Mummy Mania

My life is a Rod Stewart song....

2012-01-29T20:45:00.002Z

And so the dreaded day arrived. I knew it would - it's par for the course in parenting, right? But secretly (arrogantly? hopefully? smugly?) as one by one of my friends fell, wounded by the wicked words of innocent anger, I couldn't really believe my first born baby would turn on me. But now, I too have been shot by the brutal bullet...... 'I hate you'...
She's six. So I suppose I've fared ok so far. I always thought I'd laugh it off - after all - its just frustration, just justifiable anger that I am the boss and she has to do as she's told. It's just a churlish childish chant, something to hurl at me, to lash out with because her little body and bourgeoning mind can't yet cope with the tsunami of feelings and frustrations of life.
I knew all that. And it still stung. Like a winter wasp that hides in the carpet, the sting sliced through skin, shuddering through me, making my eyes water.
And in response to her childish attack, did I behave like an adult? No, I did not. I walked out of the bedroom and couldn't look or speak to her. I was hurt. Like a child. Until she found me out and hugged me.
Now of course, my inner child has gone back to sleep, and the mature mother that I am has re-emerged and laughing about it. Now when we hug, or say goodnight, I laugh and say, "So, do you love me or hate me?"
And she smiles shyly, hugs harder and shouts,"Love you!"
No doubt she'll sting me again. But like good ol' Rod used to sing.... the first cut is the deepest.

Childhood dreams

2012-01-18T20:37:00.004Z

Look at it..... in all its glory.

Daisy has been having a hard time of late - you know, the world of a six year old can be hard to navigate at times. And, if truth be told, I've found being the mum to a six year old hard to navigate at times too. Having two younger sisters six year old can be hard to navigate at times. It's hard enough being an adult woman and yearning for that much sought after 'room of one's own' as Virginia Woolf extolled. As a writer and blogger, my desk is wherever the kids have left enough space on the table to fit my laptop on. Sometimes its the car. Sometimes the sofa. But, I have a cupboard that is all my own..... I have to be thankful for something. And so I've begun to see how frustrating things are for Daisy. She shares a bedroom, and everything she owns is on display and vulnerable to the prying hands of one sister, and the destructive hands of the other. She doesn't even have a drawer to call her own. She learned to read recently and it has opened up her world. She has always loved books, and had been writing little stories for months (first with drawings, and now with words.....). she has scraps of paper hidden all over the house, and cries with rage when she discovers Ruby has eaten them!

And so, I searched back to my own childhood and found the very thing that I would have loved as a child. I remember my nanna and pappa's mahogany writing desk. It was a world of wonder to me, and I would spend hours searching the cubby holes, playing with the stationery and pretending I was important. And so as a well done for learning to read so well, we got Daisy her own little writing desk. I think one of the happiest hours of my life was filling the little drawers and cubby holes with staionery I bought (I'm still obsessed - my friends drool over designer handbags, I go ga-ga in stationery shops), and getting it ready for her. She was delighted. Daisy doesn't do big shows of emotion, but she was shyly ecstatic. And the first thing she sat and wrote? A thank you card to me..... The best bit is the roll down lock - not only does she have her own drawers now, she can hide away all her work. We all need a room (cupboard, space) of our own... even when we're six.

Coming clean and getting dirty...

2012-01-06T10:40:00.002Z

I can see from the long lost date of my last blog that the effects of my trip are still working! In fact, I've become so laid back this last while, my horribly kitsh, beautifuly snuggly purple cheneille dressing gown has become like a second skin. I've done more arts and crafts with the girls in the last month than I have in a year, and I survived Christmas, 4 different sets of visitors, a baking bonanza and various family ailments with barely a wimper.

Time to come clean. Last April I was diagnosed with post-natal depression. I'd always been a half-full glass sort of girl - every problem just needed a solution. But my life was in such a mess it wasn't that I suddenly saw the glass as half-empty - I couldn't see the glass at all. The fog in my brain, the grief I was feeling, the helplessness that was drowning me meant at times I could not see how I would make it to the end of the minute, never mind the hour, never mind the day. One day I might write about it more... but the place I went to still frightens me.
Time to come clean. I have found Ruby the hardest baby of all. I have found Ruby unbearable at times. I have been reduced to tears and tantrums and sheer screaming by her exhuberance and willpower.
Time to come clean. The last year I have had to learn to love my mum again. I have grieved for the one I had, and have had to learn to embrace the shadow she has become since her stroke. Despite seeing her as much as I could, I would cry on the drive up with the reluctance I felt. I would have to walk into another room and literally scream into a cushion, before arranging my face and walking back to her lying in her bed.
The last year has been the toughest struggle of my life just to survive. Just to get to the end of it. But slowly, slowly, I am recovering. I am gaining strength. I have found my mojo.
I no longer dread my mum; I can't wait to see her and tell her all the news.
I no longer hide from my girls in the bathroom; I put everything else aside and play with them.
I no longer wince when Ruby cries and holds her arms up to be held; I swoop her up and make her giggle.

I've had to make some decisions for the sake of my mental health - and therefore the sake of my family. I buried the superwoman aspiration. I cremated the yummy mummy goal. I sucked the spotless house ambition up the hoover.

I haven't written a blog in 3 weeks because, well, other things were happening. And you know what? The world didn't fall apart. I didn't write a thing for three weeks in fact and you know what? I had a freezer full of prepared food for Christmas and guests and I spent the time with them and the kids instead of missing all the fun. I prioritised. I took breaks. The other morning, I put Ruby back down to sleep, the girls in front of the telly, and I went back to bed with my book and a cup of tea. I decided it was my Christmas holiday too. And you know what? The parenting police didn't come and lock me up. The gremlin on my shoulder who usually tells me I have no right to rest was asleep. I went back to bed and read my book. I didn't write my blog. I didn't make lists. I didn't bake, and most of all, I didn't clean. There is dust in places there shoudn't be. And you know what? I'm happier for it.
So, I've come clean, and the house is going to get dirtier.
Happy new year!

Look away children...... part two

2011-12-13T10:30:00.001Z

I'm back..... I've actually been back a while just in case my longer-than-normal absence led some of you to think I'd decided to stay in New York. I'm afraid nothing so dramatic.
I arrived home at 6am Monday morning having had no sleep and straight into the beginning-of-week flurry of school readiness. After the glorious gusto of greetings, my husband ran out of the door with a look of sheer relief on his face mouthing "they're all yours!" I put my suitcases down, forced a smile on my face and made their breakfast..... They were all sick with colds and so it was Thursday before I actually got any sleep. During those fog-muddled days, I could almost taste the sweet boost of cocktail that I had left behind and could cry. As everyone pulled at me, screamed at me, coughed at me, needed me....... I closed my eyes and remembered.... the gloriousness of time off, time alone, time to be me.

Quick disclaimer!: I did miss the girls so so much, and we skyped every day and talked several times a day (not looking forward to my mobile billl). I missed hubby incredibly and wished I could have shared all the amazing restaurants and cocktail bars with him.... came home full of romantic intentions and have barely spoken to him since (he's been sick, the girls have been sick, I've been sick, I had to go up to visit my mum.... so Hi Lovely.... talk soon!).

But.........but...... I cannot lie. It was sheer bliss. Sheer, utter, perfect, glorious, freedom liberating bliss. For five days I lived my life. MY life. I remembered who I was. I laughed, I smiled, I thought good thoughts. I did not shout, get frustrated, feel trapped, feel resentful, feel like crying, feel rubbish, feel stressed.
We walked (not ran, walked) all over Manhatton, we browsed (browsing!!!!..not running into a shop, list hanging out of mouth, baby in one arm, two hands beng dragged by the other arm, shouting 'where's the bloody thing I'm looking for!', and throwing money at the teller as I stop Ruby climbing onto an escalator, and shoving everyone back in the car seats in approximately 3 breaths..... yes, browsing), we stopped for tea breaks (where I actually drank it and finished whole conversations), drank cocktails at peculiar hours of the day (just because I COULD!), we went out for glorious East Coast seafood and beer, (and didn't have to rush home), I didn't get indigesiton eating my breakfast because I only had to feed myself. Did I mention it was bliss?

Sorry girls...... I love you dearly, and chose this life at home with you. I would have it no other way..... but I needed this. I feel recharged, rebooted, re-engaged, reinvented, rejuvenated. My post-holiday blues have flown away leaving a rainbow of happiness. Our coughs are gone, and replaced by laughing. I've rediscovered how to laugh with you, because I finally had some time to remember how to laugh with me. I am playful, forgiving, energised, and I am loving being with you again. Oh, and just so you..... Amanda and I have started saving again!

Look away, children....

2011-11-28T20:25:00.004Z

In future years, if my children ever fancy a glance at their childhood, or want an insight into the sometimes mad woman who brought them up, they might read back over these blogs. That's partly why I started writing them - as a little outlet for my not-so-little frustrations, a global platfrom to celebrate their wonderfullness, but most of all, as a record of our journey together, mother and daughters. Over the last 6 years there have been too-many-to-count glorious gushings about how amazing, how thrilling, how funny, how utterly lovely my beautiful girls are (see how I'm front-loading the praise?)...... so please girls, excuse this little eeny weeny post that's all about me.... look away now.

Yes... in approximately 20 hours time, I will be boarding an Aer Lingus jet (SANS ENFANTS), for a 5 hour (CHILD-FREE) flight to New York, for a five day break (FROM ROUTINE, CHORES, COOKING, CLEANING, WIPING BUMS, MAKING FOOD, WIPING FOOD UP FROM THE FLOOR, YADA YADA YADA....) with a great friend (NOT A CHILD, BUT A REAL ADULT FRIEND).

