[On March 16th, our family – like many others in the UK and around the world – started what we’re currently being told will be 12 weeks of social isolation, in a bid to help flatten the curve, and stop my immunocompromised husband catching coronavirus – along with the rest of us, obviously. I, naturally, decided to document the experience in diary form… ]

I wish I could say week 6 of lockdown got off to a quiet start for us, but that would be a blatant lie, because we actually kicked off this week with Max dramatically throwing up all over the living room (And himself, natch…), while I ran gagging to the bathroom to join in. Super.

Thankfully, Max was absolutely fine just a few minutes later (We think he was just guzzling his drink too fast…), and, other than regretting publishing that blog post in which I made the astonishing – and totally incorrect, as it turns out – claim that having a baby had totally cured me of my fear of other people’s vomit, so was I. The living room rug, on the other hand… well, let’s just say we’ll never look at it in quite the same way again…

Thankfully, however, the rest of the week wasn’t quite as bad as the start. I mean, there WAS that moment when I came across Max’s changing bag in my dressing room, and almost burst into tears when I realised I might never use it again, because it’s not like we’re going to be going anywhere, is it? There were many, many moments when I read articles talking about how unlikely it is that a vaccine will be available this year, and it hit me again that my little boy might not be able to start nursery with the rest of his age group: that he’ll be part of a generation of children who miss out on things that most people take for granted, and that, by the time a vaccine IS available, he probably won’t even remember what it’s like to do simple things, like go to a shop, or ride in a car.

There was also the moment on Sunday morning when he suddenly turned to Terry and said, “Daddy, do I not have friends?” and we realised that he sees other children on TV, and in books, talking about their friends, and he’s starting to wonder why he only ever sees me and Terry, and no one else, ever.

There were those things, yes. Those things made this week very bleak, to be honest: one of the worst so far, in fact, in terms of depression, and anxiety, and feeling like I’m grieving for the life we’ve lost, and which we don’t seem to be any closer to getting back again. I’m not going to say any more about those things, though, because every time I publish these posts, I get comments from people telling me I just need to be positive and try to enjoy the pandemic a bit more, and while I realise those people are trying to be helpful, it always feels a bit like I’m being told to shut up , and no one likes feeling like that, do they? So, look, here’s a photo of a toddler with a garden hose, taken just a few seconds before he drenched both of his parents with it:

Here is also all the proof that you will ever need that giving a toddler access to water is NEVER a good idea. EVER. (But also, when it’s week 6 of lockdown, and there’s still no end in sight, you kind of get to the point where you’re willing to risk a soaking, just to get five minutes’ peace, right?)

Speaking of Things That Are Not Generally A Good Idea, meanwhile, this was also the week Terry got out his clippers, and had a go at cutting Max’s hair:

It actually turned out better than I was expecting: and, even if it hadn’t, we didn’t really have much choice, because, in addition to being part of a generation of children who grow up without soft play and, well, friends, Max is also destined to be part of a generation who grow up having their hair cut by their parents: OH THE HUMANITY.

(It’s OK, he’s fine: his hair is still there. Will Terry ALSO be able to turn his hand to removing my extensions when the time comes, and then cutting the hair underneath, is the question?) (No, seriously, it’s a real question: what do I do about my extensions, given that I’m probably not going to be able to see a stylist until next year? Answers on a postcard…)

So. I’m pretty sure I had something more to say about week 6 of isolation, but I’ll be honest: I spent an entire hour this afternoon playing Max’s new favourite game, which involves lining up all of ‘ The Guys ‘ and then loudly and repeatedly telling them to BE QUIET because Piggy, Miaow and Slinky are all sleeping (No, ‘Slinky’ is not the name of a soft toy: it’s an actual slinky . Which gets tucked up in “bed”, and then everyone has to talk in whispers in case it wakes up.), and part of me is dead inside now. (Seriously, though, it was literally a FULL HOUR of sitting on his bedroom floor listening to him going, “EVERYONE HAS TO BE QUIET! MUMMY, YOU BE QUIET! GUYS! BE QUIET! MUMMY, TELL EVERYONE TO BE QUIET!” And yet, the only person who was not quiet? Was Max…) So I’m going to leave this one here, and then go and wait for it to be late enough for me to reasonably open that bottle of wine I have chilling in the fridge.

How was your week?