To mark the 5 year anniversary of the ongoing pandemic, I've been posting my lockdown diaries.
My grandparents used to buy the Connacht Tribune every week to read about the cattle marts, who was fined for not contributing to the "voluntary" collections at mass, who was shortlisted for the Rose of Tralee at the ballroom of (no)romance. And the death notices.
As a child, I read the letters section (granny didn't have a tele). I was fascinated by the things that made ordinary people, mostly men, mostly farmers, so impassioned to come in after milking the cows, between the angelus & the boiled bacon & cabbage & take pen to paper. It started my love affair with words & helped me appreciate that the most interesting stories are told by authentic voices. In sentences constructed to fit their words & meaning, Zero rules. Zero fecks given.
When SARS-CoV-2 struck, I was ensconced in a little cottage by the sea in Galway & began writing lockdown chronicles for the Tribune. A satirical column intended to give light relief during that early, terrifying lockdown phase (all of 6 weeks). It was a great privilege & career highlight. Sad that my mam & dad weren't alive to read the column which I secretly dedicated to them & my grandparents. I hope I did them proud. Ar dheis dé go raibh a n-anamacha.
‘Good enough’ will do for parenting in a pandemic
TESS FINCH-LEES
Protective parenting can morph into borderline paranoia in the midst of pandemic – as TESS FINCH-LEES admits in this week’s chronicle of life under lockdown.
With each passing day in lockdown, I find myself morphing into Aunt Josephine in Lemony Snicket’s “A Series of Unfortunate Events”.
“Come quickly” (beckoning the orphaned children into the house), “Not that quickly! You might trip over the welcome mat and decapitate yourselves”.
I’ve banned activities that carry even a remote risk of ending up in A&E until this health emergency has passed. Yesterday, I scolded my son for climbing a tree “in well-ing-tons! Do you have an actual death wish?!”
He attempted to take the Beano from the shopping bag last week. “Don’t touch it!” I yelled, like a demented banshee. “It has go in the oven at 100°C for five minutes!”
Child: “I want to read it, not eat it?” Me: “It has to be sterilised at high heat to kill the virus” (don’t try this at home, it’s not scientifically endorsed)!
Himself says he and child are camping in the garden tonight (I suspect it’s to get away from me, but I can’t be sure).
Me: “Have you done a risk assessment? If you catch pneumonia, don’t expect to be given a ventilator”
With another three weeks of lockdown to go, I decided to give meditation (as opposed to medication) a go.
A local practitioner generously provides free livestreamed sessions. I’m sitting cross legged on the floor, trying, and failing miserably, to focus on my breathing.
“It’s OK if your thoughts wander”, he says, in mellifluous tones, “But bring them gently back to your breathing”.
I managed five breaths before my mind ventured into perilous terrain, my parenting skills. I’m not Cruella de Vil but I’m no Mary Poppins either.
I’ve faced many challenges in my professional life, such as being locked in a room with the Yorkshire Ripper, having a fatwa issued against me by a genocidal despot and a feckwa from Bob Geldof – but, by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done, is parenthood.
When my son was four, he lassoed a toddler with his Bob the Builder belt in the middle of the spirits aisle at Aldi.
I had an overwhelming urge to pretend he wasn’t mine whilst making a frenzied beeline for the nearest exit with a bottle of Paddy in one hand and an own brand chocolate gateaux in the other. The thought alone, racked me with guilt. What kind of a mother would think that?
I don’t even drink whiskey.
At moments like that, I draw on Dr Winnicott’s ‘good enough’ parenting. I filed it away when I studied child psychology, knowing I’d need it if I became a mother. Basically, there’s no such thing as the perfect parent. We strive to be the best we can and most of the time we’ll get it right(ish), but sometimes, we’ll get it wrong and that’s OK.
Coronavirus has placed a huge burden on parents to keep our children safe. Measures that were previously considered neurotic are the new normal. But, children also need fun, physical activity and, now more than ever, lots of cuddles, in order to thrive. For that, we have to nurture ourselves too and practice self-forgiveness.
Children, although resilient, will probably be feeling varying degrees of anxiety now, or picking up on ours.
Being emotionally available and spending time with them, whether it’s digging for worms in the garden (if you’re lucky enough to have a garden), or baking cakes and making jigsaw puzzles, means prioritising our sanity.
There are only so many stand offs I’m prepared to have over mental maths or unmade beds. There are times in life, and this is one, when survival and self-preservation are the bigger battles to be won.
Whenever I feel the urge to scream because I’ve tripped over my son’s shoes which aren’t in their proper place, I think of the Seamus O’Neill poem.
“Bhí subh milis, Ar bhaschrann an dorais, Ach mhúch mé an corraí, Ionam d’éirigh, Mar smaoinigh mé ar an lá, A bheas an baschrann glan, Agus an láimh bheag, Ar iarraidh.”
[“There was jam on the door handle, but I suppressed the anger that rose up in me, because I thought of the day that the door handle would be clean, and the little hand would be gone.”]
Then, I go outside, with a bottle of Paddy in one hand and an own brand chocolate gateaux in the other, and, ensuring I’m a safe distance from overhanging branches, breathe deeply, and scream.
■ Tess Finch-Lees is an international human rights journalist, who writes for the Guardian, UK Independent and many other outlets. She is also a lecturer, specialising in ethics and discrimination. She recently returned home and lives with her family in Gort, back where she spent her summers in her mother’s native place.
No comments:
Post a Comment