Phew! It feels amazing just to be writing it. I know I shouldn't be feeling this desperate to get away, BUT I AM!!!!!!! I CANNOT WAIT!!!!!!! (I told you to look away, but one day you'll understand!)

We've been saving for three years (yes count them..... three years). And it's not even the cocktails I'm looking forward to (although I'm sure going to be having one around the 4.30pm mark when my day is usually descending into mayhem and everyone's reaching levels of hysteria normally reserved for major natural disasters). That will be a sip of pure bliss. It's not the 5 nights of undisturbed sleep I'll be getting (although I'm sure going to love that first 6am roll over when I realise no-one needs me). It's the flight. Yes, a 5 hour flight where I can get to end of the page, drink something with bubbles that is not water, and even watch a film that doesn't involve a princess. I'm going to lounge about SoHo and drink cocktails during the day. I'm going to jog across Brooklyn Bridge in the early morning noise, I'm going to eat bagels and enjoy not bustling in a city of bustle.

We booked our flights in January so it's hard to believe it's here. I've just booked in on-line and printed off my tickets, I've stocked the freezer with food, cleaned the house and dusted off the clothes that don't get much of a viewing - the ones intended for the real world. I'll be in it. Sipping cocktails, and smiling. A lot.

Although I've no doubt at all girls, I'll be thinking about you every day...

Letters of Love

2011-11-21T10:02:00.004Z

This weekend, when I went up to Belfast to look after my mum, my dad had left a big box in my room. I looked inside, and found my life story. The smell of age and nostalgia mingled with tissue thin paper and ink. Every single card, every single letter, every single postcard, every single note I have ever written to my mum was inside.... stories laid bare, love notes squeezed between exploits, happy holidays, dulls days...all bound together in memory. I have written to my mum all through my life - through all my adventures, through all my education, through all my relationships, through all my parenting. And she kept every word. I spent a few hours just putting them into piles - the piles I realise that represent the phases of my life - my childhood - sweet notes of innocence and a burgeoning imagination; my year out in Pakistan and India as a naive 18 year old - full of longing for home, and excitement at the world; University - an adult emerging amid learning and independence; working life in London - lots of money requests and false starts on the job front; my two year travels - the spendour, the adventure, the romance!; and finally, my life in Dublin - my first flat, planning our wedding, our first home, my beautiful girls.
Reading them I realise how honest I was, how at ease we were with each other, how accepting we were, how involved my parents have been in my life. Not only does that box give me a unique diary of my life - in my own words, it is like a gift to me in this time as I grieve for my mum, and learn to live my life without her involvement.
I still write to her every week - I take photos of my days with the girls, and I embed them in a letter with a commentary, and I email it to dad who prints it out and reads it to her. They are slowly filling a box beside her bed - and in time too they will be the diary of this phase, and a reminder that even though she cannot be the person she was, she is still, and always will be, involved in my life.

Some days...

2011-11-08T19:08:00.004Z

Some days it all comes together... and some days it all falls apart. Today was the latter. My recent attempts at reading Buddhism (whatever gets us through the day, I say) is being tested as my new found calm took a sabatical, and the screaming heeby-jeeby's took over. The more Ruby screamed outwardly, the more I screamed inwardly. The more Poppy cried at every little thing, the more I wanted to cry at every single thing. The more Daisy tortured me for her confiscated Leappad, the more I wanted to confiscate myself. This was me at 4.52pm....

And then my knight in shining armour came home and rescued me from the wicked witches. Thank you hubby...... coming home early was the best wedding anniversary present you could give me.... (well, the best one that doesn't sparkle!!).

It's a hard life being six

2011-10-26T20:14:00.003+01:00

I've often wondered over the last couple of years how life got so bloody complicated - three young children, a gorgeous but work-laden husband, a sick mum and a million other pebbles that make the road a bit harder to walk on. But as I watch my eldest daughter navigate the bright new path that lies ahead of her, I realise that no matter how hard my life can be - and it has pushed the acceptable boundaries of toughness of late - I realise it can never be as hard as a six year olds. Take Monday. All weekend we had looked forward to getting her dressed up for her school Halloween celebration, and I even got up ten minutes earlier so I had time to paint her face and make a winning witch out of her. Off we trotted to school, pink hair and green face to the wind. On approach I started to get an uneasy feeling but couldn't think why. Until her little voice strangled out the worst words a six year old can say...."Mummy, no one else is dressed up!" Yes, she'd got the wrong day and was the only spectre in the spectrum of the school building. At first I thought we could just laugh it off, but I soon realised the embarassment for her was too great. She was most definitely not laughing! So to prevent a full-blown fit, I had to borrow a uniform from the office and wash her make up off, but she still had to endure her pink tights and witch shoes all day, and various queries from her friends. When I laughingly suggested she dress as a ghost the next morning, I was met with a teary eye at the mere thought of it. Strange - from about 13 onwards all we want to do is stand out from the crowd, but until then, it is utterly excrutiating to be different. Poor thing.... she's only just able to make a meek smile at the mention of it.
And it gets harder and more confusing still.

While she is the child I've loved the longest, she will always be my guinea pig and that can be a bit of a swine. On same said Monday, I got annoyed with her for not keeping in her pink witch hair on the way - what did it matter that it was itchy! I had spent money and time getting it so she was being so ungrateful! (I know, bad parenting moment.... my inner child won over my mature mother). Two days later, when it was Poppy's turn to dress up (on the right day!), and Poppy took out her itchy hair, I merely smiled and said 'OK love, no worries.' What must poor Daisy think? She gets the trial run in the situation, while Poppy gets the practised, refined and more times than not, better responses.

While I do everything in my power to make her road as bright, as beautiful, as adventurous, as warm, as blanketed with love as I can, there will always be pebbles, and I suppose that is life - while we skip along happily, there is always the times we stub our toes. I just hope I can teach her that those are the times that should enable us skip on even higher.

Things I'd forgotten about toddlers

2011-10-20T10:01:00.002+01:00

The human body really is an amazing thing. In the days after my three caesareans I thought I'd never feel whole again - now I can't even remember the pain. And our brains? They have an amazing capacity to remember the great stuff (the smell of a newborn head, the sound of that first gurgle) while blotting out all the hideous, death-defying stuff like torturous sleep deprivation, excrutiating nipples, baby smelly poos that push the boundaries of acceptability. And so it is, that as Ruby launches into her second year with a gusto that frankly I left behind in my thirties, I am shocked, stunned and a little put out by all the stuff I'd forgotten (or my brain happily sent to the slush pile.)

1. She is soooooooo rude! My lovely girls say please and thank you, they go to the toilet, and have some level of decorum at the dinner table. I've been lulled into a false sense of social grace. Ruby is just rude! She screeches her demands like a demented banshee without so much as a by your leave, she throws her food on the floor when it no longer holds her attention, she lets go of the smelly stuff at the most inopportune times, and frankly thinks she rules the roost.
2. She makes so much mess. I mean, seriously, inconceiveable mess. It's like her saliva contains a food-reproduction germ than means there is three times as much Weetabix on the walls and floor than was ever in her bowl. I can't believe she's thriving as none seems to go into her mouth - her ear, yes. Her hair, definitely. My clothes, absolutely.
3. She clings to my leg like a fully packed rubgy scrum. I literally have to cook with her climbing up my trousers, hoover with her under one arm, and apply mascara with her poking me in the eye. She even tries to get in the shower with me. I love her dearly, but PLEASE can I pee by myself!
4. She makes more noise than the other four members of her family put together. And then some. From the moment I am yanked from my sleepy slumber with her 6.30am screeching, to the moment I rock her with her night-time bottle she screams, yells, sings, cries, gives off, gives out, until I give in and pick her up, feed her, hold her, or whatever it is she wants. I am a hostage to a scream.
5. She doesn't listen to me. I was so over that phase and now it's quite a shock to realise that when I scream "NO!" as she waddles over to the moving escalator in the shopping centre, she isn't going to stop, turn round, and say, 'Oh, OK mum." No, she speeds up, laughs and keeps going. The word 'No' is a game to her. If I say no, it means she does what she was doing, only louder, faster and with an even minxier face than normal.

I'm dreading the Terrible Two's as I know I have abject amnesia from that time. Where's the gin?

Party politics

2011-10-12T19:23:00.006+01:00

It has begun. Party politics..... at six. Daisy's forthcoming birthday party is turning into something akin to a CIA secret mission - we have subterfuge, secrecy, leaks, plots, diplomacy and coverups.... and that's just the invitations. Last year it seemed so simple. She invited her friends, I made princess magic mirror invites, everyone dressed in varying shades of pink, and the place was awash with Princess themed decor, food and games. This year, she wants a Fairy Party. I thought 6 year olds were over fairies. I was wrong. Children have been discussing their outfits with me for weeks! I have designed the cake, thought up the themed games and decor and we made 16 glittering winged fairy invites.

And then the trouble began. As we made out our list, I realised there were a few key friends missing. I asked why so-and-so and what's-her-name weren't invited. "They're too bossy," came the reply. "But they're you're friends and they invited you to their parties," I replied slightly preturbed how my own parent politics was going to deal with this as I met the mum's at the gates. A stubborn refusal was my answer. I left it, carried on sticking feather hair onto the fairy invites ("purple please, so they look like Katy Perry"). We talked about it a few more times, but she was resolute in her decision - she only wanted 'nice' people at her party. In the end I have decided to let her play it out.... I've warned her of the consequences, given her an aliby (I'm only allowing her 10 guests), and am secretly a little proud she is standing firm not to invite the 'popular, loud girls' but just the ones she really likes. But this is were the Mission Impossible begins. Try giving out invites to some parents and not others as we wait for the school doors to open (there is a school policy of not letting kids give out invites in class, for this very reason I suspect.) I've been so stressed this week, trying to whisper "pssst, it's an invite", while smiling at the mum across the yard who's daughter's not invited. It's taken 4 days to get them all delivered, and I'm worn out before I've even stuffed the goody bags. Three daughters, 18 years of parties ahead of me.... I'm off to buy some decent anti-wrinkle cream.

