“THESE are angry little morsels.,” Jennifer wrote when she sent this piece in response to a request from the Post to keep a diary of her week of working at home and home schooling. "I thought about prettying them up, but why? If you can’t be honest in a diary format, then what is the point of writing?”
While some of us are thriving in these crazy times, Jennifer’s brutally honest account reminds us that, others are buckling under the increased demands and loss of personal space.
* Jennifer asked that the diary be anonymous so names have been changed.
While some of us are thriving in these crazy times, Jennifer’s brutally honest account reminds us that, others are buckling under the increased demands and loss of personal space.
* Jennifer asked that the diary be anonymous so names have been changed.
April 22
Tonight, over dinner, I had the strongest urge to tell my whole family to get fucked. It came over me like a wave, a tsunami of rage and I wanted to yell, maybe stomp my feet, and throw a dinner plate. Possibly at my husband’s head. I made myself go to the bedroom and silently screamed into a pillow. It occurred to me that I haven’t felt this helpless, this angry and trapped, since the kids were little. It occurred to me that my husband’s life hasn’t changed one bit. He gets up, heads to work, comes home. He might have a surf at lunchtime, he might get a takeaway coffee, he can do these things because I am at home. My life has reversed five years and once again I find myself a reluctant housewife.
April 24
I’m storming around the kitchen. Angry. Mainly at other people. The careless holidays makers. The walkers who will not go single file along the walking track. The stupidity of people at the supermarket. The Melbourne people who have moved to this town to escape COVID. I tell myself they are only doing what’s best for them, and maybe I would do the same, and don’t be so judge Judy. Then I think these are the sort of selfish, me-first people who would eat you in a crisis, and this makes me laugh and I quickly get over myself.
April 25
Each morning I wake up and meditate. I start the day with good intentions. I remind myself of the things I love and how lucky I am. I remind myself to do at least one fun thing with the kids during the school day. Some days these intentions stay with me and by the evening, when the kids are sleeping and I sneak to their beds and look at their faces, hold their little feet and sniff their temples, I feel relieved. Other days, I feel like a Jenga tower. Each small annoyance, each time the kids interrupt my train of thought or snipe at each other, pulls at my careful balance and I am closer to crumbling. These days I am hard on myself. I berate myself for my lack of patience, my snappy tone. I feel the weight of guilt. On an evening, I drink more and feel worse.
April 27
At lunchtime I went into the shed and cried. I’d been schooling the kids and trying to work. I flicked through social media as a distraction and found myself musing on the tyranny of gratitude. Yes, it’s important to be grateful but it’s also important to acknowledge when something is shit. I considered writing on my driveway in rainbow chalk ‘Screw you foodworks for putting your prices up, you opportunistic dogs’. Then I made myself go and lie under the tulip tree and listen to the crackly leaves in the wind.
April 28
I miss time alone. I miss waking up on a day off during the week, with my husband and the kids out of the house, and the long day ahead to do with what I wish. I miss feeling like I have space to think. I miss having my own space. I miss the clear delineation between work and home. I miss my workplace. I miss spontaneous camping. I miss my equilibrium. God, I miss my equilibrium. I worry it will never return.
April 30
Late afternoon I exercised on the grass with my daughter. We lunged and stretched as the storm clouds gathered in the north and the dog chased his own tail. My daughter, using a can of baked beans in ham sauce as a make-do weight, me tucking my wine-fat stomach into my exercise pants. It was daft and lovely, and I marveled at this small moment of bliss.
May 1
It’s mid-morning and already I am attempting to contain, to box up my irritation. One box for my frustration with the school. One box for the snip of annoyance every time someone yells “MUM”. One box of anger when my husband tells me he has a hard day ahead and the surf is crap. One box for my frustration at the never-ending housework and I think to myself ‘God help me if I ever have to unpack these boxes. God help us all.’
Tonight, over dinner, I had the strongest urge to tell my whole family to get fucked. It came over me like a wave, a tsunami of rage and I wanted to yell, maybe stomp my feet, and throw a dinner plate. Possibly at my husband’s head. I made myself go to the bedroom and silently screamed into a pillow. It occurred to me that I haven’t felt this helpless, this angry and trapped, since the kids were little. It occurred to me that my husband’s life hasn’t changed one bit. He gets up, heads to work, comes home. He might have a surf at lunchtime, he might get a takeaway coffee, he can do these things because I am at home. My life has reversed five years and once again I find myself a reluctant housewife.
April 24
I’m storming around the kitchen. Angry. Mainly at other people. The careless holidays makers. The walkers who will not go single file along the walking track. The stupidity of people at the supermarket. The Melbourne people who have moved to this town to escape COVID. I tell myself they are only doing what’s best for them, and maybe I would do the same, and don’t be so judge Judy. Then I think these are the sort of selfish, me-first people who would eat you in a crisis, and this makes me laugh and I quickly get over myself.
April 25
Each morning I wake up and meditate. I start the day with good intentions. I remind myself of the things I love and how lucky I am. I remind myself to do at least one fun thing with the kids during the school day. Some days these intentions stay with me and by the evening, when the kids are sleeping and I sneak to their beds and look at their faces, hold their little feet and sniff their temples, I feel relieved. Other days, I feel like a Jenga tower. Each small annoyance, each time the kids interrupt my train of thought or snipe at each other, pulls at my careful balance and I am closer to crumbling. These days I am hard on myself. I berate myself for my lack of patience, my snappy tone. I feel the weight of guilt. On an evening, I drink more and feel worse.
April 27
At lunchtime I went into the shed and cried. I’d been schooling the kids and trying to work. I flicked through social media as a distraction and found myself musing on the tyranny of gratitude. Yes, it’s important to be grateful but it’s also important to acknowledge when something is shit. I considered writing on my driveway in rainbow chalk ‘Screw you foodworks for putting your prices up, you opportunistic dogs’. Then I made myself go and lie under the tulip tree and listen to the crackly leaves in the wind.
April 28
I miss time alone. I miss waking up on a day off during the week, with my husband and the kids out of the house, and the long day ahead to do with what I wish. I miss feeling like I have space to think. I miss having my own space. I miss the clear delineation between work and home. I miss my workplace. I miss spontaneous camping. I miss my equilibrium. God, I miss my equilibrium. I worry it will never return.
April 30
Late afternoon I exercised on the grass with my daughter. We lunged and stretched as the storm clouds gathered in the north and the dog chased his own tail. My daughter, using a can of baked beans in ham sauce as a make-do weight, me tucking my wine-fat stomach into my exercise pants. It was daft and lovely, and I marveled at this small moment of bliss.
May 1
It’s mid-morning and already I am attempting to contain, to box up my irritation. One box for my frustration with the school. One box for the snip of annoyance every time someone yells “MUM”. One box of anger when my husband tells me he has a hard day ahead and the surf is crap. One box for my frustration at the never-ending housework and I think to myself ‘God help me if I ever have to unpack these boxes. God help us all.’