The Slump

“Are you OK?” I say over morning teas and coffees. “No. I feel fed up today” he says “Yesterday was hard and I’m dreading another day like that today”

Ladies and Gentleman, we’re in a slump.

[I think back to yesterday. It’s my final hour of work and I’m working in the office upstairs. I can hear our toddler crying and screaming, it goes on for an hour. She’s teething and hungry and over-tired. I recognise the 4:30pm cry, the final push before tea. I visualise my husband with her balanced on his hip and trying to chop a pepper single handedly. I feel for him, but back-to-back video meetings mean I cannot go to help. Reinforcements do not come for the husband, he has to plough on until tea time when I shut down my laptop. The four year old devours her baked potato but the toddler just cries. “I want Mummy.” she says, she points to her mouth and cries again. We hastily finish dinner and I call my Mum, a baby whisperer, she sings “Sleeping Bunnies” over FaceTime roughly 437 times, changing the word bunnies to any other animal or fairytale character you can think of. It gets a bonus half hour of non-telly joy out of them before bath. It is all going well until the toddler removes her nappy and wee’s all over the living room floor. She cries again. “I’ll call you again tomorrow!” Grandma says to the girls. “It’s time for your bath now!”]

“I’m trying so hard to be happy and make things fun for them but I just feel tired.” He looks tired and sad. “I understand” I say.

[I remember the first time I took the two of them to playgroup, my eldest was a toddler then and was “adjusting” to life with a new baby. Some lovely Mums in the village invited me to have lunch at the cafe with them afterwards, both the babbas were so tired but I desperately craved human interaction, so I put off their naps and went. In the words of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman: “Big Mistake. Big. Huge.” It was lovely to talk to other humans and I managed a lunch of-sorts. But afterwards, trying to shoehorn a kicking, screaming toddler in to the pram in full view of everyone in the cafe window, while trying to protect the newborn in a baby carrier, only a couple of weeks after a c-section, and struggling to bend without feeling as though I was going to rip in to two pieces, I questioned my motives. I wondered whether it would be a good warm-up exercise for military training. Eventually I manage to contain all of us, eventually I manage to get us home, my nerves and confidence bruised. As I pass by the mirror on the way in to the house I see that there is a bright yellow streak of baby poo down my face. I changed the baby as we arrived at playgroup, nearly two hours ago. I think of all the people I have seen since then. I wince. I do my psycho laugh. I am made to feel a bit better at playgroup the following week when, after a significant amount of time trying to figure out which little one needs changing, one of the Mums puts her hand in her pocket and pulls out a perfectly formed poo. “I don’t know how it got there!” She cries]

We’re sighing and heavy footed. We know that we are exceptionally lucky. We are born in to loving families in a lovely part of the world. We do not live under the Boko Haram regime in Nigeria or in a tin hut in the slums in India. We are being asked to stay in our comfortable, warm and safe homes. To watch weird documentaries about big cat breeders and up our daily wine allowance.

People are dying, people are sick, vulnerable people are trapped in their homes. We know this, we know we need to get a grip and embrace a militant and tough positive mental attitude. Yet some days it is harder than others. Some days I wonder whether I should change in to a new pair of leggings or put an actual bra on. Some days I feel sluggish. Some days we wish were on our cancelled holiday in the wilds of Scotland, in the open, with our family. Some days it’s not sunny and the air feels colder and it rains. Some days being unfailingly positive just feels like a lie. A guilty lie.

The radio is on. “Wild Boys” by Duran Duran is playing. “Give us a dance Daddy!” I say, as the girls eat their Shreddies. I am surprised because my husband does not tell me to do one but instantly stands up and delivers an exceptional, almost eye-watering performance. I clap and cheer. It is like a bald Channing Tatum is right here in my kitchen, wearing checked pyjamas. The girls are laughing.

I see a glint in his eye and a smile. You have more to give, I think, you are not out of energy just yet. When I come back down later on, they have made paper dolls and coloured them in. I can see that there has been some sort of altercation but I ignore it: “They are wonderful!” I say “Isn’t Daddy doing a good job girls?” The girls ignore me. My husband looks at me, then up to the skies and mouths something unrepeatable.