From my left, the quiet chime of M’s alarm interrupts my sleep cycle at a stage unfamiliar to me in its depth. I feel him sit up to mute the rising volume, and I’m suddenly aware of the sound of my Rain Rain app, from my right. I reach up to peel my eye mask back, bracing myself for the light, but it is still dark.
Oh right, Ottawa day. It’s only 3:45 am.
I hold out my hand for M to grab, as he passes me on his way out. He bends down, groggy. Our lips meet and I recite my usual “I love you. Drive safe. Be safe,” and I roll over, pull the mask back down and hope I can fall back asleep. I’ve had to train myself to not wait until I hear his footsteps descend the staircase.
Not to listen for the front door click shut and the key turn in the lock.
Not to listen to the start of the car outside and it’s engine revving as it leaves the driveway, starting its 435 km bi-weekly commute.
I’ve had to learn how to salvage every moment of sleep that I am able to squeeze in before responsibility takes precedence, and routine begins.
M has had to learn to be silent, lining up all he requires the night before, for as little disruption as possible.
Every second counts when you’ve been sleep deprived for what has turned into years.
Sooner than I’d like, it’s 7 am and H joins me first – I feel a fleeting moment of panic and whip my head to focus on the baby monitor’s fuzzy image. Still sleeping. Phew! The first time he’s gone back to sleep in his own bed after waking and he isn’t even the first up this morning! I concede to my fatigue and tell H that I’ll just wait until his brother wakes. I blink and it’s 7:50! I jump out of bed and into the shower, seeing that the little guy is waking and I know time is scarce. Wow this is out of character for him. I leave a banana on my nightstand, knowing it will stave off his hunger a few minutes and fumble around in the washroom, knocking things over unnecessarily. I should feel refreshed – no one ever sleeps that late around here! M must be close to Belleville by now. WHY am I so exhausted? I slug back my water, washing down an Advil for my pounding head and decide that there’s no time to wash my hair. Minutes – seconds? – later, I’m drying off, pulling my clothes on with haste, hoping the stain on leggings is faint and they’ll last me another day. From behind the door I can hear my eldest is giggling, trying to convince her flustered brother that his shirt is on backwards and if he wants to see the construction vehicle scene, he would have to turn it around and that pyjamas come off before clothes go on.
“NO! I’m doing it!” he shrieks, unwilling to change it, or his diaper, or his pyjama pants just yet. C agrees to bring him down with her and take out the leftover pancakes from the fridge when I ask.
“I’ll be right down,” I promise, adding a layer of concealer to the large dark sacs beneath my bloodshot eyes. Uggh, eye drops are definitely necessary today. I give my body a shake to get my blood flowing and with a deep breath, head down to greet the crew. When I turn the corner, relief washes over me to see H dressed without a battle today, leaving me slightly more refreshed.
“I want my pancakes COLD!” The tiny human barks at his sister, almost twice his height and more than three times his age. His face is red; spittle spraying from his tiny mouth as he stomps his foot; his hands tightly fisted.
“Okay, okay, I’ll put yours back in the fridge!” C offers, before sitting down to eat hers, warm.
I shake my head and go through the motions of morning routine – the routine that I’ve developed and run for years, but for which I’ve passed on the baton, for what’s now nearing a full year. My head is thick in a fog I can’t shake. My body thankfully operates on autopilot, assuring me that I can manage it all in the 45 minutes that remain, despite it usually taking my husband twice that. I dress for outside, call the dog, leash her, and bring her out into the cold for her morning duty. She makes it no further than the front yard, to the one patch of frozen grass visible through the mounds of ice; her hurt leg preventing us from walking further. We head back in and I have to help her up the steps. Damn it, it doesn’t seem to be getting much better. It doesn’t seem to bother her either, but I’m going to have to bring her in aren’t I? I can hear M’s complaints already.
What a lemon this dog has been. How naive we were to have bought her from an online listing. What is this going to cost us this time? Anything at all will be too much.
I paraphrase his feelings on this subject. I hang my coat, and note that the cold did nothing to lift the fog. My head still feels heavy upon my neck, my body moving as if molasses ran through my veins.
Fuck Natalie, pull it together!
Inside it’s quiet, save for the sound of the kitchen TV – pre-pandemic a definite NO before school. I know many would scoff at us adding screen time to their already packed virtual days, but means of survival come in many forms! I retrieve the newly cooled pancakes from the fridge and serve them up to my tiny dictator before preparing my own yogurt, berry and granola mixture.