Talking around the issue

2011-10-05T19:37:00.003+01:00

There are some things that have to be kept private - at least off the etheral, even for a blogger. And so I always find it hard to write my blog when a huge massive 'thing' is hanging over me that I won't or can't write about, because A) I might be arrested/committed/am ashamed; B)it affects someone else and their privacy is more important than my public therapy; and C) it's just too big and just too awful/difficult/hard to share. At the moment I am holding back on the keyboards with things that tick all those boxes. Some day I might share, perhaps I won't... but for now, I'll have to shift the hanging 'thing' and write around the issue in case people think I'm still hiding from my children under the stairs and can't get to my computer.

So I'm going to talk about the bi-polar effects of parenting - when your kids bruise and burst your heart in equal measure. Let's start with Daisy - so bright and beautiful and brilliant. I literally love everything about her, and am so proud of the every day little sparkles of goodness and guile. But she makes my heart tremor in fear as well as pride. She is sensitive and perhaps a little innocent (which is no bad thing in a nearly 6 year old methinks). But the other day, her friends were singing that extremely annoying Katy Perry song Fireworks which I have now had to download on their playlist. They were all dancing and singing to various pop songs when Daisy piped up (bless her, cringe, cringe) and suggested Puff the Magic Dragon. Oh how the faces of her mature, pop cultured friends fell. In fairness, Daisy ignored them and brazened on with her song, although petered out when she forgot the words of the third verse and everyone else had wandered off. I have never been cool, and I suspect Daisy will go through life like me liking what she likes (good) and having endless cringe-worthy moments of embarrassment (bad.) My heart bruises but as I defiantly listen to my Barry Manilow album I think, what's a little embarrassment in the grand scheme of things?
It's a bit different with Poppy, who for various reasons listed under B) above, I can't divulge the utter heart bashing I am having with her. She is the sweetest, most loving, funny child, and I have to steel myself for the battles ahead that she will have to fight, with her daddy and me by her side. But my heart bursts with ridiculous love when I see her overcome her littleness to be the best ballet dancer in class (honest, it's not just me who says that, but her teacher!), and scooting to school with her little legs going like the clappers, and her imaginary friend, 'Heart' who supports her everywhere and will always be her height.
And now we come to the last, but most certainly not least..... Ruby. Any thoughts I had that third children were meant to be quiet and easy going are rudely wrecked every morning with the screaching demanding squawks that announce Ruby's (and mine) start to the day. My heart bruises when I think of how she has had such a distracted mum over the last year, how she clings to my leg ferociously as if she knows I have only been half there. But it bursts when I see her enjoy life - even at one, when she goes to our little toddler group, and she stands defiantly in the middle of the room and dances and giggles with a confidence that shocks me. Who knows what bruising and bursting she will cause me in the years ahead, but like life I suppose, you take the good with the bad and wrap as much of it up as you can in love.

Manic Mannerisms

2011-09-23T05:30:00.003+01:00

Ruby was one yesterday, but like a present being slowly unwrapped, she is the celebration. This has been the hardest time of my life, and there were many's a time over the last year when I honestly did not think I would survive. But I did....and more surprisingly, so did Ruby... a thriving fiesty determined amazing bundle of cuteness. A beautiful gift. If extremely noisy! Oh, how she is noisy!

And as she (rapidly) grows - already walking, coming up and down the stairs, and getting off beds and sofas feet first (something it toook me at least 18 months to teach the others) I realise she too has a different personality and we have three amazing unravelling mysteries in our midst. Whereas Poppy is slow and deliberate about everything, Ruby is already a speedy Gonzales, like her older sister Daisy.

Let me explain just how slow (I really should start saying methodical) she is - Poppy's latest behavioural nuance is to wear socks and a cardigan every night in bed. OK, this doesn't seeem to be too extreme... except every evening she spends (at least) 15 minutes deciding which pair of socks it will be - and often changes them at least three times before morning! She lives so far into her own world, it often takes me 15 times to say something before she looks up in surprise and realises I'm talking to her. She has developed an imaginary friend called Heart. It took me a while to realise just how important Heart is, and how involved she is in our lives. She currently joins us for most meals, and is over for playdates nearly every day. Poppy apparently watched an amazing TV show (all made up, but complex, thought out and detailed) at Heart's house one day and they chat on the phone all the time. Poppy hasn't mentioned her height in a while so it all made a bit of sense when I asked her what Heart looks like. "She's small like me and will always be the same size as me." Whatever gets you through the day I say.

Daisy on the other hand is chalk to Poppy's cheese. Fast, impatient and always thinking out loud, asking questions. Just a few of the recent ones include - how does my arm work? is our eyeball a TV screen? You're the best baker in the world mummy. (OK that wasn't a question, but I had to slip it in!). I've already detailed her slight OCD tendency to keep treasures in various boxes, each neatly purused every evening. Now as she approaches her 6th birthday, every night we have to go through all her 5th birthday cards. Every night. Whereas Poppy never knows what day it is, or what we're doing (the other day, dressed up in her ballet gear she asked me where we were going?), Daisy has the sharpest memory I've ever seen. She recalls everything, and calls me out regularly. She's learning Irish at school and loving it, practising her new words every day (Ruby even got sung Happy Birthday in Irish, while her Northern Irish mum and English dad struggled along!)). I told her her memory is great and that she'll be brilliant at languages. She nodded sagely, and said, "Yes, I keep the words on my Remember Shelf in my head. It's like a computer, and when I can't sleep at night, I just play with my computer."

And now there is Ruby Rose. A law unto her own. I'd forgotten how rude toddlers are! Whereas Daisy and Poppy ask for everything with a please and a thank you, Ruby just points and screeches, then grunts! But she is fast emerging into a loud boisterous personality, full of smiles and nuances. Happy birthday my precious girl.... I love being in the front row of your amazing show.

My little trove of treasures

2011-09-11T09:39:00.004+01:00

I am constantly amazed by how different our three girls are. Same genes, same upbringing, completely varying personalities. As Ruby's character bursts through her blossoming body, a brand new element nudges its way into our family dynamic, all treasures to keep safe, and to enjoy.
Poppy gives and demands affection all day - curling up on my lap whenever she can, whispering sweet nothings into my ear while I sit on the loo, holding my hand to walk across the kitchen. Daisy reserves her love for some quality one-on one time at the end of the day - keeping everything in until I get into bed beside her for 'talkie talkie' before she goes to sleep. Last night, talkie talkie lasted for some considereable time, but I banished the lure of my cool glass of Pinot Grigio Blush calling me from downstairs and gave in to the moment. She had something important to share with me. She keeps a little treasure box beside her bed and inside are all her trophies and collections she goes through every night. I listened as she took out every sparkly sticker, every glass bead, every token of discovery (she goes treasure searching in the school yard apparently!) as she gave me its history and meaning, little gifts from friends, fantastic finds and discoveries. Then we moved on to the more special treasure kept in her music box. This includes a little bell from her mobile above her bed, a special clip, an old earring of mine and a piece of paper. Each one tenderly held and adored. Finally I was allowed to see the creme de la creme. Inside her dressing table drawer (neat as a pin, every item in its place lined up side by side) is a little ceramic box for keeping teeth in before the tooth fairy comes. Inside, two pink sparkly jewels. She spoke in awed whispers. Then everything was neatly put back, lying in wait until tonight's viewing. The treasures of childhood, nuggets of comfort, lessons of love, links to friendships.
(Poppy keeps hers under her pillow - a different one every night, her dressing room drawer a chaotic mess of mass, my discoveries when I hoover their room and find stuff she has hidden under her bed - this can include a wooden spoon, my egg timer, a pair of my pants, and the TV remote control we've been looking for for a week).
And I realise I have my little treasure box of nuggets too - I have a box with scaps of paper and whenever the girls say something funny or important, I write it down and throw it into the box so I don't forget. Every so often I take them out to read - my little treasures, nuggets, memories, comfort. Daisy has offered some classics lately. "Mummy? I wish I was a boy so I could go out to work." This left me feeling just a tad concerned about my status as a role model! She compensated recently by proudly telling her new teacher that her mummy writes for the Irish Times and when asked who she'd rather be - me or her daddy, she replied - not daddy because he's too hairy, but not mummy because she works too hard!"
Last week I was sorting some stuff out in my mum's bedroom, and I came across a bag in the top of her wardrobe. It contained all the letters I have written her over the years, each one lovingly kept, re-read, loved.
We all need our treasures it seems.

The pain of love

2011-09-06T19:58:00.002+01:00

It's done. Another dreaded milestone in the loss of my mum. Ruby's naming ceremony was held at the weekend.....without my mum. I still find it hard at times to comprehend how life can change so drastically on the tick of a clock... one second my life was intact, bursting with new promise as I held my newborn, complete, and the next second of time it is irrevocably, drastically calamatously shattered. One second to change a lifetime of experience - that of sharing my life with my mum, to a new lifetime of events, celebrations, days and life without her.

