Getting back to the basics in the Covid-19 lockdown has its ups and downs

Esther N McCarthy's tomboy years are coming in handy as lockdown means her family seek other forms of entertainment.

This is the new normal. Where painting rocks passes for fun and lip-synch battles determine who gets in a rusty old bath first. What have I become? writes Esther N McCarthy

Day.. oh who even CARES anymore?

We appear to be reverting back to simpler times. Make a tree swing over the river near house, where sons frolic for hours, and I smile and push them higher and higher with a flagrant disregard for basic health and safety and possibly some planning laws.

Hang a hammock at the end of the garden. We play swingball and have keepie-uppie challenges during the day, like it’s the goddamn 1980s. My tomboy years finally come in handy as I emerge victorious and my boys begrudgingly admit I’m a bit good at something.

Paint stones. Like a cavewoman. I literally paint actual stones, creating dodgy ladybirds and a wonky-looking cat.

Ostensibly, it is an arts and crafts project to do with the kids so I can smugly share in the inlaws Whatsapp group, but I end up really enjoying it. What’s become of me?

Day who cares +1

Have lost the will to maintain basic self-care, have ceased to pluck, preen, or pummel.

Forego moisturising of skin and faffing of hair. What’s the point? Children care not for crow’s feet and husband is oblivious to such vanities.

Pros: saving small fortune on Shiesedo Benefiance creams; shows husband loves me for personality, not luminous skin; hair relieved of the constant scorch of the straightener; saving water and electricity because of infrequent showering.

Cons: Eyebrows like cavewoman’s fanny; irrationally annoyed at husband’s nonchalance over having Chewbacca-esque spouse; genuine fear may not get to wear out any existing shoes as am sporting nothing but slippers and runners, thus will never again feel the thrill of buying a new pair of boots.

Immediately feel ashamed of such banal fears in time of global crisis and resolve to be more present, more humble and focus on the important things. Give thanks for all that we have. Allow myself the grace to feel at one with my natural self. I don’t need swathes of make-up and artifice to feel good!

Resolve to be potent, positive role model for my boys, illustrate that the power of women comes from inner strength. Present how beauty — real beauty — is found in how we speak to ourselves and others.

Find my copy of Maya Angelou’s Phenomenal Woman and force sons to listen to me recite it aloud... “It’s the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I’m a woman Phenomenally.”

I look at them meaningfully.

There’s a pause, then the eight-year-old says, “Your top is on inside out.” Poetry is wasted on these louts.

Day who cares +2

Whoohoo! Am having Houseparty virtual drinks tonight. Spend two and a half hours getting ready. Homemade coconut oil and banana hair mask a resounding success. Have great fun getting drunk with fabulous friends. Only glitch, when fake eyelash falls in my gin.

Day who cares +3

Why can’t hangovers be virtual? Husband, who pre-plague, would make it his business to get into the water in some guise most days, be it swim or surf or paddleboard, has taken to extreme measures to immerse himself in liquid (non alcoholic, unlike me).

Some background: in pre-parental folly, when remodeling the bathroom, we decided a large shower was more desirable than a bath. Oh, past me, you dolt! Every time one of the babies managed to projectile poo right allll the way up their back and into the cute little folds of their neck, I cursed that decision. (It was surprisingly often).

Every time I read articles on the benefits of Epsom salts or receive a gift of a candle and bath bomb set (again surprisingly often) I chew my fist in frustration and silently berate the moronic move.

Today, husband, antsy without his watery world, comes home with an old cast iron bath with claw feet and rusty taps. We’ve been married long enough for me not to ask too many questions on the provenance of such an item.

I watch him in the garden, in between working, cursing my laptop, dodging the cat, feeding the children, washing hands x 300, mopping floor, prepping stones, doing homework and *folding laundry.

As the light slips from the sky, he saws, welds, plumbs and hammers, finally standing with his hands on his lower back, beholding his creation. The remains of our BBQ are scattered around him, with the top of it under the bath, a gas bottle hooked up to it.

An old garden hose snakes through a window connected to the bathroom taps. There’s a semi flood in there, but I say nothing.

“It’s a hottub!” he declares before disrobing and easing in with a satisfied sigh. He has fashioned a cover for it too with cutouts for the taps, to keep the heat in, which he now pulls up to his chest.

The stars are out, the moon is massive and there are bats in the trees. I shoo the children inside, silently cursing the commissioning editor of Room to Improve, Dermot Bannon, and quite unfairly, Dermot’s wife.

* I lied about the laundry. I folded nothing.

Day who cares +4

I fear we are regressing too far. Have frenzy of gardening today. Husband and kids plant potatoes and I plant mint. Mine is for mojitos.

The spuds are a backup, a subconscious reaction to a deep-seated fear of no food, passed down through the generations?

Tesco Express may be mere minutes away, but the famine was only 175 years ago. Should we become more self-sufficient? Put some withering garlic bulbs and the ends of spring onions in pots.

Dig out (no pun intended) a GIY Almanac, it’s a kids version but suits our purposes.

We now fight for bath time. Have competitions throughout the day to see who gets to go in first. No one wants to do keepie-uppies. We have a photography championship, a lip-synch battle and push up challenges. I lose them all. This is my life now, it’s fifth-hand water for me.

Also, I have become uncommonly familiar with methods of making your own yeast for a starter dough. Of course, I’ll never actually do it, but find it strangely calming to see what kind of bread Colm O’Gorman is posting on his Twitter feed.

Resolve to try baking something with kids, even though I have no talent nor interest in it. I’m one of the animals that dodged The Little Red Hen until the loaf was out of the oven and then rocked up with the plate and the bit of butter, tongue hanging out.

Day who cares +5

Think about getting a mask. To put over my mouth, not so much for the germs, but to stop me shoveling food in. Am wary of friends in various online forums sharing overeating stories.

Suspect they are all secretly Joe Wicking the shite out of it, whilst I have Hobnobs for breakfast. Determine to use isolation time to get fitter.

Roll out yoga mat in bedroom. As I start my first sun salutation, and flow into a slightly awkward upward dog, I turn my neck and recoil in horror at dust under the bed. Whole ecosystems are thriving there.

Go to the cemetery for a run, where am less likely to meet unexpected life forms. Ok, it’s more of a jog. Well, a fast walk.

Feel great and no one to awkwardly skirt around grimacing politely. Get back to cold bath.

Simpler times can kiss my ass.