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Before lockdown I had pretty much been on a work deadline for the previous eighteen months. I’d get to my desk at 9 a.m. and not leave until 4.45 to collect the kids (on my days), working much later on the days it wasn’t my turn. I’d be so caught up in it as my deadline approached that I’d barely look up to have a conversation. I’d go for turbo wees and eat lunch over my keyboard, to the point all the keys got stuck and I had to get another one. Two days a week Valentine would be downstairs in the day care that my workspace provided. I’d see him doing the music class on Wednesdays and feel awful that I wasn’t down there with him like the other mums, but my workload wouldn’t always allow it.
I’d dream of my writing being done, so I could take a few months off and just be at home with the kids. I craved it. Hoping that just one of my books would smash it out of the park, and that I’d make enough money to only have to write one a year and nothing else. Then I’d spend the rest of the time in a dreamy, homely bubble. Cooking amazing things and picking the kids up early. The reality was, I was in no position to take a few months off. If I stop working, I stop being paid, and it’s taken years and years of writing at this level to get paycheques that actually contribute to our family. So, this was to be my pattern: bursts of intensity with bursts of less intensity. I have friends (men and women) who do jobs where it’s high intensity all the time. We’d all talk about the dream of sabbaticals and breaks longer than a few weeks. We wanted month upon month of nothing but blissful family life.
Careful what you wish for. Hello, Mr Pandemic. (It’s definitely a man.)
Why were there suddenly so many hours in a day? Why do kids aged two and five show such enthusiasm for things they are bored of five minutes later? Why does fifteen minutes feel like two hours? Why is it that everything fun makes loads of mess that is no fun to tidy up? When lockdown began, we didn’t want Art to be sad and miss his friends, so we became his parents, teachers and best friends all in one. By the Friday of that first week, I had learned that the level of activity we were engaging in was completely unsustainable. I was not that woman, and as much as it pained me to admit it, I was not that mother.
It’s a harsh experience to be confronted with the kind of mother you are. Mainly, perhaps, because you are labelling yourself. But we do that, women, don’t we? We feel we have to fit into categories. The most prevalent categories that mothers are put into are ‘good’ or ‘bad’. ‘She’s such a good mum.’ Don’t tell me you haven’t said it about your friends. So, let’s work out which one I am, because on paper I kind of look OK. It’s just a shame I don’t exist only ‘on paper’.
Reasons I am a great mother:
1 I am painstakingly dedicated to my kids’ happiness.
2 I take their health very seriously and work hard on their food and nutrition.
3 I engage in hours of conversation, despite having relatively low interest, if any, in what they are talking about.
4 I have happily sacrificed my afternoon nap since having them.
5 I love them even more when they’re ill and find great pleasure in nursing them back to health.
6 I have carved out a career that means I have a 98 per cent chance of being there for them if they need me.
7 I am utterly obsessed with them and think they are the two greatest humans who ever walked the earth.
Reasons I am a bad mother:
1 I am rubbish at playing.
2 When my kids do an impression of me, they shout, ‘BE CAREFUL OF MY WINE.’
3 I fantasise about living in a cute two-bed flat in London with a couple of cats way more than I should.
Now, I realise that my ‘bad mother’ list is a lot shorter. But in the circumstances of lockdown, I realised that being a good player, in particular, is crucial. I know it’s silly to buy into the perfect ‘smug mum’ scene on Instagram, but all I’d see were countless images of mums playing with their kids. Wild and adventurous games that they had invented, dens so extravagant a family of four could live in them, kids so happy they never wanted to see their friends again. And then there was me, out of ideas by Day 4, feeling like I didn’t have the energy to keep two boys entertained, watching how my husband could play and play and play when all I ever seemed to say was ‘in a minute’, ‘when I’ve done this …’, ‘after my wine is gone.’ I do really try, but I get so tired, and that makes me feel so guilty that I internalise it and end up getting all disappointed in myself, so I have to go off and have a big think about life in a cupboard.
I spend a lot of time in cupboards.
I am unnecessarily defensive about childcare. This is because I live in Hollywood and am married to an actor. The media has painted a certain picture of parenting when you are in that situation. Multiple nannies, PAs and housekeepers. In many cases, this is entirely accurate. But not in ours. Before I start, I shall acknowledge the help that we have had.
