It’s every parent’s nightmare – there’s a Covid outbreak at nursery

With news that Lola is a sheep in the nativity play, rather than an angel, things only get worse for Charlotte Cripps when a WhatsApp message announces that every member of staff has Covid-19

(Illustration by Amara May)

It’s the news every parent dreads: Liberty’s nursery school has been shut down due to a Covid outbreak. I feel like I’ve been punched in the face by Tyson Fury. It’s not one teacher but all four who have tested positive. Plus one child and their entire family. I get the WhatsApp message while I’m just trying to convince Lola to wear a sheet with a cloth over her head as a shepherd in her nativity play. She’s in tears, she desperately wants to be an angel. She’s got blonde ringlets and doe eyes, how could she possibly not be one? Is it political? Maybe I didn’t do enough for the Harvest Festival? Could I have done more? Baskets of muffins or flower-arranging duty?

I’m wondering if she can get away with wearing her Disney Snow White costume? At least it’s a mustard yellow colour like the monstrosity that I have paid £17 for that only includes a tunic and a headdress with rope. Then I read the small print on her script – I realise she’s part of a herd of sheep. How am I going to break the news to her that she has to make a headband with wool and ears?

But suddenly my world caves in. I knew coronavirus was getting closer. I heard reports of two local dog walkers with it but now it’s on my doorstep. I’m trapped. Liberty has to self-isolate for 14 days. The nanny can’t come. How do I get Lola to school? How do I work?

The first thing I do is panic buy bulk supplies of toddler activity sets and a giant cardboard igloo that she can colour in and use as a den. It should keep her occupied for hours, according to my mum-friend Mel. Then I get the hoover out and manically charge through each of the four rooms and hallway. I grab the Flash bleach and attack the bathroom. It’s my way of feeling in control.

Then I eat all of Liberty’s Quorn cocktail sausages, three packets of popcorn and six kid’s mini strawberry yoghurts, one after the other, lobbing the empty pots into the dustbin as I open the next. It’s only a few days later when Liberty gets symptoms of a high fever, that my levels of anxiety are matching the levels of the thermometer. I’m so hyped up, I’m walking around as if I’m on speed. None of us can go outside until we get our Covid test results.

At least the test centre is nearer than Newport this time. As we troop off to the local walk-in test centre I have to bribe the kids with more toys just to stick a nasal swab up their nose for 10 seconds. What if we have given it to my 88-year-old dad who we saw on Saturday? When the dog walker knocks on the window and I call out  “cheese stick” instead of “Muggles”, I realise utter nonsense is coming out of my mouth.

I read the small print on her script – I realise she’s part of a herd of sheep. How am I going to break the news to her that she has to make a headband with wool and ears?

Things aren’t helped by the fact my dad has suddenly developed severe itching at night. Is it an allergic reaction to me not being there? I can’t help him, so I send his secretary over to check him out. He opens his shirt to the world at the front door, and the neighbour’s curtains twitched as she examined his bare chest.

Soon I have tons of photos on WhatsApp of my dad’s chest, arms and face covered in red blotches. “Are they bites?” she texts me as I’m giving Liberty another dose of Calpol.

“When do you think you can get over here Char,” my dad says. “Dad I don’t want to give you Covid.” But he says he’s out of “ginger beers” and “easy peelers”. “Don’t worry dad – won’t be long – should have the results soon.”

My phone pings the next morning; it’s good news. I’m negative. Then ping, Lola is negative too. What about Liberty? Phew – ping – she’s also negative.

I text everybody I know: replies include “wonderful news”, “phew”, a prayer emoji, “thank god”, “I’m so happy for you”, but my sister Rebecca texts me this really long message.  

“Do you think that you could have some counselling for your anxieties over Covid and dad getting it? I’ve been very worried about you. I know you are resistant to advice from me – quite understandably. So don’t reply. Just bear in mind. I will delete this message as if not sent.” 

“What is she going on about?” I wonder. We have since fallen out. Coronavirus has taken our relationship to a new low.

Luckily, since lockdown is lifting, avoiding a family Christmas is looking likely again. I can hopefully leave the UK. It’s about the only good news I’ve had all week.