There’s something about Mondays during lockdown that have been made so much worse by grey, cold, winter weather. My day starts at 4am when my 3-year-old climbs into my arms to cuddle alongside me in bed, having woken with a nightmare – or maybe just the shared realization that it’s another Monday? I struggle with falling back asleep, adjusting my eye mask to block out any hint of light that threatens to convince my body that it’s daytime. I stretch over to raise the volume on the rain sounds playing on my phone, but it’s just out of reach, so I calmly try to settle my breath into slumber. It’s suddenly 7am and I’m not feeling all that refreshed, or that my rest tactics worked at all – maybe I should have just started my day three hours earlier?
The little guy wakes with the same clinginess of his pre-dawn arrival, his eyes showing dark shadows of his bad dreams. My husband is in the shower and I hear the toilet flush from the kids’ washroom, the next room over, and know that my middle guy will be joining us in 3, 2, 1: down he flops onto the still-warm patch left by his dad. I contort myself to be able to offer equal arm comfort to both boys, already squirming with their near constant sensory tug-of-war. One wants affection from the other, the other repels it, but they both seek it from mom. Nobody’s content, least of all me, always the invisible rope in these scenarios. My daughter drags herself over the threshold and collapses onto the foot of the bed, draping her body across my legs.
“I’m tired,” she whines at half-speed, her face buried beneath her hair.
Oh Mondays, I think again. I feign a positive outlook and try to encourage that everyone continues with their routine – some food and a little movement will surely wake you up! She begrudgingly pulls each limb from the bed and seems to puppet her stiff body out of the room and down the stairs. My husband arrives at my side, light peering around his silhouette, one hand delivering my yogurt and granola with berries, the other ready to peel the 3-year-old off of me. My relief at the handoff, and for this little-big gesture, that has helped me battle the morning anxiety and exhaustion, spreads across my face. Our eyes agree on the moment of exchange and his arms wrap around our youngest son, seemingly suctioned to me, as he works to break the seal. Success!
The little guy’s arms reach for me, legs flailing, as he wails, “Mummeeeeee! I want mummy!” The middle guy merely rolls two quarter turns into the newly vacant spot and pulls the covers up over his head with a murmur.
“Come on honey, time to get moving,” I encourage.
“Nuh-uh!” he grunts as he slinks closer, locking me into position, my smile wavering as I try to remain positive.
I just need fifteen minutes alone, I recite silently.
“Up we go!” I insist, heaving myself out from under him and into the bathroom, closing the door to signify the end of discussion. I pause to listen and sure enough, I hear the rustle of covers and the thud of feet being hauled out of bed and down the hall. I let out a sigh and look my haggard face over in the mirror.
Is this it? Will I wake up looking more tired than I did the night before every damn day from here on out? Have the dark circles under my eyes permanently tinted my skin this depressing shade of grey? Is that another pimple? Adult acne is no joke, and these masks and hormones don’t play nicely at all! Did I wash my hair yesterday? I can’t remember but it sure does it need it again. What happened to me?
I slip back to the bed in one stride, the weighted blanket offering me a hug that I’m happy to accept. I read the headlines in my three news apps, covering local, regional and world events, skim my socials and finish with the New York Times mini-crossword, as I savor my still-crunchy parfait. The one aspect of Mondays I relish, is how easy Monday’s crosswords always seem to be – 38 seconds today! I think that’s my new record! Eyeing the clock, I see that I’m behind schedule and hoist myself up and back into the bathroom. I guzzle back my first glass of water of the day, saving the last gulp to wash down my meds and step under the rainfall of water. Oh Mondays.