It was a wonderful day. My dad and brother came down, keeping me warmed by the family blanket of love and support my mum worked so hard to create. My friends sharing my joy, loyal and loving as always. My hubby, holding my hand as he always does. And of course, Daisy, Poppy and Ruby - our much fought for, much loved child, so utterly beautiful, so beguiling, so wondrous.

But it wasn't the same. It can never be the same without her. Worse, alive and in a carehome while dad was with me while her family celebrate being a family. Horrific. The worst torture I could ever have conjured up for my mum.

But it is done. She won't be in the photos, glowing from the love of Ruby; she won't be in the video, beaming in delight. But she was here. In our thoughts, in our unity, in our heart and in our conversation. Because she is the rock I stand on. And the photos of me glowing are because she loved me. And the video of me beaming is because her love keeps me going still.

What a difference a year makes...

2011-09-02T10:01:00.004+01:00

Yesterday the girls went back to school and playschool. Uniforms dusted down from the wardrobe; new white socks in squeaky new shoes; hairs cut and washed; schoolbags eventually found, emptied, cleaned and repacked; breakfast table set. As we left, I took a photo by the front door as I always do to mark the beginning of a fresh start. Last night I sent it to my mum, along with last year's picture. What a difference a year makes.

Yesterday, Daisy a little older and a lot wiser. No tears, no fear, only excitement and anticipation. A new haircut, shorter, more manageable, a little older. She has grown into her uniform, no longer looking quite like Orphan Annie with a skirt to her ankles and sleeves past her fingertips. And Poppy.... how she has changed, and grown and blossomed. A little taller, a lot happier. A new haircut, shorter, more manageable, a little older. She has grown into her skin, no longer suffering from malnutrion, her gluten free diet nourishing her body and mind. And of course, the new addition. Ruby. Bursting from my belly last year, now a glorious bouncing, busy, boisterous baby.

When I look at last year's picture... I remember the promise in my life. Three weeks later my baby would be born. I was full of plans and projects. My mum would help me through the first few weeks, and we would sit wrapped in newborn love, proud and pompous with the delight of our lives. We had holidays planned, excitement brimming with the thoughts of the year ahead.

Instead the promise was destroyed, as the blood seeped into her brain and destroyed her memory, her voice, her life.

But.... as I look at this year's picture, I must remember I have new promise. The girls growing and glowing all the time. Ruby, a mystery minx, revealing her character and cuteness every day. A new year to learn, and grow and love. My mum is still part of my life. The love she gave me every one of my 41 years, will keep me going for the next 41, seeing the promise in life every day.

The bearable darkness of being

2011-08-17T09:37:00.006+01:00

It's nearly a year since my baby was born. And nearly a year since my mum had her catastrophic stroke. Undeniably the worst, saddest, most challenging, gut wrenching, heart tearing, mind wrecking year of my life. The sheer awfullness of having a 4 day old baby and loosing my mum into the depths of her mind; the sheer struggle of coping with Ruby, two other small children and trying to manage my mum; the sheer terror of this new life and the sheer loss of my old one; the sheer struggle to survive each day and get Ruby through with me was at times, just too much to bear. I have fallen apart and picked myself up so many times I'm dizzy. My two girls keep me motivated, my husband keeps me alive. When it happened, and doctors and neighbours told me my mum could live for years like this, I wanted to actually fall into the dark pit that was constantly calling me. I could not literally bear it.

But, a year is nearly here. It is still awful. It is still a daily struggle. I still have moments where the days are almost unbearable.

But, a year is nearly here. And as much as I hate to admit a cliche, time might not heal, for nothing will heal my loss, but time does make it better. Time calms the terror and finds the hope. Time teaches you to find ways to cope. Time enables you to adapt, accept, acclimatise.

Two things have happened I think. The first is me. My month in Donegal, often alone with my thoughts at night, allowed me to think, and remember, and come to terms for the first time. I had never allowed myself to accept it, because I never had a moment spare to go the dark place where acceptance is. I had my mum and Ruby, and the rest of my family to maintain. But Donegal gave me the space and time to go there, and to come back out into the light that acceptance can shine. I have let go of what was - remembering our relationship, our good times, our love like a precious treasure that will always glow and keep me warm. And I have embraced what is, my mum's condition, albeit nothing like I would want, but still my mum. Ruby is nearly a year and getting strong. I no longer fear for her survival - she is not so dependent on me to stay sane to survive. I can let go occassionally.

The second thing that happened, is that I think my mum has relaxed into her situation and perhaps even improved a little too. This weekend, I can honestly say I loved every minute of being with her. I never thought I would say that again. We hugged, we laughed, we connected. She asked me her first question since her stroke - 'how did you sleep?' And I could honestly tell her I was beginning to sleep well again.

I have written before about her amazing friends - and this weekend, we all hung out, laughed, drank wine and lifted our faces to sun. My mum was upset afterwards for she knew she couldn't talk to them properly, couldn't make herself understood, was muddled and mixed, and couldn't do anything to help, but I told her no-one minds. We all love her regardless of how she is. She has certainly loved us for long enough. I still hate that my mum will never come to my house again. I still hate she will never even go upstairs in her own house again, and potter in her bedroom. I still hate that she can't snuggle into bed with the girls and read them stories. I hate she can't tell me how she is, and ask about my life, and my family. I hate we can't share long days drinking earl grey tea and nibbling chocolates, having lunch in Avoca, or walking the splendour of Mount Usher as we always did. I hate that she can't go out and about with her friends.

But, in a year, I've accepted we must do new things. I can tell her all about my life and my girls and she will still smile. I can bring the girls to see her and watch her face light up. They can snuggle into her bed and perhaps soon, even Daisy can read to her. I can sit beside her and sip earl grey tea and show her pictures of the spendour of Mount Usher. Her friends can come round and share time, wine, memories, laughs and love.

The unbearable darkness has become slightly more bearable. I'll take life as it comes, and as my mum always taught me, make the best of what we have.

The Payback begins...

2011-08-12T12:57:00.003+01:00

It would not be an understatement to say it hasn't been a struggle. Six pregnancies, three children under six, and several life-changing events, untold dramas, adventures and crises. Then let's not forget the mundane - the endless, endless, endless, endless, endless, endless meals to be planned, bought for, prepared, force-fed (ahem, gently coerced), washed up, wiped up; the countless, countless, countless, countless nights of vomiting, crying, nightmares, wet beds, 'I want a hug and I don't care that it's 3am'; the various hideous child-related tasks that NO-ONE warns you about - lice, worms, leaking nappies, leaking nappies that defy belief as it creeps up their back and down their arms, children who walk slower than a snail; the relentless, relentless, relentless picking up of other people's clothes, especially when with three girls and multiple changes per day, this can amount to a full time job. Ok, so I'm omitting the wonderful too - their beauty, their exhuberance for life, their wonder, their belief in you, their expressions, their cuddles.
But.. last night, the payback really began. All those nappies? Forgotten. All those wretched meals left uneaten? Almost forgotten. All those early mornings? Forgotten. Why? Because last night, after I'd put Ruby to bed, I was indulged in the most perfect 15 minutes of my life..... Daisy gave me a foot rub with baby lotion, while Poppy brushed my hair. It just doesn't much better than that.

Donegal Daydreams 3

2011-08-03T21:01:00.003+01:00

They are indeed daydreams now. The bubble has burst and reality is seeping back in. Home and happy and determined to keep my Donegal Spirit alive -more living, less letting the minuite cast a shadow over the big picture. But I miss it already... the expanse of sky, the length of laughter, the long days, the fire-warmed nights. I felt like I was in some weird parenting programme, living those experience you think are what parenting is all about before you actually become one and realise that parenting is really about crap, vomit and crying at 3am.
No, we actually made sandcastles, clambered over rocks, went on nature hunts, ate chocolate early in the morning, and read books about ballerinas in front of a turf fire. Poppy even provided the classic parenting bad hair day... as hubby and I sat toasting our toes with fire and our bellies with wine, Poppy came into the room with a large smile and a larger handful of hair in her hand. She'd taken the scissors to her glorious long locks. Looking like something from a bad 1980's orphanage, we eventually had to take her to a hairdresser to make some sort of sense of her cutting style. Just another notch on the parenting headboard - no doubt to be eclipsed in time by tattoos, pink hair and piercings (all by Poppy I have no doubt either.)
For four weeks I lived the parenting daydream..... and now reality has woken me up and I can only try and hold onto the feeling as long as possible.... and count the weeks until I am back.... 47 to go.

Donegal Daydreams 2

2011-07-17T09:58:00.004+01:00

Donegal is like one of those boys your mother always warned you about.. moody and unreliable, glorious one moment, dumping on you the next, but always, irrisistable.

It's the same as it always was. I came here every year as a child, so many memories merged into one mish mash of feeling and nostaligia. I can close my eyes and see the rugged mountains and coastline, taste the chicken maryland we had as a treat every holiday in the Nesbit Arms Hotel, smell the turf, hear the silly names my brother and I gave all the funny sounding Irish places. But mostly I remember my mum's white tupperware box, always full of her fudge squares and caramel squares she had made the night before we left. The glorious days on the beaches, the long walks as my dad dragged us over 'just one more hill', the interminable days inside the smokey cottage as the rain lashed outside.

Donegal has a personality complex. When the weather is clear, the horizon is further than anywhere I've ever been in the world. The sky seems endless, life is limitless. But when the dark clouds brood and close in, spewing torrents of 'wet rain' like sheets of water, the sea mist creeps around until there is nothing in your vision at all - just you, your house and if you're lucky, the end of your path. No sky. No mountains. No road. Donegal can make you feel tall and small in one day.

The smell of turf burning takes me back 30 years in an instant to my family sitting round the fire, life at it's most basic, the rain thrashing the windows as the clump of the tupperware lid opened and our family hands tangled in desperation as we grasped mum's chocolate treats.

