Crying, laughing and getting through another day of war

If an air raid alert has been going on since the night, my son can only go to school once it’s over. If, by some miracle, I manage to get him there in the lull between alerts, his lessons will be held in a shelter.

The dilemma again: should I get up or stay in bed? Should I wake my son or let him sleep? If the alert lasts a long time, we can get a little more sleep. But if it ends soon, we’ll have to rush to get ready for school. And if I wake my son now, he’ll just play on his phone.

I turn off the alarm. The air raid alert has already been going on for a while. I quickly check the city administration’s report to see whether our district was hit overnight. Then, by sheer force of will, I drag myself out of bed.

Morning

We don’t go to a shelter at night. We don’t even have a spot in our apartment where we could shelter behind two walls. I leave the windows and balcony door slightly ajar for micro-ventilation. They say this can help reduce the pressure on the windows during a blast. But there are no guarantees. I hope that being on the second floor makes our apartment at least somewhat safer. However, there are no guarantees there, either.

I don’t think I hear drones being shot down at night. I only wake up when there’s a blast very close by. Then I can’t fall asleep again for a long time. My son, meanwhile, doesn’t react to the explosions at all.

It’s getting harder and harder to wake up and harder and harder to fall asleep. I’m constantly thinking, "if only I could get some sleep". A kind of oblivion washes over me. Maybe I do hear the explosions, but then my memory erases them so I can somehow keep going a little longer.

I drag myself to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. Eyes closed, I switch on the kettle.

Eventually, I wake my son. He’s happy when there are air raid alerts in the morning because it means he can play on his smartphone. It irritates me. I explain that during air raids, buildings are destroyed and people die. He seems to understand, but that doesn’t make him any more eager to go to school.

Every day, I have to go through the same ritual — write in the school chat to say whether my child will stay for the extended day program, whether he’ll have lunch there, and whether he’ll remain at school once the all clear sounds. And, of course, I have to let them know whether he’ll be going to school at all.

Finally, shortly after 8:00 a.m., the all clear sounds.

"Come on, son, shoes on, quick," I say.

"I don’t want to," he whines.

"Sweetheart, we really have to go to school".

"We’ll just keep running back and forth again from one shelter to another. And the teacher will make us do her stupid math again instead of PE," he grumbles.

With so many air raid alerts and lessons being held in shelters, teachers have to keep rearranging the timetable and find ways to make up for missed lessons. But how is a child supposed to understand that? He wants PE and art, not math.

OUR CLASS HAS HAD ITS NOTEBOOKS BURNED TWICE. A MISSILE HIT THE BOOK MARKET

And our class has had its ordered notebooks burned twice. First, when a strike hit the book market at Pochaina, and then again when a shipment was destroyed somewhere in a warehouse during delivery.

"Come on, let’s go," I say, starting to lose my temper.

"Why are you bossing me around?" my son fires back.

"How much longer can this go on? Why do I have to talk you into going to school every single morning?" I snap, raising my voice.

I shout so hard my throat starts to hurt.

"Mum, I’m scared," my little boy says, trembling.

I realize I’ve gone too far. We both start crying. We apologize to each other.

"What tasty thing did you pack for me?" he asks on the way.

Damn… It’s getting harder to keep track of the little things. Once, I forgot to pack a bottle of water for him. Sometimes I forget a word or where I need to stop.

We take his scooter with us. He rides while I run alongside him. I’m constantly on edge. Will we make it before the next air raid alert, or won’t we?

Phew, we made it today… I breathe out as his backpack disappears through the school doors. And immediately, I set myself a task for tomorrow: talk through with my son what he should do if an air raid alert catches him in the corridor.

Afternoon

I rush to the post office. My son’s scooter will have to serve as my trolley. My mother-in-law has sent a box of pears and apples from her village, and I have to haul it home. I also have to pay 200 hryvnias for shipping (about $4.50). Do I really need all this? Couldn’t I have bought pears with that money instead?

I’m lucky: there’s no air raid alert, and the post office is open. I collect the parcel. But it took me three attempts to send a package to my husband in the east of the country. It contained electrical cables and tools from our household supplies, packed into a ridiculously heavy box. I asked a neighbor to drive me there. We had just loaded everything into the car when an air raid alert sounded. As soon as the all clear came, I rushed back. The third alert caught me right outside the post office, but the staff kindly accepted the parcel anyway.

