Lockdown: Week 10
“Be careful, Daddy!” Joshua shouted when I was giving him a bath last Friday. He then chucked an entire jug of water in my face and started giggling. I made the error of laughing too which deemed any telling off futile, so I had to let it slide. Besides, I’d barely slept the night before and a jug of water in the face wakes you up a bit. I needed a sharpener as I was about to do my first bit of socializing in 10 weeks.
I’d arranged to meet a mate for a socially-distanced beer in a field. Okay, not strictly true, a couple of mates. If this was today, no problem, but as it wasn’t, I guess I’m a #COVIDIOT. To combat my fatigue — I’d had a micronap while Joshua watched an underwhelming episode of Winnie the Pooh earlier — I decided to jog. We were meeting in a field behind Leeds Beckett University which had played a pivotal role in our adolescence. From the age of 14–16, we met here every Friday to drink Lambrini and Glen’s vodka and try to impress girls. No mean feat when your entire outfit was bought at TK-Maxx and you’re wearing a wooden bead necklace (over your t-shirt, just to make sure everyone can see it.)
For my jog, I put an early noughties playlist on Spotify. I’d hoped this might invoke some sweet nostalgia but instead drew the conclusion that the era wasn’t quite as golden as I’d remembered it. “Rollin’” by Limp Bizkit, for instance, has not stood the test of time. I arrived at the Co-op near the field, out of breath, feeling as though a moderately paced 2-mile run meant I richly deserved the beer I was about to buy. Unfortunately, the door was locked. Closing time was 8 pm. It was 8.04 pm. A lady in her forties had arrived at the same time.
“Disgraceful!” she said.
I thought “inconvenient” would’ve done it, although she may have been referring to my admittedly a-bit-too-short shorts. I hadn’t banked on just how inconvenient it was. Headphones back in for “Last Resort” by Papa Roach, I jogged another half mile to the nearest off-licence to find the shutters down. What the heck is going on here? Ah, yep, worldwide pandemic. That’s the one.
After an ambitious attempt to source lager in an Indian takeaway proved fruitless, I had to accept defeat in my quest for a four-pack. I’d had fewer problems accessing booze when I was 14 and reliant on an ID my friend had made me on Microsoft Paint. I arrived at the field half an hour late, dripping with sweat and empty-handed.
Gladly my fellow #COVIDIOTS were sympathetic and sorted me out with some cans, and we had a lovely evening. As much as I’m a fan of my sons, conversation with a toddler and a 4-month-old can get a bit samey and it was great to knock around with adult men for the first time in 10 weeks. As is often the case, most of the evening was spent talking nonsense and, when Louise asked for updates on their well-being, wives, jobs and children on Saturday, I had nothing.
Drawing further parallels with my teenage years, I broke my midnight curfew (I’m 33) and astonishingly my tiptoed silent slide into bed woke Jacob up. Louise was less than thrilled. From this point, he was up approximately every twenty minutes. If you’ve had a drink, babies know. They just know.
The pollen count was sky high on Saturday morning, it was roasting hot, and I felt shocking. I wanted to moan to Louise to try and get some sympathy but didn’t have an angle. She feeds Jacob through the night so invariably sleeps less than me (yet never moans) and is of the opinion I need to “man up” regarding my hay-fever. I have told her this is an outdated and offensive term and that she is a hay-fever denier. I couldn’t mention there was a chance, an extremely slim one but a chance, that I might have had one too many beers. That would’ve been met with the shortest shrift of all.
Fourteen hours of childcare was a daunting proposition. I know you shouldn’t view parenting as a shift but sometimes… Gladly, my folks were coming over to help out and, in a convoluted way, not break lockdown rules. My dad was going to assemble a Wendy House in the garden while my mum joined Joshua and I for a walk in the woods. My dad opened the box for the Wendy House and tossed the contents across the lawn. Loads of parts and bags upon bags of screws and bolts. It looked like a nightmare job and I was mighty relieved my dad had offered to do it. Assembling flat-pack furniture on a searing hot day was, quite possibly, the last thing I wanted to do today. Just before my dad got started, he became distracted.
“What’s the point in that gate post in your drive, Andrew?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to knock it down now, Andrew,” he said, then marched off, scowling and clutching a hammer. “It’ll only take me five minutes, then I’ll do the Wendy House. Go and enjoy your walk.”
We returned from our walk an hour later to find my dad, red-faced and drenched in sweat, smashing his hammer against the gate post which hadn’t moved an inch. He remained adamant that he could get both jobs done but the sun had gone to his head by now and he’d lost all perspective. My mum encouraged him to leave it and try again tomorrow.
You might think I’d feel guilty that my dad, a man in his mid-sixties, had been slaving away and struggling with a job I could arguably do myself, but my thoughts were only on the Wendy House pieces strewn across the grass. Talk of my dad returning tomorrow meant nothing to Louise who is simply incapable of leaving a job undone.
Two under 3s demand a lot of your energy and the afternoon was tough. I tried a lunchtime nap but, despite a whale noise playlist, failed to sleep, which does nothing for your morale. I then double-dosed on my Benadryl to add a sprinkling of nausea to my exhaustion. By 7 pm, I was done in and, with the thought of Saturday night spent assembling a complex Wendy House looming ominously, there was still no end in the sight.
Joshua was sat watching the rest of the Winnie the Pooh episode and Louise and I looked over at him. Ah, isn’t he cute? Such a good boy. Life’s not so bad, is it? We then watched in stunned silence as he took his shorts off, weed into his hand and chucked the wee onto the carpet.
At least it wasn’t my face.
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