And so here I am again. I am the mum now. The schizophrenic weather has us changing clothes three times a day. Last week I burned in the sun, the beach so vast, skies so wide it felt unwordly. And today, rain is so dense, the weather so close, we can't see past the wall. My mum and dad were meant to be with us this week, and I know without a doubt, that if she had been able to come, the tupperware box would have been on her knee as the car drove up. So, with a heavy heart, and a happy memory, I opened up her recipes, and I made her fudge squares. My girls now love them as I once did, and so it continues. My mum will never share a holiday with us again, but we sit in the turf-smoked room, the rain dancing furiously outside, and the clip of my new tin opens, and our family hands tangle as we reach for my mum's chocolate treats. Like Donegal weather, life is unpredictable. You never know what's around the corner. But like Donegal, it is the things that stay the same that keep life going. I miss you mum. But I'm creating new memories in your shadow. Memories I hope my girls will take through their lives as mine still take me.

Donegal Daydreams

2011-07-08T08:04:00.005+01:00

Aghh. That first deep breath. The suck in of freedom. The exhale of space and landscape and horizon. Booked a year in advance. Months of planning. Weeks of lists. Days of shopping, packing, sorting. Hours of driving - screaming baby, disgruntled daughters. Late arrival, sleepless night. But then. The first early morning walk on a vast deserted beach as the sun says hello to the sky and the water laps the shore like a child licking ice-cream off her lips. The horizon so wide, so distant, it feels unworldly. A different world certainly from the cement claustraphobia of the city. I feel like I'm in the Great Escape - albeit without the motorbike. And Steve McQueen.... more's the pity.

I have travelled the world, and nothing, and nowhere compares to the wonderful wild, ravishingly rugged, energetic expanse of Donegal on the west coast of Ireland.

We've been here 4 days and explored 5 beaches, catching crabs, fish, shrimpy like creatures, and some rather unidentifyable jelly monstrousity. The girls have run, jumped, rolled along beaches, down sand dunes, clamberd over rocks, swum naked in the sea (yes! In Donegal. At 8.30 in the morning!). I've always maintained the sign of a good day is a bruised knee and dirty clothes. The girls are obviously having a ball. They have fallen so many times they look blue, drawn blood and we've even had a resident tick lodge itself in Daisy's hip. She refused to have it removed, called it Tessa Tick and talked to it for a day and a half until it eventually fell off satiated with blood. Fortunately the next pet - a curly caterpillar lasted a bit longer and slept on Daisy's pillow for a night.

I'm here for a month with the girls, and hubby is up at weekends. Despite the fact it feels like I brought the entire contents of the house - the change mat, the apple slicer (don't ask, Daisy eats about 5 apples a day so this is essential equipment for my sanity), the food mixer, and 25 packets of gluten-free pasta (only to discover the local shop stocks more gluten-free food than our supermarket in Dublin!). But my 13 lists and near mental breakdown did not compute 'wellies'. In Donegal. That's like a fish & chip shop not having salt. That's like somebody not liking chocolate. It's just not right. I'm surprised they let us over the border, wellies being part of the national dress up here. Still, in line with my new attitute to life - the wronger it is - the better it is - who cares? Wet feet can dry.

Ruby has experienced her first taste of sand - literally. She's at that irritating, sorry - delightful, 9 month old stage of crawling everywhere, eating everything and listening to no-one. She's eating sand like no tomorrow, but hey. Isn't that every child's rite of passage? So I'm going to be all wrong again and not worry about it. I'm going to suck in that freedom and exhale that space and landscape and horisons. I'm going to feel the sun and the rain on my face in equal measure - it is Donegal after all. That's the plan. Once hubby goes and I'm on my own with 2 girls and a baby on a wet and windy beach for a month I may be back to tell a different story. We'll have to wait and see.....

The right way down a wrong way street

2011-06-27T19:26:00.004+01:00

Things are going wrong. Drastically wrong. A sure sign I suspect, that things are beginning to go right. There aren't many people who know me well who wouldn't use the words 'anally retentive' at least once in a three word choice to describe me. Colour coded charts are my passion. Checklists and to-do lists are my best friends. Perfect retail therapy? A rampage in a stationary shop - the more colour segmented notepads and highlighter pens the better.

So you can imagine I embraced motherhood with as much energy, exhuberance and practical planning as an A4 folder with colour dividers would allow. I religiously followed Gina Ford's rules to a letter, I enforced Annabel Karmel's healthy menu's to a tea, I restricted TV, drowned in Arts & Crafts and read each book enthusiastically 164,493 times (sometimes in one night it seemed). I put pressure on myself like a cherry on top of an icing cupcake of pressure. But recently things have been changing. I'm not sweating the small stuff any more - perhaps because I've so much big stuff to sweat these days.

Last week alone, I did so many 'wrong' things, I might as well have been following the Bad Book of Parenting. Here's a few tasters:

I let the girls watch TV still in their pyjamas. At 3pm.

I took them to Eddie Rockets for burger and chips because I couldn't be bothered to make tea and fancied somewhere that threw away the plates

I didn't wait for the girls to be in bed before I opened a bottle of wine - it was 6.15 and the sun was shining, and I thought I should raise a toast to the glowing sky

I didn't retch, scream, or pull out my hair when circumstances of a day out meant Ruby didn't go down for her 12 o'clock sleep until 3pm.

One day I rejected every pore in my body and sat on the sofa while Ruby slept and the girls played and ....... read my book. I did not hoover. I did not bake. I did not clean behind the pot plants. I read. A Book.

I'm wallowing in my wrongness. I'm rather hoping this week is an utter disaster.

Tap Tap

2011-06-20T10:25:00.002+01:00

I don't know about you, but 6 years and three children in, I still look over my shoulder occassionally to see who might be coming close enough to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I'm not a real mother, please move along. If only there was a manual - one that doesn't tell me to listen to my inner gut which frankly only tells me I ate too much chocolate and drank too much wine last night, or one that tells me exactly what time I can eat a slice of toast (honestly, one does) and lays out my parenting tasks like a military opertion - with as much loving as that would entail. No, we just have to muddle through, hoping against hope that we aren't on the social services list for mad mothers, and gaining strength in numbers by hanging out (or blogging alongside) other mad mothers, in every form the word mad entails.

And just when I think I'm really not very good at this (last week my 6pm phone call to a friend went like this: 'is it ok to open a bottle of wine before the kids go to bed?' My friend replied, 'well, what are they doing?' to which I confessed they were eating chocolate and watching TV. 'Oh you're way past wondering if drinking before their bedtime is ok!" she replied) my cohorts in co-parenting (for that is what friends are), boosted my confidence by confessing their own wayward ways. There is nothing like someone else's badness you make you feel good.

On Friday night, during a much needed girlie night drinking wine (it was after the kid's bedtime!) my friend and I decided to watch our favourite girlie night DVD. Oh come on! We are grown women but admit it - we all love a teenage vampire! After fiddling with the controls for a few moments, she announced she was off to get her daughter up. "But she's been asleep for two hours!" I gasped. "Yes," she said, as she carried her sleepy 8 year old into the room, "but she's the only one who can work the DVD player."

Did that make me feel good or what! Then, at a lovely afternoon tea with some other girlfriends the next day (it's been an amazing rare, but gorgeous friend-filled weekend) my child pyschologist friend - who for years has been guiding parents on how to bring up their children, confessed she's too confused and traumatised with her own two children to follow her own advice. "I used to be a parenting expert until I became a mum," she wailed as we all smiled and consoled her with the reminder that we had never been parenting experts. And maybe that's the point. We do the best we can..... with a little help from our friends. Thank you mad mothers everywhere for living in my world.

Family Friends

2011-06-11T16:07:00.011+01:00

When you become a parent you don't think that your children will start having an influence on who you become friends with. But they do! One of my best friends is the mum of Daisy's best friend. How weird is that? Because Daisy made friends with a little girl in playschool, Ruby has Liza as her godmother. And now as Daisy ends her first year of school, I realise that some of the mums and dads I say hello to every morning - and who I will share time with for the next eight years - have slowly become friends. One a really good one. I never expected to make close friends at this stage of my life. Thought that was all done years ago.
I have always admired and envied my mum's circle of friends. As long as I have been alive, they have been around. I called them 'Auntie' and they shared every momentous and mundane moment of my mum's life, and by association, mine. They know me as well as anyone. Apart from the fact that 'The Girls' (as they still call themselves 40 years later) met every other Tuesday night for over four decades, they also chinked drinks and wrapped arms around each other at every significant event in their lives - children's births, divorces, parties, celebrations, bad days, good days and all the dramas and dilemmas that mark everyday life. There were days when they kept each other afloat and I always wished I had something similar.
But I didn't. Or so I thought. Sure I don't have the close knit circle, but I have something else. At my 40th I was pregnant so I decided to have a birthday lunch with my best girlfriends - a disparate group who I realised had also shared every moment of my life with me - just not all at once.
I realised I had a friend from every part of my life, and together they had chinked drinks and wrapped their arms around me for every significant event in my life. But, life has a funny way of keeping the circles intact, like a swirl, making circles within circles. One of the first phonecalls I made after my mum's stroke was to her best friends. Their devastation was profound and gave depth to mine. Over the last nine months they have kept me afloat. I text them, I ring and ask for advice, they call in to see me when I'm up with mum, and our lives now entwine once again, the love of my mum our common language. My mum's friends have become mine, friendship stretching generations. And as my new layer of friendships develop around the lives of my children, I hope the circles continue to spiral and my girls too will know that my friends are there for my life and theirs.