I head home. I need to get some work done.

Drone threat. Yellow level.

Damn…

"We’re in the shelter," the teacher texts.

My son tells me they’ve practiced running to the shelter at school until they can do it in seconds. Sometimes an alert catches the pupils in the school cafeteria. Then they have to return their dishes quickly. Sometimes plates get broken.

THE CALENDAR SAYS I NEED TO MESSAGE SOMEONE, BUT NOT WHO

I need to message someone about work. But who? I check my Google Calendar. It says I need to send someone a message, but it doesn’t say whom. Okay, maybe I’ll remember. I’ll tackle some other tasks for now.

I have an expert’s comment transcribed, so I’ll finish writing the article. I used to spend an hour working through raw information before taking a break. Now I can manage about 15 minutes. I get tired and can’t put sentences together. I need a distraction.

"Oh! I can put a load of laundry on while we still have electricity," I think.

I hear an explosion outside. They’ve shot it down. I get back to work.

"Maybe they’ll manage to hold at least one lesson in the classroom," the thought creeps in.

Work. Work. Work. But how am I supposed to work when my brain won’t function?

Air raid alert.

"God, you’re driving me crazy," I think.

All clear…

I need to hang up the laundry. Click. The washing machine door handle comes off in my hand.

"Please, not this," I sob out loud. "Why me?"

YOU NEED TO TAKE A STRING, SLIP IT THROUGH THE GAP IN THE DOOR AND PULL

I message my husband. He replies that I need to take a string, slip it through the gap in the door, and pull. The door will open.

Now I have another skill.

Drone threat. Yellow level.

My husband sends me the number of a guy who can replace the handle. He wants 3,000 hryvnias (about $67). I refuse. My husband calls him himself.

"Oh, I didn’t know she was your wife. I’d have knocked another thousand off the price for myself," the guy says.

Two thousand hryvnias to "resuscitate" an old washing machine in a rented apartment is too much. I’ll keep opening it with a string for now. What can I say? I’m getting pretty good at it.

Is there an air raid alert now? Or has it ended?

I can’t keep track in my head anymore. I have to check my phone.

"God, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon. The children are still in the shelter. Have they even been fed? I need to pick up my son".

At school, I hurriedly write a statement saying that I’m taking my child out during an air raid alert and assuming responsibility for his safety.

I go down to the shelter. It’s buzzing with activity. In one room, there’s a dance class, in another, children are writing something. Some are lying on mats, others are glued to their phones. I look for my son. The deputy principal tells me the children have gone to lunch.

CLASSES TAKE TURNS GOING TO THE CAFETERIA. WHEN NOTHING IS HEADING TOWARDS THE DISTRICT

Sometimes, when an air raid alert drags on, classes are taken to the cafeteria one after another. They pick a moment when nothing is flying towards the district. What else can they do?

I sit and wait. The teacher warns me that my son hasn’t had time to read his homework.

"Thanks for picking me up. It’s stuffy in the shelter," my little boy says happily, and I brush the hair off his sweaty forehead.

We’ve barely left the school grounds when the all-clear sounds.

"Can we play at the playground?" he asks.

"Just for a little while," I agree.

Meanwhile, guilt gnaws at me because I still haven’t finished the article. "That’s the kind of worker you are," my inner critic kicks in. "Maybe it’s time to give up journalism?"

Drone threat. Please proceed to a shelter…

Our walk turns into a constant exercise in monitoring what’s flying where. If we take shelter every time, we’ll never get to play.

While the other mothers monitor the skies, I’m writing messages, looking for experts for my article, replying to emails, and still hoping to finish writing it.

"It’s not heading our way," one of the mothers reports.

A distant explosion can be heard.

The children used to be scared. Now they barely react, unless it’s really loud.

"Sing this little song with me, Don't let the Shahed get you down. Together, we'll tell the Shahed: 'Look up above!' There are little willies, little willies, little willies flying around…"

The children sing a viral TikTok song about P1-Sun interceptor drones. They’re having fun, glancing sideways at the adults.

The mothers laugh, too.

Evening

I still have to help my son with his homework. At home, I trip over the wheel of his bicycle. It’s been waiting for two weeks for me to take it to the bike repair shop. But there’s no time. The shop isn’t always open. And there are a dozen other excuses.