I wait until I hear my eldest’s Google Meet connect down the hall, and the cries of my little one fade into the distance as he is delivered to Mum’s main level to begin pre-school with Grandma. I hear the gate to the basement close with a click, as my husband heads down for work. Okay, you’re up Natalie! I tell myself, as I put one foot on the top step and start my descent. I arrive at the beginning of fifth grade math, attendance’s question of the day taking less time than usual. I find H slouched sideways on his ball chair, a Lego creation in one hand, half paying attention to his teacher giving instructions on screen. The first task goes well, he even acquiesces to staying in the main meet for extra help (which he has never agreed to do). The next task rolls along smoothly too! Are we breaking the Moon-day cycle? I make myself a cup of coffee and open my laptop, excited at the prospect of getting to my own to-do list – a rarity for Mondays. Recess time, shoot. Okay, well, in a few minutes I will! The little guy comes bounding down from his Grandma’s, runs straight to me, and leaps into my arms with a tight hug. Except he doesn’t let go and now my teen has arrived with a recount of her morning and the end of recess is closing in. “Why don’t you show Heida (his pet name for his big bro), the new setup on Grandma’s level? Isn’t it so much fun?” This should get him back up there without a fuss I hope; minutes later finding myself trying to barricade the exit from mum’s living space, as he tries to squeeze between my legs, crying that he needs to come down to be with me! Mum starts to say something, and the kid gets loose, scrambling past me and down the stairs faster than either of our reaction times. Before I realize, I’m yelling for him to get back upstairs, and with an inordinate amount of exasperation, I plead with mum to make it happen, as the middle kid has a test, now!
My watch alerts me of a text from my teen indicating she’s “back to class.” Sigh. Mondays.
Back at his computer, my middle kid logs into French class, playing with anything and everything in reach, his camera off and mic muted, chair rotating back and forth rhythmically.
“Please pay attention to Madame, she’s giving you your test instructions!”
“I AM!” He barks back.
I close my eyes, dreading how this test is going to go if he’s this unfocused already.
Ding! Another text from my teen: “I’m really anxious and I can’t shake it. What do I do? . . . Mummy? Mummy?”
The child in front of me recaptures my attention when he clicks on the link and opens the Google Form: 14 minutes and 59 seconds remaining.
Ding. Another text.
I look up again. Questions 1, 2, 3 and 4 have passed – “H, hold on, I’d like to see your answers please!” I insist, asking him to scroll back to the top. Wow, all correct so far, I think to myself with surprise, as I nod for him to continue. Less than two minutes later, and he has submitted a perfectly scored test. This kid shocks the hell out of me every day. They said French wouldn’t be easy for him since language processing in his native language, English, was already a challenge for how his brain works. That, and rote memory, auditory processing and short-term memory, are all deficient as well. Well! Put him in front of a screen, with a live teacher, speaking in English, swapping in French vocabulary, then in French, swapping in English vocabulary, all slow, evenly paced and articulate. Place the new vocabulary words front and centre, in bold type, across an interactive slide, paired with an image to attach to the sound for correct pronunciation, and to reinforce the spelling. Use words in context, using videos, games and in fill-in-the-blank team exercises. Voilà! The information is digested the way his brain requires. Not only that, but it’s converted to stored memory, and faster than information that’s been taught over months, without much retention at all! Pandemic discovery win! Monday is lookin’ up! He spends the rest of the test time slot watching the video his teacher has posted about Chinese New Year, told by a Chinese Canadian living in Quebec City, and I count us lucky to have the educators we have working with our kids. I get to tick things off my list now: bills paid, check; money transferred, check; coffee ordered, check; kindergarten registration form completed, gulp, check. I allow my tense shoulders to ease into a more relaxed position as my own anxiety fades into the background.
Ding! Another text from upstairs reads “I’m starting to feel panicky. I can’t stop worrying.”
“Why don’t you step away? Take a break?” I offer.
“No, we’re working in groups, I can’t,” she declines.
I bring my focus back to the room and my attention is drawn to the crying coming from the back house. My 3yo’s screams, each louder than the last, hyphenated by the sounds of my mother struggling with him.
His voice wails, “I want mummy!” with such insistence, that I relent and go up to tend to his desperate cries.
I sit on Mum’s couch, rocking this big boy, who instantly transforms back to my baby, as he sinks into me for comfort; his little hands touching my skin, his cheek against my neck.
How old are they when they don’t fit exactly like this anymore?
