This feels familiar. Mothers of young children have been practicing for COVID for years. Days blending into weeks, punctured by food and naps and tantrums. The mundane busyness. Clenched jaws and sweaty sheets. Every conversation turning back to the same subject.
‘How are you coping?’
‘Okay, I think. Tired.’
We pad around in slippers and pyjama pants. Filling the day in 20-minute increments. Waiting as long as possible to go to the shops, or going everyday, just to have a reason to leave the house.
My sons are older now, mostly. They wear watches and have electric toothbrushes. They sometimes set the table without being asked. But they still curl into my lap, folded up like giant insects. All big hands and downy shins.
The baby is a delight, a panacea for all of us. She has learned to clap, and gives a round of applause when I present her with a pile of blueberries. She claps herself when she pulls off her sock, or manages to wobble from the couch to the coffee table. She waves goodbye when I duck into the next room, blows kisses as I bring the washing in.
The boys wash her hair in the shower. One presses a hand to her forehead to stop the shampoo running into her eyes, while the other rubs small circles on her skull. She claps happily, and they move the stream of water to rush the bubbles away.
Afterwards, they pat her dry and sit her on the carpet in front of the fireplace, and she immediately turns and clambers into their laps, her damp hands grabbing their cheeks.
The preppie has almost finished 100 days of school. For about a month he wore his uniform, put on his brave face and sat in a classroom. The rest of his school days have been at home, at the kitchen table. Learning to use a mouse and a keyboard, to concentrate amongst the chaos.
He reads board books to his sister, carefully sounding out each word. She reaches her arms up for him.