It was a week of counting blessings and a bit of a “Coronawobble” for Mary-Jane Duncan, as she took stock of the months of hard lockdown.
I’m having a “Coronawobble” this week. Otherwise known as a good old greet.
Being battered in the face with some crippling self-doubt and creeping anxiety. I’m not sure what’s brought all this to my door.
We’re generally a happy, healthy (save for a little cancer) family unit. The mister is thankfully still employed and we have a lovely network of friends.
The kids are generally well behaved. Some usual back chat expected of a teenager and admittedly their rooms could use more than a little work. But exactly how much does it really matter? Lovely long walks on the beach with the dogs. Bike rides. Card games at the kitchen table and long, late-night conversations.
Honestly, I couldn’t care less I haven’t accomplished a monumental goal during this pandemic. Spending this time with the kids gives me a greater sense of purpose than anything else ever could. Maybe it stems from the fact everyone else has become an expert on everything now. Painting stones. Gazillion-piece jigsaws. Home schooling. Crafts. Jogging. Baking. If you haven’t developed a sourdough starter have you even been in quarantine? All of a sudden everyone is a master baker. I’m beginning to doubt my baking skills although it’s how I’ve earned a living for the past decade.
Could my wobble be related to time on my mobile? My weekly screen time report thuds in and wow, just wow. Maybe all those Pinterest boards on how to turn an ordinary wooden pallet into the kitchen herb garden of my dreams? Or the endless online tutorials on how to cut hair? Let’s not even consider it might be my mild addiction to crushing pesky coloured candy shapes. Time indeed to read a book.
Lockdown poses mental health challenges to us all, but as a parent we worry about the kids’ mental health, too. Watching them gently emerge from lockdown without being able to thank their teachers or give friends a goodbye hug. Smallest bairn transitions from primary to secondary after the summer. This should have been a week of cementing seven-year-long friendships and wishing each other well. Instead they’re just hoping they might see each other in passing if and when high school starts. How is this going to affect them all in the long term? Are we being snowflakes even worrying about it?
I remind myself to please stop pretending our former world of working ridiculously long hours, dashing from one place to another, hectic crowds, mass consumerism, air pollution and 24/7 everything was a mental health utopia. That taking care of yourself is productive. More important even. We might not be travelling the world, but that’s OK. We’re a very tactile family. We hug a lot. OK, I hug a lot and they tolerate me, realising I need it more than they do. We enjoy a pile up on the couch, popcorn in hand watching movies. Introducing the kids to the back catalogue of our favourite films of our youth because how else will they know not to get wet or eat food after midnight OR that if you don’t reach 88mph you’ll never get back to 1955?
When the dust settles, I hope I remember how little we needed, how much we actually have and the true value of connection. Those who are important to us and the love that has been shown. I will remember you don’t always need a plan, sometimes you just need to breathe, let go and see what happens. For the past two years, my entire life can be summed up in one sentence: “Well, that didn’t go as planned.” But if you’d asked me five years ago where I saw myself in 2020, a cancer diagnosis and pandemic wouldn’t have been up there on my wish list.
We’ve met this situation head on with love and humour and an attempt at good grace. I’m allowed a wobble. This too will pass. I’m done with insecurities and doubts – I’m fricking amazing, magical even and that’s just what it is. If someone can please remind me of this next week when I’m the mother of a 17-year-old learning to drive – that would be just super.