Simply complicated

2011-06-04T16:53:00.008+01:00

There is one phrase I've been saying a lot of over the last couple of years..... "how did life get so complicated?"

Never mind the added extras - hubby's job insecurities and working away, miscarriages, chromosome disorders, mum's stroke, Poppy's coeliac - but even the bare basics of life as a mother - money moans, lack of childcare and support, planning and catering for umpteen meals a day for umpteen ages, timings and diets, school runs, 28 hours of jobs in 24 hour timeframe - life is simply, complicated.

I often wonder how my carefree days where the decisions all centred on, well, me... (what should I wear, red or white wine, which party??) ended up so crammed with conundrums and challenges created by the responsibilities of the lives of other people. I look at my girls and wistfully wonder at their frivilous freedom. Pulled back and restained by the few obligations in their little lives - teatime, bedtime and school /playschool - they shout "can we play?" at every opportunity of freedom, their battlecry of life as a child.

But recently I've realised the grass isn't greener, it's just a different shade. My little 5 year old daughter Daisy was forced into the position of older sister by two giddy siblings and the responsibilities and expectations that hang on that mantle are... simply complicated.

Since last September when she was just about to turn five, she got a new sister, her nanna was struck down with a devastating stroke, her mum dived into a dark remote place, she started school, her other sister went through tests and got lots of attention to diagnose ceoliac and now has 'special' food, her other sister sucks the air from her parents, ill, young and needy. Quite a lot for little shoulders. On top of that, recently, she's had trouble at school - a little bit of bullying that has made her retreat into herself, battering that wall I've built up to protect her, dashing that confidence I have tried so hard to instill, clouding over that sunshine that eminates from her. Schoolyard socialising can be a dynamite place. How do I teach her to stand up for herself while being the good person? How do I not put too much responsibility on her when I need so much help? How do I protect her and guide her and teach her to cope? How do I help her make her complicated life simple?

But, like so many things in life that I have been taught by my children, she is teaching me again. She is teaching me to smile through it all, to take the complications on the chin and to seek the one thing that gets us through it all - family. At times like this, we turn to the ones that know us inside out. We stop trying to think outside the box for once, and get right back inside that box where it's safe and secure. Simply? We uncomplicate things whenever we can.

Four and Fabulous

2011-05-28T19:25:00.005+01:00

So Poppy is four. For so long she has been my little baby, and now - with a shock almost - I realise she is a little big girl (as she calls herself). Little because, yes, she is petit and pretty, and big because, yes, she is bold and beautiful. She spent her birthday in hospital having a biopsy taken of her stomach to confirm ceoliac disease. After the surgical team sang her Happy Birthday, they put a mask over her little face and as she stared wide-eyed at me, she went limp in my arms, her eyes slowly closing. As they lifted her onto the table, I wanted to hold on a moment longer, so small and delicate, so strong and determined, my heart sometimes can't contain the love I feel for her.

We pretended her birthday was on Saturday, and our little princess partied with her pink princess friends (some battles aren't worth the fight). She laughed and danced and ripped open presents. We got her a bike, the smallest we could find and she struggled and practised and persevered until she willed those feet to turn the pedals forward. She has always had to work harder, and try longer to do the normal things - get on the toilet, scoot and run, climb on the bed, keep up with us walking, riding a bicycle. But she is the most determined little big person I've ever known. Her first sentence was "I do it!" and she has never stopped saying it (despite being ill for the last two years).

Surgery confirmed ceoliac disease and so a new way of life begins for her. I will have to control everything she puts in her mouth. Every birthday party she goes to, she will have to pass on the cake and the buns and sausages and biscuits and crisps. It's going to be hard. I'm daunted by the massive change in our lives now (we can't even toast her bread in our toaster). But, I'll take a leaf out of her book. I will try and I will succeed.

She'll have to try harder than anyone else just to thrive. But she will. Because she is petit and powerful. She is dainty and determined. The doctors tell us we will start to see a huge change in her personality over the next few weeks once we cut all gluten from her diet - more energetic, sleeping better, improved moods, happier. And maybe, maybe, she'll even grow a little.

I find it weird to think the child we know and love so much is going to change - but it will be a bigger, brighter, bolder version of the same lovely girl.

Our little big girl is four, and no matter what else, always fabulous.

Birthday love

2011-05-20T09:11:00.005+01:00

Today is my mum's birthday. As she lies locked in her body and mind in Belfast, for the first time in probably 15 years I won't be spending the day with her. Since I had children, she would come down to Dublin and I would take her to Avoca for lunch... we would while away a couple of hours nattering about nothing and everything, sharing each other's lunch, and always, finishing up with a 'goodie' with our cuppa. Then we would come back to mine and I'd throw a birthday teaparty for her with the girls. They would make buns and they'd sing happy Birthday till they were hoarse.

Then she would help me with Poppy's birthday party two days later, blowing up balloons, making marshmallow Top Hats, clearing up exhuberant princess spills and smiling at the mess a bunch of toddlers can make. Poppy will be four, and tomorrow's Princess Party (very important distinction!) will be her first without Nanna. Every 'first' cuts like the first cut - her stroke. A body blow, painful and bruising. The memory of last year so sharp, it cuts into the wound afresh.

But. Among all the firsts, there is also a comforting constant. The next day after Poppy, it's my Hubby's birthday. (May is the triple wammy!). He may be the one celebrating, blowing out candles and getting birthday cuddles, but I am the one that is lucky. I am the one with the best present of all....him. He looks after me, quietly, dilligently, without fuss. I've noticed him staying an extra 5 minutes in the morning even though I know he is so pressured at work, just to help me out because I'm struggling. He holds my hand in the dark of the night. He tells me dinner is gorgeous even if it looks like a bowl of cat food (lentil roast is not my forte). He doesn't take lunch so he can come home early on Monday to let me out to pilates, and never complains. He loves me. Simply and beautifully.

So I'd like to add a bit to my previous post - the sandwich filling. I am the filling. My girls and my mum are the bread. But he is the relish. He is the flavour. He is the part that makes it all worth while. Happy birthday hubby.

Sandwich filling

2011-05-15T17:54:00.005+01:00

This morning I sat at my mum's house eating breakfast. This no longer is a solitary, selfless affair. I turned to my right and spooned a mouthful of porridge into my baby, turned to my left and spooned a mouthful of Special K into my mum, and finally took up my own spoon and fed myself. One for Ruby, one for mum, one for me. These are indeed my 'sandwhich years' - so called because we are stuck in the middle of caring for elderly parents and young children, in my case looking after a recent baby and two small girls and my mum who was struck down by a devastating stroke. And when I'm pulled this way and that, I often amuse myself with the thoughts of what kind of sandwich I am today.

Most days I feel like a limp ham and butter - drab, boring and left on the shelf in a 24 hour garage, a little saggy and wilted and nearly out of date. Occassionally I spruce myself up, get inspired and turn out a rather saucy (but still not very exoctic) chicken and mayo. If I manage to really get myself together and prune bits of myself, I may even be a chicken and avocado. On days when I feel some sense of achievement, when more To-Do's are ticked than added to on my never-ending list, I am a double decker club perhaps. With a bit of sweet chilli dressing on the side.

One of the first blogs I ever wrote was about my mum making a tuna sandwich and my astonishment at the length of time it took her. She was always telling me to slow down, and often when I'm running around like a headless chicken I think of that blog and what it led to. It was spotted by a magazine who printed it, and so began a good working relationship, which continues now. The vast majority of my blogs and my published articles have not been about the filling, but about the bread that supports me - my mum and my children. I may be the taste inside (boring or exotic) but they have been the strength on the outside, keeping me together.

I may be in my sandwich years, caring for my loved ones at either end of the age spectrum, but they have been and are my bookends, my bread, my boundaries, my inspiration, my proudest parts, my best parts, the parts I write about, the parts I need. What kind of sandwich am I today? I hope a very well made, slowly made tuna sandwich to make my mum proud.

It's the small things

2011-05-10T20:10:00.002+01:00

Poppy was born tiny and drew gasps of gorgeousness with her small, compact, perfect form. She was snug, sweet, and sassy. Clothes draped her little figure with concern, always a year at least in size below her actual age.... as I was shocked the other day to realise, Ruby at 6 months was comfortably wearing an outfit Poppy wore for a photo on the wall when she was 13 months old. But cutesy became concern when we realised small and sweet was one thing, but too tiny to get on a toilet aged 3, too small to get a bike for her birthday, too small to get up on the bed aged nearly four was actually a very big thing instead. Other things made us worry too - her popensity to go to the loo a lot, and constant complaints of a sore tummy.
We took her to an Endocrinologist who confirmed our fears - she barely makes it onto the centile chart, and is way below the range she should fit into as our daughter. Big needles went into her wee arms and blood was taken for nurmerous tests. An X ray was taken of her left wrist which told us that despite the fact she will be 4 next week, she has the bone age of a two and a half year old. Apparently this is good. She may be four and look two and a half, but she has the potential to grow. The not so good news is that something is delaying or stopping her development. She is 'failing to thrive'.
That 'something' appears to be Gluten. Ghastly gluton apparently is poisoning her - although she has to have a biopsy to confirm but it ticks all the boxes. So, for starters that's bread, pasta, cereals, chocolate, biscuits, cakes, processed foods, sweets, and pretty much most things except fresh fruit and veg (which thankfully she relishes). Once she's confirmed to have Coeliac disease she begins a life-long avoidance of all mainstream foods. Frankly I'll do whatever it takes to give her the best diet I can, but all I can think about it eating out, going abroad and worst for her - having to avoid buns, cake, crisps and pasta at parties and forever question what she eats. But, if it gets her healthy and well again, we'll do what we have to. Unfortunately we've been told it'll take upto 12 months to get the biopsy done. Twelve months during which we have to continue to poison her, continue to watch her pain, continue to flush away her nutrition down the toilet with her poo as her body can't process it properly with gluten in her system. Twelve months? Are they mad? Needless to say, we'll be taking her abroad if we have to. She's small and sweet, and snug and sassy and smiley and sensational. She has character ten times her height, and no matter what happens now with her size, she'll always, always, always be our perfect package.

