Day 9

New screwdriver arrived today, so after a crazily long charge, I could finally get on with sorting the climbing frame. Just in time; D has learned how to climb up the wall but can't get back down again. Alas, the screwdriver ran out before I could fasten the slide in for him, but at least the rest of it isa little more stable for him.

Crazy that I have been able to leave the boxes out in the back garden with instructions and everything else, for nearly a week now and no rain or anything else to turn it into a soggy mess. 

A has kept herself very busy looking through her ASDAN home learning options and ignoring them all in favour of downloaded colouring sheets and maths problems. 

And much much happiness this evening, D's toddler group page posted a video of his favourite singing lady complete with her real guitar and ability to play real tunes properly. Much applause (his new skill) and jumping up and down, and utter delight that as his world seems to have shrunk beyond measure, some things in it are still out there, even if he has to stare through a screen to reach them. 

He keeps bringing me his coat and wellies with an Oliver Twist expression in his face; never in his life have we spent so long at home. Going for a walk at least once a day has been essential for him. I think I find that harder than other things really; he trusts me, he is so very good at communicating what he wants, and I am so completely unable to explain to him why he can't have it. He finds new ways of telling us, and we still say no or fail to understand. 

A pause this afternoon, and a virtual coffee with a friend. An hour, she with her peaceful adults only house and uninterrupted chat, me with my toddler begging for a walk and teen grumping if I moved into earshot but shouting for attention if I moved away. Still, it was very good to be able to see her face. To have a conversation where facial expressions play a part, rather than relying on tone over the phone or via messages. Connection. But one which emphasises the difference now as well as the similarities. 

Outside, silence. Yesterday we had planes and helicopters buzzing but today, just clear empty blue sky. Tonight the helicopters appear to be back. This world, paused. It is disconcerting. 

Day 8

More texts from the NHS today, detailing what we should be doing. Apparently A should not only be keeping a 2m distance, but eating from separate plates, at separate times, using a separate bathroom, and generally shutting herself away from any kind of human contact for the next twelve weeks minimum. Family members should not touch her, but essential carers could come in from outside to provide essential care tasks then leave.

This, we are ignoring. Family, i.e. me, will be providing care. Not much point us all shutting ourselves away only to have someone bring this plague in with them. A decision made easier by the fact that our carers have pulled out anyway.

Armed with my shiny new screwdriver and a beautifully sunny day, D and I went outside to continue building his new climbing frame. Hampered somewhat by his determination to climb it unbuilt, and fascination with the screws slotting neatly into place, I was nevertheless making decent progress until screwing into a piece of harder wood proved too much for my lovely new screwdriver, and it died a death.

We have a stronger new screwdriver on the way, but will now have to pause work until Thursday. Still, it filled a piece of time.

Meanwhile, inside, A finally decided to make contact with one of her school friends, also at home. Hurray for some normality, although as they have decided to create a rap together (part of the ASDAN curriculum and one of the school's home learning options), D and I took refuge in our newly polished playroom, where he found my old guitar and handed it to me with a pleading look in his eye.

I think it's been ten years since I picked it up last. Still, it tuned ok, and we managed a couple of choruses of Jesus love is very wonderful. He's been missing our toddler group at church. I was a hit! Much clapping and nearly as enthusiastic dancing as he does on Wednesday mornings. I started playing remembering just three chords, and by the end of the twelfth verse, another eight had floated back into my finger memory. This is not terribly compatible with all the hand washing we have been doing - fiery bleeding lizard skin pain on the back of my hands now combined with interesting finger cramps and numb fingernails. But my boy thinks I'm nearly as clever as Jill the lovely Link music lady, so it was worth the sacrifice. I might even find him a shaker next time.

It's so silent outside. No one passed our front door today. And from the back garden, the gentle hum of traffic has gone. Birdsong. No shouts, no children playing, no bottle bank crashes from the pub, no roadwork drilling. Sirens, a helicopter, but this little corner of town seems to have shut down completely. I have not seen my neighbours at all for a week now.

Phone calls cancelling all our upcoming outpatients appointments. Not a great surprise. Offers of help. And finally, A's drugs delivered. And all in stock. Breathe again for the next couple of weeks at least.

I'm thankful tonight. Thankful that we are able to isolate ourselves, that I don't have to try to go out to work or balance childcare on top of this current craziness. Thankful for everyone, professional and friend, helping us out and making sure we are not abandoned as we lock ourselves away. Thankful for beautiful beautiful Spring weather; ok so normally I'd be keen to be walking and getting out into the wider world, but our own little garden is so beautifully full of new life and hope. Thankful for A's cheerful matter of fact acceptance of the situation, and for D's ability to enjoy the tiny things in life - this morning he dropped down onto his tummy and gently, gently, played with a daisy in the grass.