When Art was five months old, we found Mary. Mary Moo, as I called her, was like an angel from above. A few years younger than me, a glorious mix of Ethiopian and Canadian, loving, fun, a great cook, a great teacher and an absolute breeze to have around. Mary worked full-time for us (average day: nine to five, Monday to Friday). It was like I had a sister-wife; we were both passionate about food and books and all sorts of other lovely things. She was brilliant in a crisis; if she was babysitting at night and one of the kids was sick in their beds, by the time Chris and I got home everything would be washed and the child would be wrapped up on the sofa with a bowl on their lap, somehow smiling, not even asking for us, because Mary was as good as it gets.
When Art was around eighteen months, he started going to a little day care close to our house, and Mary went to work for a friend of mine. A few years later, when I’d had Valentine, she came back to us and we did almost the same thing all over again. Although Valentine, being the second child, started at day care a little earlier. Because, ya know, second child vibes.
Last year Mary moved back to Canada to have a baby of her own. She’d been working for another family here for a year previous to that, and picking our kids up from school on Tuesdays and Thursdays then working through so Chris and I could go out for dinner. But she was still in our lives and the kids adored her so much, as did we. Finding someone to replace Mary has been hard, and I do wonder if it could ever feel the same. Luckily (when the bloody schools are open) we don’t need a full-time person, so it’s all about finding the perfect regular babysitters now (of which we’ve always had some lovely ones). I’m so grateful that we had that experience with her though; those baby years are hard work, especially when both parents are working and you don’t have any family close by. To have someone you know your kids love in that way, makes everything a lot easier. And the way she loved them, urgh, it kills me that she left. There have also, of course, been other sitters and part-time help over the years, many of whom we love deeply. But Mary Moo, she was our Number One.
When I was pregnant with Art, I asked a friend here what advice she had for me, and her advice was ‘hire a night nurse’. Don’t get me wrong, I think night nurses sound amazing, but this made me cross. I wanted advice about how to hold my baby, feed my baby, get my baby to sleep. Not ‘get staff’. It’s not the advice I think people should give to expectant mothers. It doesn’t fill anyone with confidence, it doesn’t make them think they can do it. I tell any friends who are having babies, if they ask, to see how it goes, and then get all the help they feel they need when they need it. I give the same advice for the birth. See how it goes and get the epidural if you need it. I find all of this planning for worst-case scenarios really depressing. There is so much fear instilled into people about having kids. Birth will tear you apart and you’ll never sleep again. It’s true, both of those things might happen, and it could be really terrible and often is. But also, it might not be. Birth might be the best thing you ever did, you might even be able to jump on a trampoline afterwards (I can’t, but you might). And your baby might be a sleepy one, and you’ll wonder what all the fuss was about. Hope for the best and do what you need to do when and if you need it. That’s my advice, not that anyone asked.
Personally, when I have too much childcare, I start to feel like the nanny when it’s my turn to take care of them. It’s happened a few times when I’ve been on a really intense deadline and Mary and Chris have been doing the lion’s share. By the time Saturday morning comes, I’m all out of kilter with them and it’s really stressful. I think a lot of parents who work long hours would probably say the same thing. The less time you spend with your kids, the harder it can be to spend time with them. However, we both have to work, and that is exactly the shitty ‘guilt’ feeling that people talk about. I swore I’d never feel it when I got pregnant, but I do, I feel it all the time. When we got childcare, I felt guilty that they were in the house with her, while I sat in the office doing my job. IT IS SO STUPID. And it goes on … If for any reason it hasn’t been me who baths them and puts them to bed for say, three nights in a row, I feel awful. If I am not the one organising their meals, I feel guilty. If I have a busy work week and then there is something happening at the weekend which means I needed more help, I feel mean. I know Chris goes through exactly the same thing. His job can often take him away from home for long periods of time, him hopping back at the weekends. He parents harder than ever while he is home to make up for being away, but of course he feels guilty that he is away at all. But hard work affords us a life we all love. I know the kids won’t remember the times he is away, or the nights I have to work late, and they’ll just have the happiest memories of when we are at home. But still, guilty guilty guilty, all the bloody time.
People say parenting is hard and there are so many reasons why that is. The literal, physical effort that it takes to look after small children. The emotional effort of taking care of older ones. The lack of sleep. The financial pressure. The need to reach a compromise with your parenting partner, if there is one. The working, the socialising that you deserve but don’t get to do. Balancing it all can feel impossible at times. Guilt is just a part of it. Whether it’s about the kids, your relationship, or your friends that you never see and can’t be there for. Guilt. All the time. I’ve got so used to it being a part of my day. At some point, before I go to sleep, I will inevitably feel like total shit about something.
That was until lockdown happened. I don’t think I’ll feel guilty about going to work ever again. Also, I want childcare every weekend until they’re eighteen. And I want a night nurse – not for the kids, but for me. Because you know what, fuck it.
Things I know now that I didn’t know before lockdown:
1 Toddlers are not to be left alone with worms.
2 Hiding in cupboards is key.
3 Lego is HARD.
24 March
Isolation Update – ‘There has been a terrible problem’
I am stunned to be sharing this information with you all, but I think I enjoyed today. What is most peculiar is that I didn’t start drinking until 4 p.m. That means there were nine hours of daytime that I genuinely didn’t hate. This could be because of three things:
1 I was still drunk from yesterday.
2 I have totally given up on myself.
3 My friends are the best.
The kids slept until 7 a.m., which felt like a holiday. Chris and I take it in turns to get up and do breakfast. This morning he said, ‘Whose turn is it?’ I said, ‘Yours,’ and he went into the kitchen muttering about waffles. It took me a moment to remember that he had made the kids waffles for breakfast yesterday, and it was actually my morning. I sent him back to bed with a coffee, and popped some bread in the toaster. I’d slept well, so was more than happy to get up. Aren’t I being lovely and affable so far?
In that short moment where I lay in bed, thinking I had the morning off, the dull ache of relentlessness consumed me. Here we go again, another day of exactly the same thing. More drawing, more playdough, more throwing their squidgy fake-poo toy at the wall and howling with laughter as it falls to the ground. More time on my hands and knees scraping food off the floor. More time in front of a mirror scraping food out of my hair. As I took those thoughts in, I could have cried. But I didn’t cry. I reminded myself that this might be my only chance to spend this much time with my kids, without work pulling me away. To enjoy it. To take it on. Embrace it. And so, I did. I went into the kitchen with a smile on my face, and I managed to maintain it for most of the day.
As always, while I saw to the kids, I was also on WhatsApp. Because of the time difference with the UK, I usually wake up to a flurry of messages. This morning, a friend in London asked me how I was feeling about Caroline, she was checking in. I told her the truth: it still hurts like hell, but I am powering on because I have no choice. I mean, I do have a choice – I could totally fall apart. But I have a family to hold together, so I can’t do that. Sometimes it feels like my WhatsApp groups are the places where I can sink my true feelings. If I feel tears coming, I message a friend, maybe even a few at once, and say, ‘I’m having a bad moment. I can’t do this. I miss her too much.’ And almost immediately I am met with support. Words that pull me together. Or sometimes their own sadness is reflected back, which reminds me I am not alone in mine. I think one reason I have never really committed to therapy is because I don’t see what more I could get out of it than what I get from my girlfriends. Whenever there’s a heavy hand pressing down on one of my shoulders, I feel it lift a little the moment one of my friends gets in touch to ask me if I am OK.
Anyway, on to the rest of the day (what day even is it?). I did twenty minutes on the Peloton. I think that is my limit on the amount of time I can work out before I get really cross and hate everyone. It’s as if that twenty minutes releases just the right amount of pheromones, or whatever the fuck exercise releases, and it suits me just fine. If I try to do more than that, I just won’t keep it up. I promised myself that I would do twenty minutes every morning while this isolation continues.
We all know that this will never happen.
Admittedly, I totally forgot to educate my kids today. Again. We are supposed to log in and watch all the videos the school has made. Although I appreciate the effort, I do think these first few weeks have to be about adjustment. For most of you in the UK, today was your first day of ‘Remote Learning’. It’s full-on, isn’t it? Especially if you have multiple kids. That’s where I was at last week, and on Tuesday I had a massive meltdown and felt really scared of it all. It seemed so much, so soon. School’s cancelled and BAM, we’re supposed to follow a syllabus. I am lucky that Art is only five and the stuff they are asking us to do is minimal. They don’t even learn to read here at five. Which is why I am being quite chilled about it. I am not deliberately trying to hold my kid back. Promise.
The WhatsApp group for Art’s class is alive with swearing. Messages like ‘NO NO NO’ in capitals. ‘FUCK THIS’ or ‘THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE’. ‘My kid hates this’ and ‘I need my computer back’ are on a loop. We constantly question how long this will last. Most of us need to work but we’re having to guide our kids through tasks set by the school. No one can quite believe what we are being asked to do. Remote learning with a five-year-old? That’s as bad as it gets.
The mum group is comforting though, and they’re a fun bunch. It’s nice to know Art isn’t the only one in his class with a parent who is tearing their hair out.
I downloaded Demi Moore’s autobiography, which I listened to in the kitchen while making one of the 638,909 meals I had to make today. It’s good, I recommend it. She’s had a mad old life, and she gets all juicy about her marriages, which is fun.
I hate baking, but I know kids love it. I defrosted some pastry this morning, and the kids rolled it out and we cut it into shapes. Valentine ate raw egg then spat it all over the pastry, then Art and I sprinkled cheese on top. I put them in the oven and they were yummy. Little cheesy parcels. We had them with crisps, so probably have scurvy now, but according to the radio we are all GOING TO DIE anyway, so what does it matter?
Valentine took all his clothes off and pissed in the tent. A horse-like piss, that created a shallow pool that took up the entire tent. He thinks potty training is about finding the most inventive place to take a slash. Anywhere but the goddam toilet, apparently. I put on a really bossy voice and said, ‘Do you want me to put a nappy on you, like a baby?’
He just said yes.
After that he disappeared outside and came back a while later holding a cup. ‘Mummy, there has been a terrible problem.’ (He is two.) He handed me the cup.
There were three dead bees in it.
‘Valentine, did you hurt the bees?’ I asked.
‘Or they would sting me,’ was all he said. I pushed him to add a few words to the beginning of that sentence, but no, ‘Or they would sting me’ was all I got.
I may never know what happened to those poor bees. Oh dear.
It was 8.30 by the time I eventually got them both into bed. It was what I think you call in parenting ‘a total shitshow’. But they are down. Anyway, Chris is doing a Zoom poker night, and I just did a ‘House Party’ with some mums from Art’s school class. I can be terrible at things like this. Zoom chats freak me out a bit, especially with people I don’t know very well. I’d said I couldn’t do it at first, then last minute I jumped on and I’m so glad I did. It’s good to connect with people who understand what you’re going through. I still can’t believe I am a mum of two with other mum friends. Life is so surreal. Luckily, I found cool ones.
Night-night or morning, depending on where you are!
Love Dawn x
26 March
Isolation Update – Don’t fuck with eggs
Quick question before we crack on: how many more memes do I have to pretend to find funny before this crisis ends? Also, a friend of mine just told me she is dating a ‘memer’. THAT is a person who makes memes for a living. People get paid to meme? WHAT IS HAPPENING?
I actually love chatting to my single friends about their bonkers dating lives. Dating a memer in isolation? Of course, I made lots of jokes about them communicating via the medium of meme and asked if he continually quoted his own memes during lovemaking. She found it funny, because she is my friend. And she knows if she says ridiculous things like ‘I am dating a memer’ to someone like me, there will be consequences.
I woke up at 7.30, just before everyone else. I came into the kitchen and boiled the kettle, excited for a moment’s peace. Then I wandered into the living room to find a pile of cat sick next to the sofa. Behind it, some shit. Seconds later, Valentine flew in lathered in snot. Right after that, Art called me because he’d wet the bed. Before the kettle was even boiled, I had dealt with multiple urine, shit, snot or vomit incidents. This is not what I signed up for when I married a movie star. I wonder how different it would have been if I’d married a memer instead.
