Quarantine home school started off as well as it could be in week five. I was helping with fifth grade math in the living room while first grade handwriting was taking place at the kitchen table. Dividing fractions aren't my thing, but we worked together to finish it up and get it submitted.
I turned my attention to the kitchen table and, after at least 30 minutes of her working on it, no words were written on the page. Zero. Apparently, she had absolutely nothing to share with her teacher about why she missed attending school. I encouraged her to get writing because the six sentences weren't going to write themselves. Yes, I realize I've turned into my mother. Moving on.
Fast forward another half hour or so, I checked back in with her and there were two half-assed sentences written on the page...and one of them was complete fiction. I'm all for creative writing, but this wasn't the time for it. I needed to take a picture of that completed assignment and get it over to the teacher for grading.
After crumpling the piece of paper up, I sent her to her room, for her to reflect on her assignment and, truthfully, to get her out of my face. Not as a huge punishment...just a little time out.
She eventually came back to school (i.e. the kitchen table) and banged out her assignment. No problem. Submitted.
Lunch. The fact that lunch was a stressor for the day is nuts. As you might remember, one member of our household doesn't do "lunch". She'll have healthy snacks, but refuses to consume a sandwich or leftovers, really. She filled her plate with blueberries, granola bar, and some Easter candy. Not ideal, but good enough.
Ms. I-Live-And-Would-Die-For-Nutella, on the other hand, filled her plate with a large solid Easter bunny, three grapes, Oreos and stale fruit snacks that she received on Valentine's Day from a classmate while she pondered aloud, "Maybe I want a bagel for lunch," and "I'll make myself a Nutella sandwich". I said either of those was fine...but did Ms. I-Live-And-Would-Die-For-Nutella ask for either of those things or make them herself? Nope. As she's sitting at the kitchen table with chocolate all over her face, I said that she'd better get some actual lunch in front of her because what she's got wasn't going to cut it. She responded with, "I know. I will."
Next thing I know, her lunch plate is being put into the dishwasher.
Ummm...oh, hell, no. I told her she needs to have something of substance - something healthy. She responds with, "I had grapes!" Three grapes. Three.
I come back with some sassy retort about how terribly dinner will go for her. Spoiler alert - it didn't go well.
I eventually go downstairs to switch over some laundry and relax for a bit now that their school work was completed. I get interrupted with the sounds of bickering wafting down the stairs. I begrudgingly made my way up the stairs to see what the heck was going on even though I already knew. We play this game at least once or twice a week.
Again, they're fighting about "her" stuff being in "my" room. We're very territorial these days. "So-and-so won't let me in to put my things in the game closet." "There's no room in here."
I brought up my great idea to the girls - an idea I was really excited about. "If you don't have room in the game closet for these things, that means you have too many games/toys. We'll get rid of some."
Their reaction didn't match my excitement. I heard a lot of whining and "nos". The volume of my voice began to rise...higher and higher. As I threatened to throw the full contents of the closet away next time they argue, I screamed so loud that I shook and I pulled a muscle in my neck.
What have I become, you ask? Possible valid answer options:
* A total screaming lunatic.
* A 39-year-old woman crying on the couch when asked by her fiancée "How was your day? What's wrong?"
* A creeper listening in to an adolescent Zoom meeting hoping she won't overhear, "So, Ms. Trish lost her freakin' mind today."
* A woman who has been cooped up in this house with these kids for over 40 days and no where she can go to escape. Forty days of this house not being big enough for all of us. Forty days of those under 12 not pulling their weight, not helping with chores, not making things easier for anyone.
Dinner planned for Thursday was ground beef nachos. I browned the beef, shredded two types of cheese, laid out the chips and assembled them the way I wanted to, adding refried bean dollops. This is not how I have done nachos in the past, at least not in the past three years. No more Ms. Nice Lady. I didn't leave a section for the meat-and-bean-haters. Almost all of the chips had some beef or beans on it. Like I said above, it didn't go well for all involved. Ms. I-Live-And-Would-Die-For-Nutella ate approximately four chips that she deemed appropriate for consumption. I didn't care. You want to starve to death? Knock your socks off. I refused to get into it with her. She made her choice; she'll have to live with it.
As I sat comatose on the couch waiting for reinforcements to get home from work, I began to cry. I eventually put myself to bed before reinforcements walked through the door, only to be awoken by a text. I read it, felt guilty, and threw my phone to the carpeted floor.
Damn it, I forgot to call my father. I had left my Mom a voicemail earlier in the day, but things got so crazy I didn't get to call Dad. It's customary for me to wish them a Happy Jimmy Day to acknowledge his birthday.
After a few beats, I got out of bed, wiped the tears from my eyes, walked into the backyard and called him. When I say that my father thought someone had passed away, I'm dead serious. In the time it took him to answer the phone, I was ugly crying. I couldn't get words out and I was practically hyperventilating.
In the past, I have really tried not to call my father to vent or ask for anything. I'm not sure why, but I never want him to think I can't get through life on my own. I want to play the role of the strong woman that can do things on her own, without Daddy's help.
Well, not on Thursday. I cried like a baby. I swore. I told him that I was totally overwhelmed. I told him that the girls were acting this way - driving me crazy - on purpose. I told him about the game closet. I asked him to Zoom punish them by taking away summer pool privileges.
I finally calmed down. Either he talked me off the ledge or I was getting tired from my outburst.
Thursday's reaction was the sum of so many components that had been adding up over the last few months. I burst.
On Friday, I read a book from cover to cover. I had some wine. I showered. I Zoomed with friends. I hung out with Mona, our English Bulldog. It was a rainy day and a good day to recharge.
I needed to get that all out of me. I need to do a better job of picking my battles. I can't make everything a big deal...not during this time. Going forward, I will do my best to not yell. Dirty rooms, candy for lunch, bickering about idiotic things - the quarantine childhood experience of some of that is healthy, right?
Anyway, it's not healthy for me to be that close to blow. I need to find more outlets to release the steam. I need to be able to separate myself from them. I need to let them work things out on their own. I need to let them make their own choices and have them deal with the consequences of those choices.
I feel a lot of pressure to keep the train on the tracks. There's so much added pressure and stress just living through this unprecedented time. We're living through a pandemic, for Christ's sake.
The house has to be clean; dinners have to be planned, prepared and healthy; everyone has to be happy, well-rested and calm. These are expectations that I set myself...and I'm announcing now I'm letting those go.
Our only mission now is survival.
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