Isaiah 26:20 "Go, my people, enter your rooms and shut your doors behind you. Take cover, for in a little while the fury will be over."

Day 7

A very special day today. Turns out A is in fact one of the 1.5 million people who absolutely must be protected from catching the virus. And so therefore, for her own protection, she must stay in her own room, 2m away from everyone else in the house. None of us must touch her.

Clearly, that can’t happen. She’s also supposed to stay in the house, but may open a window,  and for a minimum of 12 weeks.

Meanwhile the rest of the country prepares for 3 weeks of staying inside, minimal shops, minimal contact. Gatherings of more than 2 people will be banned.

So that’s going to be fun...

We are now registered with the government as vulnerable, but having access to food and meds through the kindness of friends. I have a page to revisit should we run out of friends.

All our home carers have pulled out; we will have on one across our doorstep until some unknown date in the future. Mr. Wild Man is now confined to the house or back garden, and I have stocked up on curry for the freezer in anticipation of takeaways closing.

Strange times.

We did at least have sufficient warning that McDonald’s would be closing; A was very very pleased to have one last doorstep delivery.

Verse of the day : I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. Romans 8:18 

No song today; YouTube is not playing ball. 

Tia 

Day 6 (and a half)

A nicely relaxed day yesterday.

The first day since we came home that we saw no one except for the three of us, spoke to no one except the three of us, went no further out of the front door than to empty the recycling bin.

And yet, a more connected day than any in the past week.

Church, live-streamed. So very very strange to see an empty church, but of course not empty; full of the presence of God (and a tortoise called Mike). A service we could all join in with, and a developing facebook community chatting about it afterwards.

A child focused "families together" video stream later in the afternoon. A map of our parish, with lights shining on every point where a church family have a child under 11. We can all shine our lights, even in these dark times. Shining without leaving the house might be a challenge, but we can pray. We can communicate. We have plans for our windows when supplies arrive.

WhatsApp with the wider family, the aim being to wish Mum a happy Mother's Day, however she remained rudely absent from the conversation. Still very good to check in with each other though and have a spot of silliness in a fairly silent day.

And then a national wave of prayer at 7, and a candle in our window until bed time. So our verse for the day, The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:5.

Day 5

Another gloriously sunny, day. No photos today. My mission: build a climbing frame. Reality, open two boxes, count out 134 screws and multiple pieces of untreated and only partially pre-drilled wood. Screw in the first three screws. Abandon project, order electronic screwdriver. Forget the flatpack; A and I make flapjacks instead.

One boy supremely happy to be bouncing in the garden and pottering in and out of the house most of the day. One girl willing to leave the house for a quick health walk, swapping dusty inside for ring road traffic fumes, but a wide footpath with few fellow travellers. This works.

One nappy delivery in our absence and another shortly after our return. We may now officially have a nappy stock pile. Does it count if it is as a result of the kindness of friends?

We are living in strange times indeed. I’m reminded of my Grannie, who had a correct and appropriate behaviour for every single social situation. Mostly, I was thinking that I’m glad she is no longer sitting in a nursing home where we would be unable to visit. But then I was wondering what she’d make of this current situation. And I realised she had already taught us exactly what we should do. Her two pieces of advice gleaned from boarding school. No, not “bend from the hips not the waist when drinking soup” but, if you see an acquaintance in the street, your brother and boarder at the boy’s school in town maybe, Smile, Bow, and Pass Along.” Thanks, Grannie.

No photos tonight as they’ve all vanished.

Verse of the day, from a different friend, Matthew 6:34  Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. 

And our hymn for today: one of Imi’s favourites for a change of pace. 

We actually have a timetable for tomorrow, with two planned and structured events, both happening at set times. Strange again to think of Sunday as our more structured day. Not complaining though, very much looking forwards to it. 

Tia 

Day 4.

Day four and I'm pleased to say we are no longer short of nappies. It's the little things which become important.

We have a large freezer, a large 'fridge, and several cupboards full of food. We have online deliveries booked to begin in a couple of weeks (by which time, surely this mad run on the shops will seriously have slowed down?), and we have friends who are willing and able to haunt the shops for us. We shan't starve.

Nevertheless, it is different. We have a freezer full of food, but only 1/3 of it is full of food A would choose to eat. Broccoli has disappeared from the shops. I find myself eating different meals to A, choosing to extend the food she likes by eating the food she is currently rejecting. Calculating how much milk I should put into my hot drinks, or whether I should switch to black coffee, to preserve the milk for D's bottles? None of us are going without, but I have a new appreciation of the value of just being able to head up to the shops should we fancy something different to eat that night. The luxury of being able to ignore the food in the 'fridge and send A to pick up a jar of her favourite pasta sauce. The freedom of being able to eat sandwiches for breakfast and lunch, knowing we can pick up a fresh loaf in the afternoon. It's been four days. I hope that after four months that's a freedom I never forget to appreciate.

