why looking after children and trying to work at the same time is hard — because it’s bloody impossible. If it weren’t, people would already have been doing it.

I worry about the state of my career a lot, because I was at a bit of a crossroads anyway. But I’m also trying to not let that worry take over — because there is nothing I can do about it right now. And we’re all in the same boat. I was listening to Elizabeth Day’s How to Fail podcast with the designer Henry Holland recently and, when asked about how he was handling lockdown, he said something that really resonated — ‘acknowledge the pause’.

I’m given myself permission to pause. To savour this time with O, to be creative, to appreciate my home. It’s not ideal that I’ve become a stay at home mum and 1950s housewife overnight, and it would be easy to draw bigger conclusions from this about the gender divide, but what’s the point? Dan has a full-time job that is our main income stream right now — my work is more flexible and there is less of it. Practically, this is what works for this brief snippet of time. Although if I have to clean the kitchen once more I think I may scream (why does it only stay tidy for five seconds?!)

Rachel, Tuesday 5th May, 19:15

I think there’s so much to take away about what feels important to each of us right now. Why shouldn’t we feel joy at the thought of cycling to the florist — or making up a stupid dance with your kids, or helping your dad clean out the manky old shed for an afternoon? As everything’s come to a halt I have been thinking about the activities and careers that come with societal kudos: having a high-flying job, affording luxury travel, living in an expensively decorated house, being interviewed on a podcast — and, like, if any of those things genuinely make you happy then wonderful: put energy into pursuing them (still waiting for that podcast invite, myself). But if you find your joy in things that don’t give you any cultural capital — or look good in an Instagram square — then so what? Joy is joy. Meaning is meaning. As we can see far too clearly at the moment, you don’t get an unlimited supply of either, so you should go after it with no shame.

And on the flip side: loss is loss, and grief is grief. When we’re talking about maintaining optimism in lockdown, maybe what we should be talking about is maintaining equilibrium in lockdown. One of the truest ways I know of keeping yourself on an even keel is letting yourself feel all of your damn feelings. No squashing them down because you shouldn’t be feeling them or other people have it worse. This is a collective trauma! I will always bang the drum for your right to treat hard things like they’re hard, no matter where they stand in relation to other hard things. If I always gave my feelings room to breathe and be themselves, instead of only existing in comparison to other people’s, I’d be (ironically) a lot happier.

What’s a weird thing that brings you (unInstagrammable) joy? If we have sausage rolls in the house you will find me propped against the microwave, heating them for thirty seconds then squirting a blob of HP sauce on the top before cramming them in. Sometimes I do a blob of HP sauce on each bite, and then I am, with Lizzie Bennet, incandescently happy.

Emily, Tuesday 5th May, 21:25

Well my morning bowl of porridge is a thing of beauty that I didn’t think could be bettered (a little bit of honey, cinnamon, raisins and pumpkins seeds). And then I bunged in some chocolate buttons I had left over and Oh My. I share a bowl with O every morning so I only tend to add one or two buttons, but that’s all you need. That together with a cup of coffee in my favourite mug, thick socks and a made bed all warm my cockles no end. I also have a weird thing at the moment for doing my embroidery (yes, I am 90, hi) with the film Tolkien playing in the background. Niche, I know; I can’t explain it.

But, like you so beautifully put it, joy is joy. And if a warm sausage roll or a pair of thick socks can help you keep the ‘too big, too much’ sensation at bay, then make time for them in your day: life is too short for chilly sausage snacks or threadbare foot mittens.

What are your small, weird lockdown joys?

We asked some women we admire what their small, weird lockdown joy was, and got some corkers back. We’d love to hear yours in the comments.

Dr Emma Svanberg, Psychologist (@ mumologist):

“One of my children has started bringing me a coffee in bed in the morning. A genuine joy!”

Emma Conway, Blogger and YouTuber (@ brummymummyof2):

“Mine is. Hands down. Without a doubt. Animal Crossing. Where I, a 42 year old woman who has given NO S**** about gaming before, spend my time collecting bells. To give to raccoons in exchange for things like giant pandas toys or teeny laptops. That sit in my imaginary home I spend hours designing in outfits that make me look like Minnie Mouse . KK Slider came to my island the other day (it’s a pretty big deal). I SCREAMED. For me having something to do with my hands has stopped me mindlessly scrolling on social media. I adore it.”

Sarah Turner, Author (@ theunmumsymum):

“You know how everything is scary and a bit overwhelming at the moment? Well, I’ve started to get a bit more of a interest in gardening and when I’m feeling really stressed I go on gardeners’ forums online and read the questions and answers. So, for example, yesterday when my kids were screaming and I was properly stressed out, I spent 3 minutes reading advice about what to do if your lupins are droopy. It’s a ridiculous thing, but it’s like a little safe space. Nothing bad happens on those pages.”

Holly June Smith, Life coach, speaker and celebrant (@ hollyjunesmith):

“Definitely using the posh sea salt butter on my bread — and then hiding it in the fridge so nobody else can find it.”

Steph Douglas, Founder of Don’t Buy Her Flowers (@ steph_dontbuyherflowers):

“Probably listening to The Greatest Showman when I run and singing along out loud, moving my arms to the beat, sometimes an odd clap along. I’ve tried grindy R&B, Little Mix, 90s beats, but none has the same impact as Greatest Showman. Sometimes I also cry along to it while running. It’s really quite a sight. This was way better when we were in full lockdown and you could run without seeing anyone, but there are a few more people about now…

The other is probably when I hand the kids to my husband for my work slot and I lock the office door and put earphones on. And I can hear them torturing him but it’s his turn, and I take real joy in it.”

Anna Whitehouse, Radio presenter, Flex Appeal campaigner and author (@ mother_pukka):

“My lockdown joy has come from allowing the girls to paint my nails with felt tip pens. No one will see me, and I’m loving the look.”

Nichola Ludlam-Raine, Dietician and blogger (@ mummynutrition):

“Mine is adding frozen fruit to a slimline tonic (with gin) in the sun! The frozen fruit adds a lovely flavour and keeps it cool.”

Vicki Psarias, Founder of Honest Mum (@ honestmum):

“I’m getting more time to myself now I’m not travelling for work — so I’m loving watching more Netflix, or painting, and getting more time to FaceTime friends and family.”

Rebecca Schiller, Writer and co-founder of Birthrights (@ rebecca.schiller):

“For the past three years learning to grow vegetables, fruit and flowers in my smallholding has helped me through difficult times, so I’ve turned to my garden, veg patch and menagerie of goats and poultry in lockdown.

Of all that it’s sowing seeds that I find the most therapeutic. Pushing something small into the earth, and believing it will one day be a plant, is an act of hope and faith. The repetitive, physical activity helps quieten my buzzing brain and when a seedling pokes up — green against the brown — I feel a very meaningful kind of tiny joy. And it’s helping me to realise that perhaps the small joys were the ones I should have been looking for all along.”

Annie Ridout, Journalist, author and editor (@ annieridout):

“I’ve started making my own chai — oat milk, brought to boil twice, cinnamon, cardamon pods, cloves, some pepper and sometimes a spoonful of sugar. I drink it from a small, wonky ceramic cup and feel very earthy. The flavour is strong, and distracts me from all that’s going on. I love a daily ritual. This one may well continue after lockdown eases.”