I don’t want to miss it this time. It takes so long to soothe his racing heartbeat. With a little help from Fireman Sam on the tv behind me, all is well again in the span of a short episode. Lunchtime! Thank goodness for leftovers because they’re already arguing over what show to put on at the counter, and who is getting the last slice of pizza; their voices competing to tell me what happened in class and what the assignment they did that morning was all about. I referee while mum warms food up, and everyone reaches for a portion from the island’s buffet. The brothers, now bickering, take centre stage and I intervene, breaking up the physical dispute developing over whether or not the big one stole the little one’s piece, only for him to get down and decide that he’s not hungry and isn’t eating any lunch anyway! My husband comes upstairs and jumps right into delivering an account of the meeting he has just concluded – directed at me, of course — and my eyes catch the news notification that pops up on my phone, as I also try to eat my own lunch. Right! I should have given a synopsis of the GameStop stock market situation to C before school this morning, as they probably discussed it in their morning catch up (she enjoys participating and always likes to have a little to contribute. She was probably uncomfortable not being in the loop). I hope she didn’t feel left out. I pull up a summary someone posted online and forward her that and the New York Times’ breakdown and attempt to explain it as best as I understand, not being financial-speak fluent myself. With my left hand, I adjust the robot my 3yo has turned on, and now needs help operating, and relay the news of another friend’s covid-positive result. Then, just as suddenly as the hour began, the lunch hour is over, and everyone disperses – again, it’s a struggle to peel away the littlest Cichy, and it’s another invisible exit by the teen. Shit. I didn’t get a chance to chat with her privately to see how she was feeling. Mondays.
I remind my middle guy to log back in for afternoon attendance as he groans in realization that they will be in a virtual assembly for Black History Month. His brain doesn’t allow him to retain auditory information without visual and tactile interaction. So, lectures and speeches both bore him to tears, and make him so irritable and strung out, that he visibly struggles mentally and physically. I’m torn with wanting him to learn and knowing that this likely won’t go well. I suggest we sit down and read one of the illustrated books on Martin Luther King Jr. or Rosa Parks that I had pulled from our home library’s shelves, in anticipation of such a scenario.
“No!” he votes with authority.
“What about finishing the math flip-grid task from this morning?” I suggest, knowing we need to be able to pivot when he starts to dysregulate.
“No!” he shouts, brows furrowed.
Shit. We missed the window. When was it? Was it during the pizza argument? How did I not realize that?
“Hmm, well you have the Amanda Gorman poem assignment, or your 7-minute Monday write, or what about your struct—”
“NO, NO, NOOOO!” he interjects, with both rising volume and anger, his cheeks now flushed. We stare at the silent Google meet grid, only his two teacher’s cameras on, the others an array of icons and static images. We watch them nod in agreement – with what, I’ll never know, as my guy has closed the assembly’s tab, and I am no longer privy to what they are presenting.
“Why don’t you at least open the assembly back up so we can hear what’s going on?” I suggest, with hesitation.
Only to be slapped back with, “shut up! It’s boring.”
“Well, how do you know it’s boring if you’re not watching or listening?”
“Shut up.”
“Maybe they’ve moved on to something else?”
“Shut up.” He bangs the metal toy aircraft he’s holding, against the surface of his desk, shoving his chair into its edge, making the monitor atop it sway. Slam again. “Shut up.”
“Well, why don’t we do something else? Would you like to search up a different video?”
Him, again, “shut up.” Bang, slam. “Pee-hole. Shut up.”
“We don’t need to follow along; we can find out about African American figures who made history ourselves.
His trance seems to pause. He turns to stare at me and states with disdain, “It’s Black History, not just Americans from Africa.” So, I explain to his disbelief where the terms originate, and how they are used. He doesn’t seem to trust my answer, and jumps right back into, “NO!” Slam, bang, slam.
As if coming to my aid, his teacher’s voice breaks through his yells, as their meet resumes and she miraculously reiterates my suggestion (I love that we’re on the same wavelength), pulling out her own book, a collection on African Americans who have helped to shape History. She asks someone to call out a page number to which she should flip. Except it’s just something else being spoken aloud that he doesn’t have in his hands.
“BO-RING!” he yells over his teacher’s voice.
I’m relieved that she can’t hear us, that no one can, while also nervous about who will take my place with him for the next school year. I intervene, “so let’s get our own out and –.“
“Shut up. Pee-hole, Idiot.” Bang, slam, bang, shove. His tongue pointing at me now, as his eyes roll up in disgust.
I take another breath, calming my patience: almost music class, great. Mondays. Why?
“I’m not going to music, you can’t make me!” he spits at me, arms crossed.
“What would you like me to do instead?” I question, knowing that he doesn’t have the answer either.
“No music! It’s so boring. I’m not going!” he pleads.
“Well, what are you going to do when it’s test time and you don’t know the material?” I offer.
“I don’t care,” he shrugs.
“I know your teacher doesn’t have the most engaging approach honey, but it’s something we have to do,” I say with as much empathy as I can muster.
“Shut up,” he growls. Bang, slam, eye roll, tongue point. “We’re just watching him playing the notes on a screen!” he jests.
I silently agree, my eyes concede, but vocally I suggest, “yeah, I know, but maybe we can try out what he’s showing you on our piano?”
“NO, NO, NO!!” He stands all the way up, slamming his mouse repeatedly on the desk – the second mouse we’ve had to purchase since virtual school began. He’s on the verge of tears and I know there’s no coming back.
The email I sent to his teacher, only moments before, already has a response, the two of us well-versed in this almost daily charade. She suggests the same things I’ve tried and a few more that go over with the same lack of success.
“You know what? Why don’t you join A and Grandma in the backyard, and I’ll bring you all out hot chocolate? The fire is on out there. Go on.” A shimmer of hope washes across his face, as the red fades from his cheeks, and his body straightens. He’s pulling on his snow pants and ski jacket with a speed so rapid, willing me not to change my mind. The meet is already closed, and the screen is dark. It’s 1:50pm. No learning has happened since 11:35 this morning. Not much of anything has happened, save for a growing discouragement, if I’m honest. I finish making the hot chocolates and pass them out the back door behind him. Silence. Mondays!
I make myself a cappuccino and stick half a bagel into the toaster, texting my husband my discouragement, not knowing how much more shut up/idiot/desk slamming I can take.
Ding. That was a quick response! Nope, it’s another text from the teen – her anxiety is spiking again. She says it’s all the mental health talk from last week.
I agree with her. That, on top of Martin Luther King Day, the Holocaust memorial, then the inauguration in the US following discussions about the riots and us all being in lockdown – and her uncle, my brother, being back in hospital, his bipolar unmanaged and psychosis having taken over – it’s just all been so . . . heavy. She seems relieved that I get it, and that it’s normal to feel anxious. I invite her down to chat. She arrives eagerly, just as the toaster pops.
Ring, ring, ring, a phone ringing interrupts us. I look down to see it’s mine – the dance director at her new high school, returning my call. “Sorry honey, you have my bagel, I have to take this,” I apologize as I answer and head up to my mum’s for privacy. Mondays.
I didn’t know whether I should have reached out to her, but if this past year has taught me anything, it’s that mental health matters and being true to ourselves, is of utmost importance. I’ll be damned if I see my daughter return to that beaten down version of herself that she was three years ago. She has been accepted into a Regional Arts Programme for dance, at the high school nearby, also her first choice of all the programmes she has applied to, so is excited beyond recognition. Was, that is, until she found out her nemesis from junior school was accepted as well. This girl made my daughter’s life a living hell for years with a passive-aggressive manipulation of her kindness. The bullying she experienced took over a year to truly break free from and continues to be the foundation of much of her social anxiety. I want her to follow her passions and if this is the place for it, then, we will support her in every way. I just don’t know if she’ll be able to experience her passion as her own if this girl is calling the shots again. I wanted to, without divulging details, get a take on this instructor’s stance on the frenemy drama that plagues girls, knowing the extreme of which is bound to happen in high school as hormones surge. I veiled the inquiry in my wanting to know about how they’ve been conducting such a specialized programme during covid, but it was clear that she knew the true intent. Hearing her speak with such importance placed on mental well-being and running her studios like a tight ship, eased my worries exponentially. How is it that you can quickly surmise where mental health places on someone’s priority list just by their tone and vocabulary used?
Bullying wouldn’t be tolerated, nor is there any place for the alpha spot among her dancers. Yes, the girls are together for four years, and become a family, and like with any family, there will be discord, nor can she control what goes on outside her purview, but she also has the unique position of being with them so intimately that she sees and hears more than regular subject teachers, so weeds out the nonsense pretty quickly.
I hope these reassurances appease my teen’s worries as they have mine. I thank her for taking the time to chat with me and hang up, arriving back down to the now empty kitchen, and my cold cappuccino. The back door opens and the boys and Mum tumble in, removing snow gear into a giant pile.
The little one spots me and having been away from me for a whole hour and a half, runs into my arms. “Mummy!! I missed you!”
Mondays.