Dishwasher emptied, check.
Dirty dishes loaded, check.
Dog’s water filled, check.
I sit down with amazement. Can I actually eat and read the headlines without interruption? I swipe up on my phone, and even it has trouble recognizing me, so I enter my passcode. Notifications blink red on multiple apps and I turn the screen back off, unable to take any of it in just yet.
“No Hei-da! Nooooo! That’s MY pancake! Give it back!” A screams in distress, now standing on the barstool in an attempt to reach around his big brother and retrieve what’s rightfully his.
“H! Give that back to your brother! We’ve already had this discussion. H, stop teasing him!” I interject, hoping to break up the power struggle between them, without time to think about how I was creating one myself.
“Uh uh! I just want a bite. Can I have a bite?” H asks, without bothering to notice the shake of a NOresponse, as his teeth tear off half the chocolate chip laden cake before tossing the jagged remainder AT his little brother.
Defeated once again, A climbs down and head bowed, shoulders slumped, seeks solace in my arms. Waiting until safely on my lap before allowing his sobs to come freely.
“You’re so frustrated that H took your pancake without permission and then wouldn’t give it back, aren’t you?”
His lips quiver, crocodile sized tears streaming down his plump cheeks.
“You were enjoying it before he took it away, right?”
His chest heaves and his head nods ever so slightly, in agreement.
“You really wish he hadn’t taken such a big bite out of it, don’t you?” I narrate to validate his big feelings as my embrace comforts him.
Sniff, sniff. The dog nuzzles at A’s dangling feet, catching his attention, and garnering a smile. He slides off my lap, not bothering to wipe his wet face. Arms wrap around his furry friend.
“Poppy! My doggy,” he wrestles with her affectionately.
Well I’m glad that’s settled, I think, knowing full well my middle child has said or done nothing of repair.
Eek! Six minutes left!
“Teeth time boys. Who’s first?” I call out as I hurry into the powder room and prepare each toothbrush with the appropriate paste. H, having collapsed into a lump on the couch, his face buried in the pillow, refusing to move, is obviously not, so the little one it is! I wait as he steps on the stool and onto his tiptoes to see his face in the mirror. I brush, careful to be gentle with the bubblegum PJ Masks toothpaste, reminding him to spit before he swallows again.
How much fluoride is okay for them to ingest?
“Okay monkey, down you get. H! Your turn!” I peek my head out the door. He’s still on the couch. “Okay buddy, you can come here to brush where you can spit or I can come there, your choice.” Silence. “5? 4? 3. . . 2? 1. Last call!” He groans as he peels himself off the couch and stomps in and up to the sink, already holding his hands over his mouth.
“Well, I’m going to need access to clean them. Do you want to start and I finish?” He shakes his head no, and opens the smallest amount possible for me to wiggle the brush inside. I’ve done two brushes on one side when he’s spitting into the sink with enough force that it splashes us both. Again. And Again. One more time. He’s pushing against the sink, his arms outstretched and his eyes scrunched shut. His head leans to the side and he allows the brush in again. The left side, the front, and his tongue forces the brush out to spit again, and again, several times, each more powerful than the last. His whole body is cringing, his weight shifts from side to side, his expression is distress mixed with disgust. I quickly get him to open to do the grooves and inside surfaces in a quick sweep. Mental note: ask his dad to do them in the opposite order tonight to have all bases covered. “Okay, rinse.” I reach to wipe his face as he breaks free from me and flees the room. It’s been three minutes and yet I’m out of breath from the exertion – my watch even registering the activity, noting my heart rate.
“Okay everyone, time for school! Have a good morning C, see you at recess. H, log in please. Do you have your water?” I recite from our routine. A’s arms reach around my right leg, indicating that he stays with me – or is it I with him? We hobble over to feed the dog, our bodies not quite working together in unison, him being half my height and a quarter my weight. We stand attached, watching her gobble up her breakfast and discover a Christmas ribbon at the bottom of the food bin. I take A’s interest in the red yarn and use it as an opportunity to lure him upstairs to where his grandmother awaits, with her fun nursery school activities.
“Oh! Is that your fishing string? Have you caught a Poppy? I think you have! Let’s see if she follows us,” I entice them both towards the back staircase. It seems to be working and we make it up to mum’s main level where she is adding the final touches on an elaborate fort she has made for their morning together.
