April 2020 was always the end goal, the new beginning, the start of my happy life. Then coronavirus struck.

I have had a challenging couple of years as a solo mum, in which I lost my own mother (and only family support) unexpectedly just before giving birth, and had to deal with breast cancer, financial hardship and having my repeated requests to work part-time turned down. 

But I knew that, if I could make it to April 2020, my two-year-old daughter could finally come to the school where I work. My childcare costs would go down and I would actually be able to see her for more than an hour a day. I could work on improving my health. Everything would get easier from then on.

Or so I thought.

Several days of panic

When lockdown kicked in, we teachers were thrust into the unprecedented world of online learning. In the space of a weekend, we had to master Microsoft Teams or Google Classroom, and provide a daily timetable online for the following week. 

This was a challenge for everyone. But, as a solo mother with a demanding two-year-old who was not showing any desire to play independently, I had no idea how I would make this work. When the email came through, telling us that we needed to provide a certain number of “live” teaching hours each week, my heart sank.

What followed were several days of panic. My parenting style became increasingly shouty. There were tears, from both of us. 

I quickly realised I needed a plan: some sort of schedule to get us through the coming weeks. There wasn’t much me-time before lockdown, but teaching during a pandemic has had to be a not-very-calm military operation from 6am to 10pm, seven days a week.

First thing in the morning, my daughter tended to be happy to play in bed next to me, or lie quietly with the iPad. So I’d start each day working in bed, from 6.30am until breakfast at 8am. 

Joe Wicks brought some joy to our mornings. I haven’t been able to find the time (or inclination) to exercise since I had my daughter, but we have both loved doing our 9am workouts. Honestly, I think it saved my mental health. 

Chasing butterflies

The guilt about constantly being too busy to give my daughter any quality time quickly overwhelmed me. So I decided that mornings were going to be our special time. Thankfully, the glorious weather during lockdown gave us the opportunity to go on lots of “adventures”: discovering local paths through beautiful countryside, saying hello to horses and rolling sheep poo down the hill. 

My daughter has learned the names of different birds and insects, she has collected buttercups and chased butterflies. And I have stopped for a moment and breathed the fresh air. This part of the day has been my favourite, and will be how I remember lockdown.

Of course, all this had to be interspersed with frequent email checks, phone calls to my line manager and snatching two minutes, while my daughter was momentarily engrossed in defacing one of my new cushions with a biro, to download a suitable Twinkl worksheet for tomorrow’s maths lesson. 

Some days I thought I was doing well. But then, as soon as my daughter settled down for her lunchtime nap, I’d log on to my computer to execute the next part of the day’s work plan and discover the unwelcome arrival of more emails that needed to be addressed. 

I tried to quickly record video clips to upload for my lessons, only to find when I watched them back that I wasn’t looking at the camera at all. And then there was the time when I’d forgotten to put a bra on.

Then, before I knew it, I could hear the crying from upstairs. My work time was over, and the to-do list had to be shunted to the evening.

Testing her vocal cords

Before lockdown, evenings used to offer a glimmer of me-time: a chance to FaceTime a friend or watch a bit of telly. Now, however, they were my nemesis. 

In order to get all my online videos and teaching resources uploaded, I knew I had to do at least an hour’s work in the evening. But my daughter, who has never been a good sleeper, decided that lockdown was the time to really test her vocal cords and reach out to our furthest neighbours with her “I don’t want to calm down, or go to sleep or in fact do anything that you are asking me to do” screaming at 7pm. And 8pm. And 9pm.

So, between traipsing upstairs to calm an emotional toddler and persuading myself that I wasn’t going to have a nervous breakdown, I have tried to work until I can no longer fight sleep.

The early weeks were the hardest, trying to juggle everything. Household chores fell away, and it was pesto, pasta and peas for tea most days. I have longed for a day when I didn’t have to switch on my laptop five minutes after I opened my eyes in the morning. 

My daughter has been an enthusiastic contributor to our weekly Teams staff meetings, and I had to stop and apologise during several of my parents’ evening live chats, when the screaming started in the background or “I need a wee now” shattered the quiet. 

My class have, however, loved her involvement in my daily story sessions.

No option to take the morning slot

Before lockdown, I would meet up with friends and their children at the weekend, splashing our way through farmyards and enduring the Sunday-morning soft play.

During lockdown, every day was the same. And it was lonely. There was no option to “take the morning slot”, as many of my couple friends do with their home-working and childcare situations. 

Teachers are naturally inclined to be smiling and upbeat. It’s been hard not having anyone to share a “We made it through another day” G&T with, or simply to get a supportive hug from another adult. 

When I occasionally bumped into a parent on a morning walk, I was always cheerful, hiding the difficult realities of life as a solo-mother teacher at this time. But then I found myself feeling cross that they would think I was having a lovely time at home with my daughter, being paid not to be in school.

For the last six weeks, I’ve been back at school teaching my Reception class. It’s been lovely to see my class again. But this new normal - taking measured risks in a school environment with early-years children who cannot socially distance - means that I cannot risk seeing the only person that I needed to see during this whole pandemic: my father, who is in his eighties, with asthma and Alzheimer’s. I am his only support, and he is my daughter’s only other key family person. Because of my job, I can no longer see him.  

Many different groups have been hit hard by coronavirus. Although I have been incredibly lucky to be in a safe, salaried job in a fabulous school where the leadership have been extremely supportive of my situation, it does feel like the government don’t have a clue what the daily life of a solo mother or a teacher is like during a pandemic. And I feel angry about that.

The author is an infants teacher in Bath