It is humbling, to be reliant on the kindness of others. When Imi was so ill at home, I knew I could rely on my friends, but I could reciprocate on days she had nurses at home. Now the whole world seems to be in the same position, and there is no way to reciprocate.

To our hand washing station, we have added a cupboard for outdoor clothing and bags. We are assessing visitors. If carers are allowed to come in, then is there a greater risk in allowing others in?

And our outdoor transformation has begun. Two adults two hours, said the instructions on this trampoline. One adult, one teen passing pieces, and one boy climbing on at every available opportunity. A long pause for lunch, but we did it! So that's an indoor swing and an outdoor trampoline; the climbing frame will need to wait for another day until I am brave enough to tackle it.

But there will be another day. And another, and another. Our world has shrunk, and our time expanded. People don't need to ask if we will be in for deliveries; the assumption is we will be here. The rest of the world seems to be getting busier. Endless queues for food, emergency meetings, whether in person or virtual. People stacking up their homeschooling timetables, planning their days hour by hour. And we potter on. Building a trampoline becomes our education for today. School say they have learning packs on their website, but we can't find them yet. A downloads maths sheets from assorted websites, enjoys tackling them, then uses Siri to check her answers. D uses his talker to tell her to take a break. I check a few emails, and suddenly it is time for another meal and meds and beds, and I'm not sure where the day has gone. I'm not complaining. I'd rather the days slipped away from us than that we were counting every minute. The thought that this might be us for a year or more is both desperately desolate and also strangely ok; we will find a way.

Song for the day as I stretched springs and snapped locking pins, surrounded by birdsong and a strange lack of traffic.

Verse for the day courtesy of my friend Alesha: "The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come..." Song of Solomon 2:12

Tia

The Distancing Diaries: Day 3

The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but the rain in Abingdon falls mainly on the madwoman watching her boy splash around in puddles outside once he can no longer be contained within four walls.

We are waiting for some garden play equipment, but in the meantime Captain Sensory needed some serious stimulation to stop him exploding. Office chair spinning, peanut ball rolling, head squeezing, joint compressions, and he was nearly purring by the time we reached his little fingers. And then we found the best New Thing; tucked away and waiting for a collection which never came, a swing we could sling onto the hoist. One happy bouncy swinging spinning boy and then quietly, one calm and snoozy baby boy. 

We have nappies! Assorted friends and church people have been scouring the shops, and I'm pleased to say we are fully stocked, tick item one of the reasons to lose sleep list. We also have chocolate spread and ketchup, so my girl's world will keep turning. 

And we have a new social worker. When we will meet, who knows? But a name. And not a new social worker, a social worker who was, briefly, responsible for my beautiful golden girl, many years ago. 

And we have the beginnings I think of more formal back up plans. Or at least, we have recognition that plans will be needed. Official recognition from both health and social services that if I am ill myself, there are two very vulnerable children who will need full support very quickly. No idea what that will look like yet but I'm feeling a lot less stressed now that the official bods have acknowledged the fact they are aware of the situation. It's a decent start. Plan A does of course remain stay well and don't break anything, plan B being just don't get too ill. 

It's been a long day. One boy partying from 1-4AM; we attempt to refuse his invitation to join him but he's quite insistent. It's a good job he's cute. One girl who is upset to learn that her school will be remaining open without her, whilst other schools close. And who is determined to have the biggest folder of work completed before she goes back. Which is a good aim, except when it means she gets panicky at the thought of being away from her work station, not only between the hours of 9 and 3 but also up until bedtime, because the others will of course be working so hard at school. I'm hoping they might start sending some work out to her fairly soon, so that she can see what the others are doing rather than simply trying to do All of The Things in an attempt not to miss out. 

The world has shrunk considerably. I haven't seen most of my neighbours for a few days now. If we are out, they are safely behind their shuttered windows. Fewer cars are coming and going. Our delivery drivers are dropping parcels at the door, knocking loudly then running down the drive as quickly as they can. The meter man came to call today; as he moved up our hallway so we retreated to the kitchen, and then back down to shut the door once he was down the driveway. Echoes of some stylised country dance perhaps? Shrinking, but feeling more normal today. 

Verse of the day: Proverbs 18:10 The name of The Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run into it and they are saved (earworm, anyone?) 

And song for the moment: