I woke at 3:26am with a panic attack and sense of impending doom. I don’t think this related to the fact it’s my 44th birthday but more to what is evolving in the world. I got up and went downstairs, the cat was sleeping on the sofa and opened one eye when I sat down. I thought I’d attempt a bit of a cuddle, so began stroking him. He gave me a look of disgust and got up and left. He really is the most aloof and unloving cat. He doesn’t fulfil the job description of providing comfort to humans. Pretty sure he’s not lowering my blood pressure.
I must have known that the day would be strange. The kids were undeterred by world events and totally delighted it was our birthdays. I say our, because my husband shares the date and we are the same age. We’ve known each other since we were eleven but didn’t get together till we were thirty. He reckons he knew at school we would be together and was just waiting till I got to the same realisation. I’m not convinced and just remember him as friendly but annoying, especially when he used to hit my bum with a ruler and throw sweet wrappers at me during science lessons. Even though it is the same date as his, I am rarely given a gift, as even without a world pandemic, my husband is not gifted with planning and organisational skills. I have learnt to lower my expectations but there was a homemade card and lovely sentiments written inside, so that’ll do. Husband did have the day booked off as annual leave but under the circumstances he decided to abort that idea and instead work whilst there is work. I understand yet can’t help but wonder if it’s a decision based more on the fact that we now have company in the form of our three very lively happy people. He puts himself in Child One’s bedroom for nine hours and pretends he can’t hear me losing my patience.
My sister delivers chocolate Guinness cake and cards, all at a safe distance. We talk in the garden, six feet apart, respecting the social distancing rules. Thankful the weather allows this and a chance to escape the children. I can see them with faces pinned to the back doors, frustrated that they can’t come out too because I know they will run to my sister and practically lick her. They don’t do boundaries at the best of times. I enjoy the adult company and the fact the screaming and arguing is slightly muffled.
I have been suspicious for a couple of years that Twin One might be on the autistic spectrum and very recently started to have conversations with staff at her school about support. Obviously this has halted and I’m trying to manage her with her siblings under very stressful circumstances, fun times. Truthfully, I think she processes things a little like her Dad, which would imply he too was on the spectrum (the spectrum is so big, I’d argue we are all on it in one way or another). So Twin One is finding no school and no routine (because I haven’t got it sorted at home yet) very difficult. She expresses it with rage and desperate measures to try and manage or control things, including me. She hates shower gel or soap with scent and hates the feel or texture of any products on her skin. To give her her dues she has taken on the frequent hand washing but I know she isn’t happy with it. Consequently, like all of us, she has developed dry and potentially sore hands. At bedtime I tried to persuade her to apply some hand cream. Mass meltdown. Recruited Twin Two to try and help by normalising the situation and making out it’s not a big deal, we are all using it. I am actually using the gloves at night-time and then I remember I have an additional pair. Would she like to put a tiny bit of cream on and use the gloves like Mummy? Much wailing continues, Husband is bellowing up the stairs something helpful like ‘just tell her she’s having them’. I make a joke that she’ll be like Micky Mouse because he wears gloves and, as the words fall out of my mouth, I remember that so does Goofy and Twin One loves Goofy. I dig out the scruffy soft toy of him and there in plain sight are two, originally white hands. The wailing stops immediately, life is going to be okay, Goofy has gloves, she can have gloves. I started breathing again – I didn’t even realise I was holding my breath. She goes to bed in them.
My brother called to say Happy Birthday and I remarked that it’s not been a great one. He kindly reminds me that actually it can’t have been as bad as my nieces, his daughters eighth birthday, which will always be known as ‘poo gate’. I belly laughed for the first time all day.
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