I can see my kids coming out of the pandemic – cheeky defiance is a welcome change from the quiet

I think when I left sixth class, all we did was scribble all over each other’s uniforms and jump in the sea. (That also happened this time around — we both grew up in the same seaside town.) But there was no actual formal marking of it, perhaps other than Confirmation, if that counts.

Today, we’re a little better at noting milestones in our kids’ lives than we were back then. In fact, I think we’re better with kids in general.

I’m so glad we had this normality; I know the past couple of sixth classes missed it during the pandemic. You might argue that it was unavoidable, but even so, I remain of the view that we completely dismissed the impact of the pandemic on kids.

“People are dying,” was used to trump any and all concerns expressed about the impact of restrictions. Discussions around proportionality or real risk-benefit analysis were largely lost here in the fog of fear-filled, reactive hyperbole.

Even though we’d had a normal sixth class, the years in fourth and fifth class were a mess. The kids were all at home, seeing no one. Vague, frightening stuff was in the ether. Substandard schooling. Anxious parents.

Lockdown 1.0 was dystopian. I remember sitting having dinner one evening — another takeaway, as we couldn’t get a grocery delivery for love nor money and we had two cases of Covid-19, so weren’t allowed out — listening to the news on the radio, which was reporting borders being closed and random police checkpoints to monitor people’s movements. It was like a film about the end of days.

Our kids lived through that, and for a proportionally longer period of their lives than anyone else. I don’t know exactly how we measure any long-term impact, but I suspect it will be like an old scar on a tree trunk. Something absorbed into the fabric of them that they will carry through their lives. Although they will function and grow normally, they’ll still be marked by it.

The good thing is, just as I could see the negative impact of the social withdrawal on them — the unnatural quietness; their burgeoning confidence faltering — I can see them emerging from it now, too.

It’s become normal once more for them to hang around aimlessly with their pals on the greens of housing estates. To come home late to meals. And to send texts asking if they can stay out “just a little bit longer?”

Flashes of cheeky defiance as they flex their new independence are welcome in comparison to them being too compliant or serious from excessive time spent in adult company.

Normality is returning and thankfully it isn’t a ‘new normal’ — it’s the old normal. Let’s hope that scar on the bark is just that — a mark, nothing more — and that it doesn’t change the direction of the growth of the tree in a lasting way.

My time in primary school is over. No more the smell of mouldy old sandwiches erupting from forgotten lunchboxes. Roll on, instead, the smell of mouldy sports socks. Plus ça change.

A second opinion

I’m not really one for reading poetry. I’m generally far too lowbrow and have no desire for self-improvement. Self-acceptance is way more enjoyable. However, twice this week I’ve been moved by poetry. If it can move a philistine like me, it’s probably worth passing on.

One was a simply beautiful poem called Small Kindnesses by Danusha Laméris, from her book Bonfire Opera (University of Pittsburgh Press).

It’s about the tiny acts of altruism we extend to strangers and what that might mean: We have so little of each other now. So far from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these fleeting temples we make when we say, “Here, have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”

The other is a book of poetry called Poetic Licence In A Time Of Corona (Twenty First Century Renaissance) by consultant obstetrician Chris Fitzpatrick.

Chris taught me as a medical student and made me, and many others of my generation, want to be better doctors and, indeed, better people. He is that rarity — someone you’ve met in real life who genuinely inspires. It is beautiful and arresting.

Read it if you get a chance.