Scooter Girls

2011-05-04T20:50:00.004+01:00

Growing up happens in stages. Little steps lead to giant discoveries, incremental instalments ignite monumental growth. Take the walk to school. Last year when Daisy started playschool, this involved two toddlers and one double buggy ride a mile and a half down the road. As the year progressed, Daisy walked to the lights before getting in the pram, while Poppy reigned supreme in her heightened position in the buggy like Lady Muck, her sloth a convenient decoy for my annoyance at her slowness. By the summer term though, I had Poppy (kicking and screaming most of the way it has to be said) walking to the lights, and Daisy to the main junction, about a mile. And I pushed them the last half mile, baby rocking in my tummy, already in the swing of the school routine before she was even born.

The new school year started last September and fresh and frisky targets were set. Poppy now walked to the main junction, Daisy three quarters of the way, my new baby swinging in the carrycot under the pram, born but still being rocked to sleep by routine. Poppy still talked the talk and got to play Lady Muck, but only if she walked the walk first.

After Christmas, the new goals stretched before them - Daisy the whole mile and a half, and Poppy to one street past the main junction. I invented games to keep them from noticing, we watched the seasons play out in the cherry trees and gardens we passed, saying hello to the trees like old friends we've come to know so well.

And now, Easter holidays over, the summer term begins, and it all changes again. Daisy and Poppy now scoot the whole way, while I (jog) to keep up, Ruby no longer asleep for the commute, but reigning supreme as Lady Muck, awake and alert, eager to get out and creep those first crawling moves. In no time at all I suspect, she'll be scooting too, and the trees will wave their branches hello in the wind as she takes her place on the walk of life.

Pain and pleasure

2011-04-24T10:31:00.006+01:00

We've just returned from our family week in Ballyvaughan in the Burren on the West Coast of Ireland. The family week we have every year with my mum and dad, my brother and his family, and me and mine. The family week mum and dad organised last summer before my mum's stroke. The family week that no longer involves my family. Not as it was anyway.

This time last year I was there with my mum. We pottered on wild west beaches, collecting shells with the girls, enjoying choccy buns with our tea, sitting side by side with our faces to the sun. This year, her absence was present everywhere. I never knew it was possible to feel so much pain without bleeding. The pain continues, as the realisation dawns that the trauma will not end. The trauma is constant. As my three girls delighted in the company of their cousins, the house was filled with their laughter, the laugher that made my mum's life happy. But she wasn't there to hear it. And amidst the noise of childish chatter I would be suddenly struck down, paralysed on the spot, cup in hand, children scampering around me, lost in my loss. While the world went on around me, I was still. And in my stillness I could see her. Her blue fleece walking along the beach, her white T-shirt soothing Ruby's screaming teeth, her sun hat tilted back as the sun scorched our skin as the view scorched our eyes with its beauty. A bloodless coup has taken place, not a mark on my body but my head and my heart beaten and bruised.

It was possibly the hardest week of my life after the two following her stroke, made more intense by the beauty of the landscape and the glorious weather, both of which my mum appreciated more than anything. People often use the phrase 'breathtaking' to describe a stunning view, but the beauty of the Burren is breath-giving. The expanse inflates your lungs, the beauty makes you breath deeper, sucking it in, absorbing the glory of the landscape into your bones, as if your eyes are not enough to capture it all. It gave me the strength to carry on, to enjoy the moments of pleasure as we all pottered on wild west beaches, collected shells with my girls, ate choccy buns with our tea, and sat with our faces to the sun. And feeling her with me still.

Opposites attract

2011-04-16T10:11:00.004+01:00

I think as a parent we spend huge amounts of time trying to see other people in our children - ourselves, our partners, our mothers. It's like we have to find recognition in the stranger, finding a connection with this part of ourselves, yet an unknown unfurling before our eyes. Like unwrapping the christmas present under the tree before Christmas morning, or at least giving it a quick shake to guess what's inside. The surprise is too great, the wait too long. We identify the nose, this trait, that look - "ah, she has has my mum's eyes". I was told "you are just like your father!" (and not in a good way!). I even do it to myself, identifying bits of me and my personality that come from someone else - a sense of security that I'm connected amidst my yearning to be unique.

And so it is with the girls. From day one, my indignation as I lay exhausted and battered, the magic moment waning as all and sundry proclaimed Daisy to be the spitting image of her dad. (Hah! She's growing up to be the image of me! Oh the satisfaction!). Then Poppy came along and we analysed eyelashes (my mum's), earlobes (my brother's), her finger length (who knows?) and her belly button (her dad's) and while bits of her belong to Daisy, me, her dad and everyone we know, Poppy would grow to be all her own and always will be. And as each developed into amazing, weird and wonderful originals, we now try and piece Ruby into the mix. Who does she look like? Who will she be like? And, like the others, it is impossible to imagine, prepostrous to ponder the depth and detail she will be. Like the others, no matter how much we unwrap or compare or sneak-a-peak or guess, she will merge unique, and complex and mesmerising.

But, I do wonder how she will fit into the mix, and how she shake up the dynamic. Daisy and Poppy have had 4 years to bond and they are as close as sisters could be. People often ask if they are twins which I find odd. Despite the 18 month age difference, Daisy is blonde, Poppy is brown haired and they couldn't be more different. In fact they are polar opposites, which is probably why they attract each other so much. Everything about them is a contradiction.

Daisy will wrap herself in her duvet, only an eye and a nostril peaking out, covered and protected, her personality cautious and fearful. Poppy won't be covered, her legs akimbo above the duvet, exposed, her personality fearless and spontanious. Daisy loves chocolate, Poppy loves brocolli. Daisy is like summer, bright sunshine, full of song and sass. Poppy is like Spring, moody and unpredictable, full of light and dark. Daisy sleeps and picks at her food. Poppy is restless and eats with gusto. Daisy eats the jelly and savours the ice-cream, Poppy wolfs the ice-cream and slowly sucks the jelly. Daisy is skittish and needs people constantly - a little social butterfly. Poppy is methodical, happy in her own company, a social part-timer Poles apart and peas in a pod. Where will Ruby fit in the spectrum... the surprise slowly unfolds.

Child's Play

2011-04-09T18:21:00.002+01:00

I've talked about my inner child before - about the desperate diva throwing toddler-esque tantrums, spitting out my dummy when I'm faced with endless, thankless, relentless demands when all I want to do is hide under my duvet, quiet and alone. Recently my inner gargoyle has raised her ugly head (and voice) more than I care to remember (will my kids? is the question that keeps me awake some nights). The overwhelming overwhelmingness of my life right now is giving my spoilt brat inside a sustained sugar hit. All that new baby neediness, and the responsibilities of my mum's illness has me screeching up the walls some days. And then last week on Mother's Day I read an article by Eleanor Mills in the Sunday Times. It was about this modern generation of spoilt brats, pissed off with parenting, done in by the demands, and resentful of relentless crappy work. It got me thinking. This is what I signed up for. I wanted a busy family, a noisy household. The last six months as I've struggled with three under the age of 6, my mum's voice plays over in my head, "well, you wanted three!". It was my choice. And I wouldn't change it. And I don't know whether it was the article, or some level of acceptance with my mum's situation, or the fact that at six months I'm finally getting to grips with this baby lark, but I've tentatively realised my inner gargoyle isn't so petulant these days. In fact, my inner child has been having a bit of a field day of late - in a good way. I've been bouncing on the trampoline with gay abandon, freewheeling on my bike down the road, singing our Everything Has To Be a Song Days with gusto and generally remembering how to be a fun mum again. Oh the gargoyle is only resting no doubt, but I hope she has taken a permanent back seat. I hope I am slowly stumbling out of the haze of the last 6 months, and beginning to see life again through the eyes of a child, and the heart and maturity of a mother.

Flower Power

2011-03-31T20:46:00.003+01:00

I' ve always believed in flower power. I've always seen the beauty of life in the colour purple, and pink, and yellow and blue. Flowers uplift me almost as much as chocolate (and are better for me!) Even when we are budgeting and tightening our purse strings, I manage to slip a little bunch of bright beauty into the shopping bag. Maybe it's because my mum always had flowers in the house: Gladioli, Alstroemeria, daffofils to hail spring, orange lillies in summer. And now as my mum lies captive in her body, my dad brings her her flowers, a little bit of life in her room every day. And when we can, we sit her up in the kitchen to watch the peep show unfold in the garden as blossoms burst out their rioting colours in the garden.

Today was one of those days that never seemed to end. Ruby has another tummy bug, so puking and pooing took up most of my time, and the girls endless energy sapped mine. So imagine how delighted I was when the doorbell rang and I was greeted with a pink fest of loveliness - this beautiful bunch of flowers from Interflora (http://www.interflora.co.uk/) courtesy of the equally lovely Rosie Scribble (http://www.rosiescribble.typepad.com/) who nominated me to receive them. Thank you, thank you, thank you. They have brightened up my kitchen, my day and my heart.

No-one told the kids!

