Insomnia mixed with nocturnal terrors of Simon Harris mummified in loo roll

Coronavirus has seen a rise of insomnia and lockdown dreams – ironically in equal measure. This week TESS FINCH-LEES wrestles with those existential questions of the night.

As a parent, there’s always something to keep you awake at night; the existential questions, such as “What if my child falls in with the wrong crowd and becomes a serial killer?”

There was a time, when he was six, that I worried about his moral compass. We had a stand-off outside a food bank which had been brewing since before we left home. He was having second thoughts about ‘donating’ some of his toys, which were thrown in (by me) to make the box of food look less meagre.

In child development terms, he was still at the ‘id’ stage (world revolves around them) meaning guilt trips are futile. Nonetheless, I gave it a go.

“Think of all those children whose parents can’t afford to buy them toys. Don’t you want them to have a toy to cuddle when they lie hungry and cold in bed?”

“And”, holding up exhibit A, “You’ve never even played with this one”.

He thought for a moment and replied: “Yes, I want them to have toys to cuddle but not mine and I did play with that toy (exhibit A) once when I was five AND the way, you said Santa brings presents to ALL children so it doesn’t matter if their parents can’t afford to buy them any, does it?”.

In that moment, I thought, he’ll either grow up to be a prosecution lawyer or a serial killer.

During lockdown, he has gathered kindling, bought Easter eggs with his pocket money and made cards, all for cocooning neighbours.

He also has a proclivity for harvesting mint from the garden to make tea with tepid tap water and because I’m his mother, I drink it. Not the modus operandi of a serial killer – and yet sleep, like the ability to crochet, escapes me.

Coronavirus has seen the rise of insomnia and ‘lockdown dreams’. My problem is the recurring Google-induced face visor nightmares. I never share my real personal data when solicited in order to access apps. I input something different every time.

As a consequence, I get ads targeted at a transgender 19 to 70 year old, which can be anything from denim hot pants to dentures.

Since the pandemic, I’ve been aggressively targeted by a face shield advert that follows me as I scroll down the screen and is so ubiquitous it has become the stuff of nightmares.

The other night, I dreamt of being chased by a visor-clad Simon (‘I made an awful boo-boo’) Harris, mummified in Lidl toilet rolls and rapping: “Stay at home, read a book – get wiser. Don’t bulk-buy the aul’ hand sani-tiser”.

Our immune systems depend on sleep so that became this week’s mission. As someone who only has to sniff alcohol fumes to be inebriated and knowing that it’s a depressant and therefore not helpful dealing with insomnia, I went for the toddler cure instead – tire yourself out during the day and wind down before bedtime.

My YouTube workout in the garden had to be aborted having been sabotaged by my son mimicking the American instructors: “Go Barbara”!” and “Gimme five more of your best Betsy”, resulting in me arm wrestling said child to the ground with an attack of the giggles.

Next was a family ball game of HORSE (what bright spark changed the name from DONKEY)? When himself and son with English accents shout: “You’re a “HOR” at an Irish woman, it didn’t go down well with the older neighbours who were walking past.

“She dropped the ball – three times” the lads explain in unison, but the neighbours only ever played DONKEY so they walk away mumbling, “That’s no reason to call her a whore, like”.

The thing my son misses most about school is his friends, who are particularly important if you’re newly arrived from England and your Irish accent needs breaking in before secondary school.

He had just nailed, “Cawld” and “I’m the fineisht”, before tutorials were cut short.

When he first started school he thought his teacher was picking on someone. He didn’t know who it was, just that she kept shouting “Wrong O’Shea!”

I explained that she was saying, “Rang a Sé, which is Gaelic for Sixth Class”!

In the evening, I did a few laps of the garden before practicing meditation, then, noticing the clear night sky, I woke my son and, lying barefoot and in pyjamas, wrapped in a blanket looking up at the Milky Way, I thanked my lucky stars for these stolen magic moments of childhood.

That night, safe in the knowledge that I hadn’t spawned a serial killer, I slipped into sleep like a stockinged foot into a silken slipper.

■ Tess Finch-Lees is an international human rights journalist, who writes for the Guardian and other outlets. She is also a therapist and lecturer in ethics and discrimination. Having spent her childhood between Dublin, Galway and Mayo, she recently returned home to live in her mother’s native Galway.