ew parents are often told: ‘The days are long, but the years are short.’ Unfortunately, they’re almost always told this when they haven’t slept for days and are covered in bite marks and Weetabix, but the sentiment does hold some truths, and I’ve been trying to appreciate them this week. It looks like my son will be going back to nursery soon, after 13 weeks of full-time care in his own home. The pessimist in me (not to mention the guy-who-can-read-an-infection-chart in me) worries more lockdowns will come, but my internal optimist is preparing for a gentle slope back to normality. There’s a version of this article that looks back on the small humiliations of three months’ balancing full-time childcare with full-time work. Those tribulations exist, and a few will creep into the following paragraphs for old time’s sake. But we haven’t lost a loved one, or succumbed to ill health ourselves. We’ve been deeply, unspeakably lucky. Every conversation with grieving friends tells us that. People who can’t be with loved ones as they mourn, who can’t avail of the communal rituals that give comfort at such times, remind us that, for once, pettier whingeing can fall by the wayside. Speaking as someone who enjoys petty whingeing above all things, this was a tough call. There’s also the fact that we have one child, when others are having to cope with two or more, with various ages and developmental needs. Since ours is just shy of two, we avoided becoming deputised primary school teachers on top of our other worries. And he’s old enough that he can entertain himself here and there, giving us moments of reflection in packed, exhausted days – a luxury others are denied. That’s not to say we haven’t lost track of his movements for a moment or – I’m speaking hypothetically here, of course – occasionally found him surrounded by a jumble of dislodged plant pots, grinning through black teeth as clumps of soil fell from his mouth. Moreover, there’s no doubt I’ve enjoyed being with him, all day every day, despite the worry and the boredom and the constant, endless cleaning. It hasn’t been so bad, I realise, even if that realisation is easier to grasp now the prospect of outside help seems closer at hand. There’s an Irish poem called ‘Subh Milis’, by Séamus Ó’Néill. Translated it reads: ‘There was jam on the door handle, But I suppressed the anger that rose up in me, Because I thought of the day that the door handle would be clean, And the little hand would be gone.’ It’s a lovely, moving poem, mainly taught in Irish schools to discourage small children from emigrating to England. It’s also dispensed to exhausted parents when they fail to appreciate the joys of their calling. There have been times of broken sleep and limping chores, when I felt like breaking into Mr house and applying a fresh coat of jam to every surface of his kitchen, free of charge. But, looking back at three months of isolation parenting, I’m going to try to appreciate those long days and short weeks for what they were.