“A! Look! It’s an ice-fishing hut!” I exclaim, “go see what you can catch in there with your fishing string.” It almost works.
“I want YOU to come,” he pleads, drawing me in with his little hands. I acquiesce, crouch down onto all fours, and crawl in to play along.
Eventually, I’m able to slip away and resume my role as virtual school support worker to my middle guy, hoping the seventeen minutes I’ve missed hasn’t set him back.
“Mummy, you need to sit and do this with me,” H insists as I sit across from him and he begins to erase the work he has already done.
“Why are you erasing that? It’s correct. You did it already,” I reassure him.
“No, it’s not the right one,” he corrects me and changes the slide.
I sit back for a split second and he shrugs, “Well? Are you helping me or what?”
I lean forward again and attempt to glean an understanding of what’s on the screen faster this time.
“Okay, time to head back to the main meet!” his teacher’s voice interrupts us, triggering H to slam his mouse into the desktop in frustration. His eyes redden and his glare pierces into me with blame. My headache reminds me that it’s just taking a backseat for the moment but is ready to return at a moment’s notice. My goodness I’m tired. I feel my shoulders start to slump and every part of me feels like it is filled with sand. I force my posture back into alignment, reenacting poses from last night’s virtual neck and shoulders workshop. I feel taller; my body is gaining awareness of the surfaces it touches. I hear my little guy screaming for me from upstairs. H drives his car over the desk surface.
Bump. Bump. Scrape. Roll.
The sun streams through our paper snowflakes plastering the picture window. I zone out. Seconds, maybe minutes, later, my view comes into focus again and I realize that I’m staring at my neighbours across the street. They have a visitor and they’re all adjusting their masks, double-checking, triple-checking, with the hesitancy of a first meet, before they unite on the sidewalk and head south for a walk. We should have planned a walk. It’s such a nice day. I didn’t realize today was going to be so mild. Odd for February. February! How is it the end of February already? I’m not sure I’ve texted with them since we exchanged treats on Christmas Eve, via porch drops by the kids – Oh wait! That’s not true, wasn’t it her eldest’s birthday recently? Was that last month?
Time seems to have lost its pace. Some days its rhythm matches our routine and I can plan accordingly. Others, it chugs out like the black exhaust of an old muffler, choking as it attempts to get moving, and then billowing out with a puff of smoke that strangles my breath as I try to get ahead of it, where the air is clear.
“Mummy!” H’s voice rattles me out of my daze.
“Sorry. Yes honey.”
“So that pack I want for the game is only, like, a few dollars,” he grins, reclined on his balance ball chair, his knees resting against his desk, and his hand moving the mouse to scroll the webpage he’s browsing.
“What are you doing? It’s class time. Is that your student teacher talking? H, please close that tab and get back to the meet.” He begrudgingly returns to find that he’s not sure what they’re talking about. We both listen to catch up. Ah, literary terms. Alliteration. Hyperbole. Metaphor. She is asking if they need help beginning their poems. I see, okay, the image is provided for inspiration. H opens his file, started the day before. Uh oh, this is going to be problematic. He isn’t grasping this.
It’s raining Robot Dogs. It’s snowed a billion cm and I run as fast as I can. The objects feel like a rock.
What am I supposed to say? I brace myself and open my mouth to make some suggestions.
“H?” It’s his student teacher.
“Yeah,” he mumbles his reply.
“Um, Robot Dogs, sure, that could work as an hyperbole, because that’s an unrealistic exaggeration. What do you mean by snow though? Or rain? It’s sunny in the image? Maybe try describing some of the items that are strewn all around the woman sitting on the rock?” she suggests.
Thank you! Now I don’t have to say it! Not that he listened to any of that.
“What do you mean? There are mountains in the background – there’s snow there,” he states, with the dare to refute him.
Silence.
Well okay, is she going to say something more? We wait.
Nope.
“Hmm, H? What about saying something like, “It snowed billions of centimetres and I’m cold. I run as fast as I can down from the mountains, and into the desert–“
“THAT’S not a poem! Just SHUT UP,” he hurls at me as if serving the final blow in a match I hadn’t known we were fighting.
It’s 9:30 am.
It’s going to be a long haul, pushing-the-broken-down-car-uphill, kind of day.
Funny how time operates in a pandemic.