things fall apart

One of the singular pleasures of adulthood is the ability to top up hot water in the bath without fear of repercussion. Admittedly, this is a decidely first-world luxury. As someone who lived for many years in various apartments with fluctuating hot water supplies and no scope for a bath, there is perhaps nothing I appreciate more about my Melbourne rental house than its ugly yellow bathtub with the tiny faucet. Nevermind the large metal bath grips installed by previous elderly owners. They come in handy when I find myself in a comatose state following an extended soak. Nevermind that there is no lock on the bathroom door and thus completely non-urgent interruptions by one or both of my children are almost guaranteed. If I close my eyes and sink into my partially inflated bath pillow, I can almost believe I’m at a [budget] spa and not a boxy bathroom the size of a very small walk-in closet.

The other night I was in the bath for at least two hours. I calculated the time not by the clock, but by the fact that I topped up the water three times. I take weird delight in noting that I have mastered the art of bathing to the point that I can take a two hour bath and emerge with unshriveled fingers. Après le bain, I was pleasantly drowsy yet distinctly refreshed, despite running out of bath salts and improvising with generous amounts of shower gel—a bath isn’t a bath without some sort of calming additive. Calming additives are all the rage here in Melbourne, while we wait out lockdown number 6 billion. Nobody told me parenting in a pandemic would be this rough. Then again, nobody told me I’d be part of a real-life pandemic.

Tensions are high at my house, as no doubt they are all over Melbourne-town. ‘Cranky’ is the politely-stated default setting for everyone but Django, our steadfast dachshund. If only we were all 112 in dog years and the most anyone expected of us was to sleep and allow ourselves to be snuggled every once and a while…

‘Remote learning’ is an epithet which, when used in combination with my son’s name, has the ability to automatically raise my blood pressure. ‘Screen time’ is something that was once monitored for its deleterious effects on real-world exchanges but now exists as a primary channel for both social interacton and education. My daughter has put on performances worthy of vintage radio melodramas when it is suggested that perhaps she take a break from her computer— ‘But it’s the only way I can connect with my friendssssssssss!!!!!’ Tune in next week when she loses it entirely because I refuse to make her a peanut butter sandwich. My son rants no less than 3 times a day about how much he hates lockdown; all I can do is concur and not-s0-gently suggest that perhaps we need to brainstorm better coping strategies.

Everyone I know wants to ‘get back to normal’ but everyone also knows that what was once normal will probably never again exist. That’s not entirely a bad thing.

What a time to be alive.

Check out all of Gemma Correll’s amazing work at www.gemmacorrell.com

The Takeaway:

Parenting is hard.

Parenting in a pandemic is even harder.

Be gentle on yourself.

Find your ‘tub’ and soak in it.

Want to know MOrE?

I recently read an interesting article by Sarah Wayland in the Australian edition of The Conversation about the concept of liminality and how it relates to the pandemic. The article describes liminality as, “the paths we navigate when faced with life events….a metaphorical waiting room between one life stage and another.” All of the uncertainty surrounding the pandemic, particularly in places like Australia where harsh lockdowns have been the go-to response, has meant that most, if not all of us, are in a constant state of liminality. We are waiting for what’s next but have very little idea of when next is coming and what it will look like. It is hard to be motivated in the backdrop of the unknown, particularly when the goal posts keep moving. The key is learning how to accept uncertainty to a degree, and not be cowed by it.

Read the entire article here:

The shifting sands of Covid and our uncertain future has a name--liminality