Homeschooling in lockdown — it is worth my relationship with my children?

I lost my dad last year. It was a great shock. Though he was 78, he was fit and healthy, still enthusiastically working and excited by life. His loss was terrifying and deeply, gut-punchingly painful. Yet, with all that was to follow, I can count myself lucky that it happened in January 2020, just beforethe Covid-19 pandemic hit the UK. We were able to have a service with over 100 people. My mother’s house was full for weeks afterwards with endless visitors, dropping by to share their tales of my dad, and their obvious fondness for him. It was exhausting, sad, wonderful. I discovered things about my dad that I hadn’t known, stories of friendship and kindness and adventure from a life full of curiosity about the human race.

And then…well, the world changed. A few weeks later, the first lockdown began in the UK. Schools were closed, shops were shut and I was no longer able to visit my mother or my siblings. My expectation of how we might manage this grief as a family — time together, in discussion, in tears, laughter and silence — was shattered, made into something that could never be. I felt dad slipping through my fingers, something viscous but impossible to grab hold of. We were in a limbo of grieving, but dad was getting further and further away.

So was my mental state in those first weeks of lockdown. And yet I was expected to homeschool a 7 year old and a 5 year old with a 2 year old demanding near constant attention. The prospect was daunting, but we all had an idea that it would only be for a few weeks. As those weeks went on, my mental state deteriorated. I am self-employed, and so had to finish up my existing contracts during evenings, weekends and in between my husband’s meetings. My husband’s business provides frontline services for the NHS, so he was working 13 hour days, kids screaming in the background. I was preparing three meals a day for 5 people, while trying to keep on top of the endless washing, cleaning and tidying that three small children require.

I couldn’t give my full attention to anything, let alone my children. While our school was fantastic in their provision for homeschooling, I couldn’t keep up. Nearly every lesson was a mixture of frustration, anger, guilt and despair. Occasionally, I’d have a moment of joy when one child would complete a task and recognise their own achievement, but mostly I was desperately flipping between different screens, trying to understand what each child was supposed to be doing, trying to motivate them, trying to login to the right programme for the right person on the right device, all while playing play-dough or sticking or painting with the little one.

And the noise, the constant questions and demands from all three at once, which I can barely hear let alone answer. So they are frustrated that I’m not helping them, I am wild with rage that they are not concentrating, they stop making an effort, I try to cool down, they give up, I then make threats until they finish the lesson. Then I wonder if they’ve learnt anything at all.

Through it all, I was aware that my time to grieve for my dad was being shoved aside, crushed into some part of my brain that I was too busy and tired to access. I was slipping into depression, guilt laid itself over my limbs, my shoulders, my head, my neck, like a heavy, tacky second skin, an uncomfortable suit that I couldn’t pull off. So many times I found myself standing in the kitchen, weeping, whispering aloud, “I need help.” But there was no one to help.

My husband was there, and he was and is amazing. He took the children whenever he could but he was incredibly busy and exhausted himself, and also feeling the loss of my father. My friends, though desperate to support me, were themselves dealing with the challenges of lockdown. They needed help too.

I came to understand why depression could be incapacitating. While, for me, the bad days were intermittent, I felt that bleak, crippling despair that made me unable even to call out to my husband from another room. I couldn’t move or speak. I was frightened, and deeply aware of not being able to care for my children in this state. But it was my children who helped to bring me out of it — their joy, their laughter, their love for me and us and each other. This is what I want to hold onto, to nurture, not to wear down and destroy.

I keep telling myself that we’re very lucky. We live in one of the richest countries in the world, with a functioning, free healthcare system. I can access furlough pay, and my husband’s income is secure. We have a house, a garden and access to exercises. We have the technology we need at home for the kids to study. My kids get on well at school and progress well in ‘normal’ times. We haven’t had Covid-19.

Yet, with this second round of homeschooling (from January 2021), I feel like it’s almost not worth it. Within one week of starting, I’ve lost my patience over and over again. I can’t control my anger. My kids are, inevitably, copying my behaviour. I have no idea if they are learning anything of value, other than to shout when they are frustrated. But I don’t want to give up, especially as my middle child is still learning to read and write, and is an enthusiastic pupil. That one, at least, is desperate to learn, but I can’t give her what she needs.

We planned our schedule together, complete with lessons, exercise, crafts, outdoor time and so on. I’ve tried to take it easy and not worry too much if we don’t get everything done each day. I know that they learn so much from the other activities we do as a family, as I did from my own parents.

My dad found great joy in the curiosity of children. At every opportunity, he would try to fill our ‘reservoirs of knowledge’, as he called them, through stories and questioning and experiences of the world. He had a way of making people feel like he was interested in everything they were saying, and that everything they were saying was valid and useful and exciting, even if they were telling him something he already knew, or knew more about. I’ve tried to echo this in the way we bring up our children. They all love to read. We encourage them to look at nature and find new places to explore whenever we can (the one benefit of the spring/summer lockdown).

And yet I find myself back in this cycle of fighting through each day’s lessons and ending up in exhausted tears. I don’t want this for my children, for their education, or for myself. But I don’t want to give up.