Quarantine Day 4

Quarantine Day 4 in the Chicken Pox House.

Cabin Fever – A state characterized by anxiety, restlessness and boredom, arising from a prolonged stay in a remote or confined space.

Biscuits consumed: 301

Hours of CBeebies viewed: 5

Times I have called my Sister: 32

Time out of the house talking to ACTUAL other HUMAN BEINGS: 0

FIVE O’CLOCK THIS MORNING I am woken up with my son shouting inches from my face.

‘WAKE UP!! YOU’RE not well. You need me to examine you. OPEN YOUR MOUTH AS WIDE AS YOU CAN. SAY AHHHHHHHHHHH’

‘ARGGGGHHHHHHH! What have you put in my ear? Stop stabbing me in the eye.’ I can see he’s holding his toy Doctor’s kit in one hand and what looks suspiciously like a torture implement (but is in fact a plastic thermometer) in the other.

‘You are very ill Mummy. You should go back to sleep right away,’ he says whilst sitting on my chest and forcing my eyes shut with his hand. 

My husband is still sleeping soundly. I whisper to my son, ‘Daddy told me he’s got a bad foot and needs an examination right away’. He jumps on him and shouts, ‘Daddy! Mummy says you have a bad foot. I MUST look at it right now!’

Damn. Busted.

After an hour of repeatedly returning our Lil Man to bed, only for him to re-appear in our bed minutes later, I give up and we go downstairs.  I lie him on the sofa and MissChief walks over with the first aid kit, strokes his head and says, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.’ She then sticks the play syringe in his eye and he screams.

I confiscate the doctor’s kit and give him a big cuddle so he stops crying. ‘Are you feeling better my darling?’ I ask him. My son’s face crumples and he cries, ‘I WANT TOPSY AND TIM’S MUMMY TO LOOK AFTER ME’

I really hate that woman!

After four days in the house nursing my son, who has Chicken Pox, none of us are sure where CBeebies ends and reality begins anymore. I find myself in the kitchen singing the theme tune to ‘Justin’s House’ but I’ve changed the words to ‘Stuck in the House dadadada.’ 

My 3 year old walks in and asks 'Mummy? Where does thunder come from?' I hesitate just long enough for him to say 'Don't worry, Ill ask Mr. Tumble'

Then something TERRIBLE happens.  The screams (mine) can be heard in the next borough.

MissChief has found the remote control and has somehow re-programmed the TV. (How do they do this? I can just about manage to change the volume!) CBeebies is no-where to be found and I am seriously considering letting them watch ‘Homes under the Hammer’ when Lil man runs to the ‘DO NOT EVER GO INTO THIS EVER’ drawer, gets out a screw driver and turns intently towards the TV shouting, ‘CAN I FIX IT? YES I CAN’

Stay Calm. Count to ten. Breathe. ‘Its fine my darling. WE DON’T NEED TELEVISION’. I mentally calculate the hours left in the day to fill before their bed time … and shudder.

‘Let’s do the new Lego set now?’ I suggest aware that I am pulling out the 'big guns' way too early in the day.

He looks at me suspiciously, and drops the screw driver on the floor. ‘But Mummy, Daddy said you will lose all the pieces and I shouldn’t let you near it?’

He has a point, but I ignore him anyway, sit down and empty all the pieces onto the table.  I make a start on the twelve pages of instructions. ‘Mummy? Can I play now?’ ‘Sure my angel,’ I say distractedly as I hand him the EMPTY box.

I construct one tiny piece at a time, which is unbelievably satisfying. ‘I am loving this!’ I tell my son, who is sitting with his back to me and sulking.  ‘We just need to find the VITAL missing piece that holds the whole thing together.’

‘Is it the one MissChief has in her mouth?’ he asks grumpily.

As I dislodge the missing piece from her mouth we all agree it’s probably best if I play with the Lego once they have gone to bed.

‘Let’s play Doctors!’ my daughter shouts excitedly, having found the confiscated Doctor’s bag that I clearly did not hide as well as I thought I had! She is now holding a toy syringe in one hand and the screw driver in the other.  For a split second I swear I see Chucky standing before me. My son screams and bolts for the door. OH GOD!

I grab the screw driver and go and give myself time out in the kitchen. Time out equaling two custard creams.

‘Can we play with the play-doh mummy?’  I promise myself that I will NOT react when they squish all the brand new, brightly coloured play-doh together into a big brown blob. 

I walk back in to find MissChief balancing precariously on her trike so she can reach the TV and clean it with her toy broom.

My 3 year old surveys the room filled with emptied out boxes of toys and says to me, ‘I really think you should tidy up Mummy'.

Demoralizing to say the least.  Resignedly I put Postman pat on Netflix and pick up the phone.

Me: ‘Hello? I’m very sorry but I am going to have to finish my shift early. There is faulty equipment,  I cannot continue to work under these conditions. Would you please organize immediate cover?’

My husband: ‘Lydia, it is only 10am and I’m trying to work. Can you please STOP calling me?’

Me: ‘Fine. I’ll call an agency. Good-bye!’

I hang up and walk to other side of the room and fall dramatically onto the sofa where my children are sitting.  ‘Do you need a doctor Mummy?’

‘Yes, I think I do’, I reply as I notice the two pieces of Lego embedded in my foot.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you’, my daughter says, stroking my face adorably.