Day 1, again.

Banished to the house with two jetlagged kids, and a full heart. I always feel complete when the pack is back together.

At 6am this morning everyone is awake, which is unheard of in our house of teens. Jetlag can be a friend when one travels west.

The British Airways flight from London arrived last night, bringing a plane-full of students home for Christmas, with my two teens, B & A, amongst them. Family are not allowed to collect passengers from the airport in our own vehicles. There is a lack of trust apparently. I heard it was something about the temptation to stop off at the Burger King drive-thru being too great. B & A were required to catch a ‘secure’ cab home, which means the driver wears a mask, and does not stop until he has reached the approved quarantine location, (our home.) When they finally arrived at our house, they said they were late because the driver had stopped at the gas station to fill up. (Go figure.) The second surprise was that there was no fare. (Thanks C.I. Gov!) The cab leaves, and my children are stood on the doorstep, masked, laden with luggage, and looking tired. A asks weakly “Is it ok to hug?”. My bearhug back gives her the answer she was looking for.

This morning, they are recuperating from the long journey. “I’ll watch 3 Christmas movies” announces A, even though she officially still has online school. She looks so exhausted, and I admit that a day on the couch might do her some good. She has just completed an exhaustive fortnight of mock exams in the UK, and her results have been coming through well. She is happy with most of her results, except Physics. 

“I only go a ‘six’,” she moans.

“That’s not bad,’ I offer, “The new grading system just makes it sound low. When a ‘six’ is a ‘B’, and a ‘B’ was considered pretty good in my day, especially in a subject like physics.”

“Phy-six” adds B.

Fifteen days suddenly stretches ahead of us like a long sentence.

 We each wear a smart wrist band, which communicates with a clumsy device, that acts as a tracker.  It’s a significant increase in security since the first lockdown, which relied on trust and common sense to ensure we stayed at home. A few local breaches later, and lots of community grumblings, the few have ruined it for the many, and now all travellers and their families are tagged like criminals. Problem is, the wrist bands are water-resistant, not waterproof, so swimming is forbidden.

“That’s a dumb idea giving a non-waterproof band to people in the Caribbean” says A. 

“Doesn’t bother me” says B, who hates getting wet, unless it is a long, hot shower with scented products. 

“I’m going swimming” says D, who disappears for 5 minutes, then resurfaces wearing a blue rubber glove taped to his arm with gorilla tape. He does laps back-and-forth in the pool, each stroke displaying the ballooned blue hand. For some reason, this reminds me of the character Teddy T-Bag – the guy with the false hand – from the TV show Prison Break, It’s not a good look. But he is swimming, and he is happy. Happy, because he is swimming, but mostly because he beat the system.

Unlike the last lockdown, we have known this quarantine period was coming, and have been preparing for it. Come to think of it, I’ve been preparing for it since A & B left for their respective school and university in August. My Caribbean mince pie mix of dried fruit and nuts has been marinating slowly in Havana Club rum for the past 3 months while I waited for this homecoming. Our Christmas preparations have been on hold, and officially start today. A and I start rolling the pastry and baking the mince pies. I pick a ‘Vintage Holiday Playlist’ to kickstart the season. We are two carols in, when D switches the channel. “Sounds like your mother singing,” is his way of explanation. A few upbeat Mariah Carey-style songs later, and he switches channels again. “That’s enough Christmas music.” D confirms.

A and I, satisfied with our mince pie and brownie baking and taste-testing, turn our attention to tree decorating. We have a long-standing tradition in our family, of having two trees. One tree is adorned with homemade decorations that the children used to bring home from school at an alarming rate every December.  There was once a time when we believed that the Montessori annual curriculum included an intense month of holiday craft-making. Now this handiwork is displayed nostalgically, alongside decorations retained from my own childhood, and even that of my mother’s, resulting in a tree that is one-of-a-kind kitsch, in its purest, most innocent form. 

The second tree is our bigger tree, that has only white and glass decorations. It’s tasteful, but not nearly as much fun to decorate as the kitsch tree. Our other family tradition is that all four of us start decorating the first tree together, and by the time he has hung 3 decorations, B has bailed. Then D finds something more important to do, and A starts complaining that she is doing “..all the work”. At which point, B and A fall into a fully-blown argument, and D resorts to wearing the tree skirt around his shorts, and singing “It’s the most wonderful time of the year..” 

The sun is setting, and I decide it will be fun to do a wine tasting session. I am aware that this sounds horribly middle-class, but we are in the biz after all, so it’s all part of the drill here. We compare 4 Sauvignon Blanc bottles for nose, colour, flavor, and overall impression. B accuses me of fabricating that I can smell ‘cat’s pee’ in the New Zealand wine. Between the 3 of us, D, B and I all pick a different winner. At least we all agree that the ‘cat’s pee’ bottle is the loser.

After dinner, we watch Home Alone. A and I are planning a Christmas movie marathon over these next 2 weeks. She is already ahead, having watched ‘The Holiday’ and ‘The Grinch’ on yesterday’s plane ride. We cosy up in our PJs, with spiced hot chocolate and marshmallows. The dog sleeps at our feet, and the cats curl up on the kids’ laps. It feels so good to have the pack back together.