"I don’t want to do my homework," my son complains. “Can I play on my phone first?"

"Here we go again. Homework first," I reply.

"Just for a little bit…".

"Homework first, because you’ve got training later".

"I want a snack".

"I’m thirsty".

"I need the toilet".

"Want me to tell you something funny?"

"How about I do my homework, and you buy me some Robux in Roblox?" my son tries to bargain.

Sometimes I explain things patiently. Sometimes I lose my temper. Sometimes I want to give up and forget about homework altogether. Sometimes he cries, and I’m consumed by guilt. Or I cry, too.

Eventually, the homework is done. It’s time for my son’s parkour training. I must remember his indoor shoes, water, and money for the bus. At the last second, we jump onto a bus. For some reason, it doesn’t stop at our stop and keeps going. We get off at the next one.

I’m furious. I swear and curse the driver. Now we practically have to run to avoid being late. The elevator isn’t working, and climbing to the third floor feels like climbing to the fifth. We rush into the training, gasping for breath.

MY HUSBAND CALLS. I FLINCH

Just as I’m trying to pull my son’s indoor shoes out of his backpack, my husband calls. I flinch. Everything irritates me. Even the sound of my phone. Its vibration gets on my nerves like styrofoam rubbing against glass.

There isn’t a single sound that I can stand. Music irritates me; slamming doors make me jump. Long, pointless conversations around me make me want to howl. All I want is some simple, ordinary silence. But when it finally comes, I get anxious: why is it so quiet?

While my son is at parkour, I head to a coffee shop. I’ve brought my laptop, hoping to get some work done.

"Your lesson will start at 7 p.m. Please be on time," a notification pops up.

Damn… I have English class today. And I haven’t done my homework. Well then: "Dear ChatGPT, help me come up with some sentences" (I hope my teacher never reads this).

THESE DAYS, TO KEEP FROM SLIDING BACKWARD, YOU HAVE TO RUN TWICE AS FAST

I submit my homework and wonder: what exactly am I paying for? To teach ChatGPT? Homework is supposed to help you consolidate what you’ve learned. But I don’t have enough time. Maybe this isn’t the best moment for learning English, but I can’t stop, either. These days, to keep from sliding backward, you have to run twice as fast.

I still haven’t finished the article. My son’s training is ending just as my English lesson is beginning. We decide to walk home because the buses are packed. I answer the teacher’s questions, remember some things and forget others. Sometimes I can’t find the right words.

"Mum, why is there a Latin language but no country called Latinium?" my son asks, leaving me speechless.

Meanwhile, I’m already thinking about dinner. Tonight, I guess "Halia Baluvana" will have to take over the kitchen.

We have dumplings for dinner. Another air raid alert. Outside, motorcycle engines roar, sounding like Shaheds.

"God, I could really go for a slice of sour cream cake right now," I think.

I don’t drink alcohol or smoke. Food is my only pleasure. But because of my health, I’m not allowed fatty or sweet foods anymore. I force myself to eat a protein bar containing artificial sweeteners.

OH GOD! WHY ME? NOW I’LL HAVE TO FIND THAT DAMN NEST

I reach into the box of spices, and a moth flies out.

Oh God! Why me? Now I’ll have to find that damn nest.

Household chores used to help me switch off and feel grounded. Now they frustrate me. They’re yet another task I can’t put off, because things will only get worse if I do.

And this is probably one of the hardest parts: when accumulated exhaustion makes every little thing feel like a catastrophe.

"Mum, will you read to me?" my son asks.

We read There’s a Viking in My Bed by Jeremy Strong. A Viking has landed in the modern world and doesn’t know how to use household appliances. He puts the dishes in the washing machine. It reminds me of how I’m managing my own household these days.

Before bed, I tell my son that when I shout, it isn’t because of him. It’s because of the constant air raid alerts and attacks. He snuggles up to me. "I hope there won’t be any air raid alerts tomorrow so that we can study properly," he whispers as he drifts off to sleep. For a child who doesn’t like school, that’s a powerful wish.

I fall asleep hoping we’ll wake up the next morning. I still have an unfinished article and a bicycle wheel waiting to be repaired.

children education eng kyiv war

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