Protective parenting can morph into borderline paranoia in the midst of pandemic â as TESS FINCH-LEES admits in this weekâs chronicle of life under lockdown.
With each passing day in lockdown, I find myself morphing into Aunt Josephine in Lemony Snicketâs âA Series of Unfortunate Eventsâ.
âCome quicklyâ (beckoning the orphaned children into the house), âNot that quickly! You might trip over the welcome mat and decapitate yourselvesâ.
Iâve 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 âin well-ing-tons! Do you have an actual death wish?!â
He attempted to take the Beano from the shopping bag last week. âDonât touch it!â I yelled, like a demented banshee. âIt has go in the oven at 100°C for five minutes!â
Child: âI want to read it, not eat it?â Me: âIt has to be sterilised at high heat to kill the virusâ (donât try this at home, itâs not scientifically endorsed)!
Himself says he and child are camping in the garden tonight (I suspect itâs to get away from me, but I canât be sure).
Me: âHave you done a risk assessment? If you catch pneumonia, donât expect to be given a ventilatorâ
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. Iâm sitting cross legged on the floor, trying, and failing miserably, to focus on my breathing.
âItâs OK if your thoughts wanderâ, he says, in mellifluous tones, âBut bring them gently back to your breathingâ.
I managed five breaths before my mind ventured into perilous terrain, my parenting skills. Iâm not Cruella de Vil but Iâm no Mary Poppins either.
Iâve 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 â but, by far the hardest thing Iâve 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 wasnât 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 donât even drink whiskey.
At moments like that, I draw on Dr Winnicottâs âgood enoughâ parenting. I filed it away when I studied child psychology, knowing Iâd need it if I became a mother. Basically, thereâs no such thing as the perfect parent. We strive to be the best we can and most of the time weâll get it right(ish), but sometimes, weâll get it wrong and thatâs 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 itâs digging for worms in the garden (if youâre lucky enough to have a garden), or baking cakes and making jigsaw puzzles, means prioritising our sanity.
There are only so many stand offs Iâm 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 Iâve tripped over my sonâs shoes which arenât in their proper place, I think of the Seamus OâNeill poem.
âBhĂ subh milis, Ar bhaschrann an dorais, Ach mhĂșch mĂ© an corraĂ, Ionam dâĂ©irigh, Mar smaoinigh mĂ© ar an lĂĄ, A bheas an baschrann glan, Agus an lĂĄimh bheag, Ar iarraidh.â
[âThere 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.â]
Then, I go outside, with a bottle of Paddy in one hand and an own brand chocolate gateaux in the other, and, ensuring Iâm a safe distance from overhanging branches, breathe deeply, and scream.
â 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 motherâs native place.
