Ulrika Jonsson reveals the ‘nightmarish’ weeks ahead isolated with her warring kids – but it will save her daughter
NOW is a time to hold your loved ones close and look out for those in need.
That is especially true for those supporting people with underlying health conditions, as mum-of-four Ulrika knows.
Her daughter Bo, 19, has a congenital heart condition which means she must be in self-isolation for a period of 12 weeks during the coronavirus crisis.
But what is it like to have a teenage daughter returning home from college to create clutter while needing near-constant feeding and entertaining?
Here, the telly presenter gives a hilarious and heartwarming insight into life with Bo back in the bosom of her home . . .
I’M not going to lie. I don’t think I’ve felt so anxious in all my 52 years.
I mistakenly thought the word “pandemic” belonged firmly in the history books and can’t properly get my head around the prospect of so much death, a global economy in meltdown . . . and no dried pasta on supermarket shelves.
As someone who suffers from anxiety but until last week was doing really rather well, I now feel like I am free-falling into an abyss of bewilderment, angst and despair. I exaggerate not.
It’s not so much the virus filling me with terror but the fact I am having to re-evaluate society — after seeing the greedy, narrow-minded panic-buying emerging as the ugly face of this virus.
But most crucially, I have a 19-year-old daughter with a congenital heart condition who is supposed to self-isolate for 12 weeks, to protect both herself and our beloved NHS.
I say “supposedly” because it is to start at the weekend, Boris says. Bo has asked me: “Why not now, Mum?”
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On Sunday, she came home distraught from her university — which has since shut its doors — and filled my hallway with what feels like half of the soft-furnishings department of Ikea, bags of questionable student provisions, a manky sandwich toaster and the dental floss she refers to as underwear.
It felt wonderful to have her home and “safe” (whatever that means) but I can’t deny there was a pinch in my stomach when I realised what lay before me.
Not only do I now have to share my larder with her bizarre food purchases, there is a ton more laundry to do and another mouth to feed.
Much worse, I am seriously questioning how I will keep her alive for the coming months.
I pray for her good health, along with all my family . . . and everyone else, of course. But by Monday I was already wondering if I might actually murder her.
This may sound harsh, but bear with me.
Apart from her bed, her phone and Netflix, she apparently has nothing in her life.
We are forced to exist in close proximity to each other — without actually touching — and she is already bored out of her teenage skull.
She spent the entire day in bed, leaving only to head downstairs, grunt a bit, roll her eyes if I tried to strike up conversation then mumble inaudibly by way of response.
She slobbed around like a giant cloud of irritability.
On Tuesday I forced her out on the morning dog walk — the only thing that keeps me away from the men in white coats.
But with Bo this proved as popular as turd in the bath. Her face said as much.
I do empathise with her panic about the situation.
She sends me new facts via social media every 34 minutes, on average, which only fuels my own anxiety.
She is of the generation of “get up and go” . . . but only if they’re told they can’t.
Motivation comes only from food or a screen. Soon one will be scarce and the other rendered boring.
How many days can I keep her entertained for?
I have tried to enforce some kind of routine — something that might guide her and stimulate her. But she just stares vacantly back at me.
On Wednesday she called me from downstairs — using her mobile phone — to demand I “help her with food”, presumably preparing something.
This could happen three times a day, over 12 weeks. That is 252 times.
Now, I am a patient mum who loves her unconditionally.
But I will soon have two more “ungratefuls” at home — Martha, 15, and Malcolm, 11.
I am starting to doubt my capacity as a human, let alone a mum.
I know I am not the only mother of several children who fears — or is already experiencing — the familial nightmare of sparring kids.
Mine can just about squeeze out 90 seconds of civility towards one another before they start tearing each other down.
It is just like the scene in Peaky Blinders when Thomas Shelby (Cillian Murphy) lines up members of his family and shouts: “No fighting! No f***ing fighting!” in each of their faces, only for another member to walk in and the fight starts.
The prospect of weeks together — which was once a dream — is now a nightmarish prospect.
We have two TVs in the house but everyone wants to be on the same one.
This is the foundation for all future arguments.
I can guarantee that with two teenage girls, fights over the bathroom will increase in number and in volume.
Bedroom doors have already started slamming.
There will be shouting, swearing, threats and disrespect.
My youngest will before too long be “gamed out” and there is only so much TikTok and Snapchat you can engage in before you need to wind someone up face to face.
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And when it happens, yours truly will be piggy in the middle.
So, where is the hope? Well, in my dark heart I sincerely hope Covid-19 will be a catalyst for change in my household.
I have to believe we will pull together — because we have no other choice.
The “ungratefuls” need to lower their expectations, demand less, be kinder to each other, appreciate what they have and just wake up and smell the bloody coffee (unless we’ve run out).
As a family, we have a unique opportunity to unite, learn, show patience and tolerance.
Alternatively, we can set up a debating society or a fight club.
I’m not fussed, just as long as we make it through.
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