Over breakfast (cereal and mango) the kids had a fight with their spoons. It started off fun, but soon turned violent. I told them they mustn’t fight, then they threw their spoons across the room and, for a moment there, I considered getting Lilu’s sick out of the bin, rubbing their spoons in it, then giving them back to them. (Lilu is the mad Siamese cat who has lived with me for sixteen years – more on her later.) I managed to restrain myself. But I did tell them that if they did it again, I would give them both chickenpox. That shut them up. (They are immunised, I’m not THAT cruel. Also I said it in a jokey voice.) OK, OK, I feel bad.
When I had fed them, and released them from the table, I fried a couple more eggs, one for Chris and one for me. Valentine came over and demanded to eat some of mine. I gave it to him, because I felt guilty about the chickenpox. He ate it, then spat it out into my hand.
Who the actual hell are these people?
I FaceTimed my dad, which was lovely. I usually go weeks without speaking to him. It’s a terrible habit I have fallen into, and one that I always want to correct. This week, we have spoken every day. I really do believe that this will bring the love out in a lot of people. I realise the opposite is also true, but it’s making me want to connect more with the people I love. I am trying hard to do that.
I wore bunchies in my hair today, adding an element of cuteness to my ageing look. I have enjoyed it immensely and will be experimenting with new hairstyles as the days plod on. I was due a haircut before all this happened and am weeks away from no longer having a bob. Isn’t that just so exciting for us all? I’ll keep you posted every step of the way.
I did a strong eye, despite the order not to leave the house. I also wore a top with sparkles on it. No one can tell me I don’t bring the party to isolation.
By 2.22 in the afternoon I was longing for a drink but was determined to get to at least 3 p.m. But then my sister FaceTimed me from the UK; she was really drunk and talking absolute nonsense about God knows what. She was quite shouty, and when I put her on the phone to Art she sounded like a mad aunty in a comedy movie, so I told Art to go play while I listened to her rabbit on about some planting she’d done that day. What was nice about her call was that it made my need to drink feel more appropriate. Sometimes the eight-hour time difference can be very useful.
School recommended a game where you put an egg in a zip-lock bag, fill the bag with whatever you can find, then drop the bag and see if you’ve managed to protect the egg from smashing. I was like: EGGS ARE LIKE SACRED CRYSTALS RIGHT NOW, WHY THE HELL WOULD I RISK SMASHING ONE?
We didn’t do the experiment. Which makes this Day 12 of not educating my child. He’s FINE.
There was plenty more pant-pissing throughout the day, so I ended up taking off Valentine’s trousers altogether. He thought this was brilliant and spent most of the afternoon on all fours with his ass in the air. I always tell my kids to put their bums away, not encouraging it. Otherwise all we would talk about would be bums and poo. But occasionally, when they least expect it, I pull a mooner just so they think I’m the coolest mum ever. Works a treat. Gets me loads of hugs.
My friend Rebecca made me a loaf of sourdough and dropped it round. The bread was UNREAL. Like, proper fluffy English bread, rather than the weird, sweet, rubbery stuff you get here. She stood outside with a mask on and we chatted, and it was amazing. But I wanted more. I miss my friends. I want to hug them. It really devastates me to stand a few feet away from someone I love, not being able to touch them, and having to wear a mask. It’s so weird. Our house has always been full of friends. Most Sundays since we have lived in this house we’ve had people over. It’s the party house. Now it’s the farty house.
I miss drinking with grown-ups. Kids are way more judgey.
OK, that’s it from me for tonight,
Love Dawn x
Friends Are for Life, Not Just for Lockdown
In ‘normal’ times, I can take friendship a little for granted. I’m rubbish at calling people back, I don’t arrange nearly enough dinners. I like to entertain at home so invite everyone round, but I miss out on seeing the people who can’t make it. When isolation is over, I want to do better. Weekly dinners with my girls, more one-on-ones and lunches and brunches. Because this time of chaos has shown me just how vital my female friendships truly are. Multiple WhatsApp groups have become daily therapy sessions where we can offload about parenting, marriage and work woes; all delivered with unrelenting honesty and received with judgement-free eyes and thumbs.