As lockdown life continues, Mary-Jane introduces herself and her family, reflects on names – including her own – and wonders what quarantine life would be like without children.
I should have introduced myself before blethering for the past two weeks. I’m a mum and wife, occasionally known as Mary-Jane. Named after my mother and gran, never just Mary or just Jane. I’ve always hated it, if you also grew up watching The Waltons, you’ll understand.
I only became “MJ” at university. My mother didn’t like it. When a lad phoned the house and asked for MJ, my mother announced “nobody here by that name” then hung up. Thankfully we weren’t meant to be and the only person that still calls me by my full name is my better half.
He also has name issues. He goes by Jack even though it’s not his given name. A long boring story from bygone rugby days, I’ve only ever known him as Jack. Only his parents call him otherwise. The kids don’t like it. Biggest kid cried inconsolably when nanny called her daddy the wrong name – I didn’t have the heart to explain to a toddler she birthed him, she can call him what she wants.
Same rule applies for us and as such ours have three names each. Indulgent I know but we wanted them to have choices. All their names can be shortened in various ways but I reserve the right to screech full titles, especially when they’re being utter bams. Quick shout out to my neighbours for pretending they don’t hear me screaming like a psychopath at my “posh” feral kids…
So mum, dad, three bams aged 16, 13 and 11. Add two idiot sprocker pups and that’s the full complement. Himself works long hours in the emergency services. I run the family business when not on lockdown. Add in my cancer diagnosis and you get the gist. Cooped up with the kids alongside full-blown shielding.
My parents were the average “2.4 kids in a nice suburb” set-up. Dad worked for the same bank from 15 until retirement. Mary doll was a teetotal housewife. Both the kindest of souls. Brought up in a time where you didn’t swear or answer back, it took Mary a while to accept she was mother to a cider loving, foul-mouthed sailor girl whose over use of profanities took her to bed for frequent recuperative lie downs. I doubt she’d approve of my recent choices of Nexflix marathons and breakfast wine.
Imagine her delight at precious grandkids’ first words including the phrase “b***** hell, b***** dog.’ She must have heard that from her father. Fortunately heaven doesn’t appear to have Facebook so they’ll never know while everyone else paints rainbows and platitudes to our brilliant NHS, I’m resisting the urge to chalk “save me from my kids” on the pavement.
Keeping to their parenting example, I try to treat ours fairly and equally. Three sisters, all individuals with different interests, skills and personalities. I certainly don’t have a favourite, I dislike them all equally depending on what’s going on. My three are pleasant to be around unless, of course, they’re hungry, thirsty, hungry, tired, hungry, hot, hungry, cold, hungry, stressed, hungry, can’t find their phone, hungry, hormonal, hungry or mildly uncomfortable. You just have to catch them somewhere in between all of that, preferably with snack in hand.
I spend a LOT of time asking them to actually communicate their needs and not just think them. When my kids say “I love you” I will always respond. Probably with “I love you more” because life is a competition and they need to know their mother will ALWAYS win.
Again, I wouldn’t be without them, but for those of you quarantined without kids, how is it? Is it relaxing? Are there naps? Can you just do what you want all day? Are you in charge of your own remote control/playlist? Talk dirty to me, tell me about the good times…
So now we’re all on first name terms, I’m sure you’re looking forward to next week’s enthralling instalment. This will include middle kid’s lockdown 14th birthday where we remember the old days when we used to all eat cake after everyone had blown on it. Wild eh?
