It came to light that leaving a ten year old to do schoolwork on her own, thinking she knew what she was doing, was in fact the wrong thing to do. She decided what she did or didn’t need to do, while I looked on horrified. Was she really reading Little Women for three hours a day? Or just playing on her phone.

So we went into the work that needs doing, and we did it. On our weekends.

I had already been in tears in the morning as something went wrong at work that shouldn’t have (not a major thing, but it was the straw that broke the camel’s back), so now feel like a complete failure in parenting as well as at work.

It’s to be expected, eight or nine weeks in. If someone had offered me the chance to work from home for two months back in January I would have jumped at it. If it had been to isolate myself and my family from everyone else, I’d say we’re probably doing it anyway after moving, as only two people really truly stayed in touch (thank god for Facebook).

I’m finding it harder. I’ve never been busier. I’m putting right so many mistakes that they’re now impacting on my work too much, and it’s all too much. I’m not complaining, mind. I like being busy, I’m grateful I’m busy.

I’ve described it as being like the time when I was six or seven, and I took my bicycle into the park we lived next to, with my bicycle. I pushed my bike to the giant sandpit, god I loved that sandpit so much. You could play for hours and my mum and dad let me go on my own to play, knowing I’d be safe. It was the seventies, after all… (I’d never let H in that situation these days, you can’t even see the kids in the sandpit, it’s on the other side of a hill).

I remember pushing my bicycle through the sandpit, until I got to the top of the hill. I was stuck. It wouldn’t move onto the grassy part, and I couldn’t get it out of the sand. I was on my own and I didn’t know what to do. So I must have shouted for my dad. He must have heard me (maybe he was gardening on our little vegetable patch at the top of the garden, nearest the field?).

With all of my strength I couldn’t get the bike out myself, I was stuck. I needed that help. I needed my dad to help and he did.

I’ve just checked the area on Google Maps. The sandpit is still there. Next time we go to York I’m going to revisit it. Maybe it’s only a small thing, but as an adult I’ll see what little me had to deal with.

ANYWAY. I’m still that little me in the sandpit, but who’s going to help me now? Just myself. So you go through school notes and write down what needs doing. They get done. The End.

H was a bit grumpy about that, so my tears, H’s tears and hormones and the lot brought for a very emotional Saturday.

One day I would really like to switch off from everything over the weekend. Let’s hope it’s this one coming. Being stuck indoors and not being able to get to a National Trust place or anywhere similar is starting to really get to me. I need that fresh air and to breathe again.

We all do.

Still staying safe, here.