2011-03-28T20:36:00.003+01:00

Holidays obviously mean different things to different people. To me, they mean a large glug of relaxation tinged with a little adventure, with a dollop of good food, great books and a sun glowing like a cherry on top. The emphasis there is relaxation in the form of lying indulgently in the sun after a lazy breakfast and a poolside bar. Clearly this model was established long before little people accompanied me.

My children have a very different idea of holidays. Ruby believes in getting the most of the day by starting it at 5.30 am. Ok for some, if you are allowed the blissful opportunity for several daytime naps. These are not opportunities afforded to parents. Poppy believes that holidays are about as much mummy-incorporated activity as possible - swimming, walking beside her on a pony, circus training, nature trails... you get my drift. And Daisy obviously believes holidays are an opportunity to talk and sing continuously - at volume - for 14 hours non-stop.

But hey, let's not get picky. Whatever the expectations of the holiday, we were together as a family for 10 glorious (slightly exhausting!) days... and there was a large glowing sun like a cherry on top. As often happens, when the crappy domestic drudgery is removed and we just get to hang out together, it's like falling in love all over again. The girls continue to amaze and impress me, and Ruby's little personality makes itself more and more known.

The last six months have virtually undone me. But a bit of sun, a change of scene and lots of (did I mention exhausting?) kid's laughter has given me the first bit of recovery. It didn't make the pain go away - the middle of the holiday marked six months since Mum's stroke, and there was a painful first morning home when the phone stared at me waiting for me to ring her and tell her all our adventures knowing that no-one will ever want to hear those stories as much as she would have.

But. But. The blanket that a life of being loved by her has wrapped round me continues to keep me warm. And this holiday knitted togther more threads in the life experiences of my girls, weaving wonders and adventures into the fabric of our love. The story continues as I open my arms and bring them under my blanket too.

ungodly ways

2011-03-12T19:45:00.002Z

It's at times like these, I wished I believed in a god. Then I could shout and rant at him / her / it for the horribleness of my life right now. I do believe in the power of prayer (postive thought anyway), the spirituality of goodness and the shock and awe of nature. She / he / it should be admired, praised, recognised everywhere, and of course as we've seen in the last couple of days, respected.

But I can hardly blame the wind and the rain for my current troubles. Forgetting the fact my mum had a massive stroke that devastated her life - and mine, and the fact I am struggling with a new baby, let me list just a little of the crap that the universe has thrown my way the last 5 months that have left me feeling shattered:

mastitus - twice
gum infections - twice
snowed in - twice
chest infections - you got it, twice times 3 girls
a week in hospital with my baby on oxygen and a feeding tube
car breakdown in pouring rain and two kids and baby in car
a leaking roof
10 nights out of 165 with 6 hours sleep (the rest were far less)
weeks with the girls, weekends with my mum

and now.... to cap it all... the baby has a vomitting and diarrhea bug. I had to abandon my visit to mum as I was so busy wiping up Ruby's vomit I had no time to sit with her. So at this point in the game, I'd be shouting up at it / her / him to GIVE ME A BREAK!

I have always been rather optimistic. Definitely a half-glass full girl. I am struggling at this stage to find anything in the glass at all. I even find it hard to believe that something won't happen to stop us going on holiday tomorrow - to Morocco (yes I know, but we booked pre- facebook revolutions!). So instead I will say instead, I'm off on holiday tomorrow for ten days togetherness with my family - volcanic ash / uprising and rebellion / sick children notwithstanding.

But just when I think my life cannot get any worse - and I have felt this so many times recently and then it did - I turn on the news and know I am lucky. I may feel at times that my ground is shaking beneath my feet, but for those poor people in Japan yesterday for whom it really did they had no escape. I may feel swept away by the magnitude of the challenges facing me at the moment, but for those poor people who were swept away by the sheer force of nature they had no chance of ever overcoming it. My life is hard at the moment - harder than I ever thought possible - but there is no-one to blame. It is just life, in all it's wonderful and cruel forms. And while there are days I struggle to get through, I am reminded by these terrible events in Japan that at least there will be another day for me. And I wish I believed in a god so I could thank her / it / him.

Dying to live

2011-03-07T20:11:00.003Z

I'm going to die.

I've only just really realised this. It never seemed like a real possibility before. But, I'm going to die and that knowledge has a massive impact on how I want to live.

The suddeness of my mum's - what shall I call it? - demise? life's end? shocked me to my core. One minute she is talking to me on the phone, laughing and telling me she loves me, and then goes to read to my daughters and put them to bed. An hour later, it's all over. Her life as we all knew it. One minute she was involved in every aspect of my life, and the next, she became someone who doesn't know my name.

Now that I know my death is not only a possibility but a definite, I want to make sure I'm really living. I want to be with my girls every day of their lives although I know (I hope) I won't. So I have to make the days I do have, count. I want to write the bloody novel that is haunting me at night. I want to stop being tired and start being energetic. I want to eat as much chocolate as I can and still be a size ten (OK, that's just fantasy I know, but part of living is dreaming surely?)

Admittedly at the moment I already feel half dead - sleep might be something we can do when we're dead, but lack of it makes living pretty hard. BUT, Ruby has slept through for the last three nights, so I'm holding my breath in the belief that we might finally be seeing the light...
I'm dying, but I'm also living. And maybe one of the things I will take from the last five months is that every day I'm living, I'm appreciating the fact that I'm dying - and that is inspiring me to live better.

Lasting Firsts

2011-02-22T17:58:00.003Z

Like everything in my life at the moment, two ends of the spectrum run in parallel - sometimes so close, the lines lie against each other, indeterminate, entwined, indistinguishable. My mum needs caring in the same way as my baby. My girls teach me as much as I mother them.

And so I constantly memorise every 'last' situation with my mum - her last kiss to me as she said goodbye after visiting me in hospital with Ruby; our last phonecall just three hous before her catastrophic stroke, how happy she'd been; our last hug; our last fight. Everyday moments in our relationship, forever now memorised as momentous.

And alongside that, all my new firsts with Ruby. Her first smile three months ago, like a rainbow after a storm. Her first giggle, a trickle that has gushed into a flood. And now, her first solid food - her surprise, my delight, her excitement, my satisfaction, from those first tentative tastes of rice, to my freezer bursting with bags of heart shaped frozen cubes of steamed sweet potato, brocolli, carrot, pear and apple. I spoon feed my mum - favourite flavours no longer lighting up her eyes, and I spoon feed my new baby, marvellous mouthfuls of taste, surprising and lighting up her face.

Different ends of the spectrum. Same love.

Grown up love

2011-02-17T20:03:00.002Z

I'm so proud of them. No, I'm not talking about our girls - although they make me so proud there isn't a blog host or an internet range large enough to hold the stuff I could write about them. No, I'm talking about my other family - my mum and dad and brother. I know this is not normal. We spend most of our lives being embarrassed or pissed off, or more often than not irritated and frustrated with these strange people who are so familiar they're like our skin, yet so alien to us, they feel like a rash on that skin. And I've often felt all of those things.

Like most families, mine has had its fair share of dramas... but despite the sparks and the strifes, we've shared time, willingly and with pleasure. Despite branching out in our own lives, in the last ten years my brother and I have found ourselves coming together to holiday with mum and dad, and strangely our family strengthened instead of weakened as we married and grew. My mum was the central nervous system - the magnet which pulled us all together no matter how far apart we were. And in the awful days and nights after her catastrophic stroke, my dad, my brother and me - supported by my sister-in-law and husband - formed a vigil, a protective presence, a desperate determination that she would never be alone. As the weeks have slowly drifted into months and decisions were made, plans put in place we did so as a family - as she would have wanted. We are the family she taught us to be - strong in support, united in love.

My dad has been outstanding. He is 74 and caring full-time for my mum now. Most men his age couldn't cope on their own for a day. He cares for her - and himself and does it with extraordinary competence. I don't just mean he copes with the house and manages the washing. When I went up to visit last weekend, we had homemade soup for lunch - with homemade bread, and a stupendous homemade fish pie for tea. It was a sunny spring day so we got mum into her wheelchair and wrapped her up and took her round the park at the end of the road. The first crocuses of Spring were waving hello in the grass and we stopped to feel the sun on our faces for a moment. It was almost bearable. Because we were still together.

My mum is in a terrible place, but while she is there she is being wrapped in love. She taught us that and I hope we are making her proud. For I am proud of them - my mum, my dad, and my brother. So proud that my life has been shared with them, through the good times and the bad.

It's so sad, I'm laughing

2011-02-09T19:33:00.006Z

Just when I thought life couldn't get any harder? It got harder. I feel like I'm on one of those fairground rides - and like most fairground rides, I just want to get off. The one where you walk along the shaking ground and try to keep your balance? That's what my life feels like right now. Everytime I think I can just step on to the solid ground again, the ride gives me one big shake up and I nearly loose my balance. Last week, after days of my baby being unwell I rushed her to Emergency where she was hospitalised. A week of sleeping on the floor beside her as oxygen breezed up her nose, fluids seeped into her arm, and finally milk was poured down a tube into her stomach left me feeling like I am in some awful parallel universe and I just want to get back to my old life now thank you.

And it was another reminder of how much I miss my mum.. As I nursed my little baby back to health, I needed her to nurse me back to sanity. On the ward was a little baby boy, not more than 4 months old. And in the week I was there, not once did his mother visit him. He broke my heart as he lay alone in his big cot, crying for the comfort that was never going to come his way. And while I feel so bereft that I've lost my security blanket, it made me realise how warm my mum has made my life. It made me hold Ruby a little closer, and renewed my determination to protect my girls through life, to be their security blanket too... because the world is a colder place without it..

Who's the Mummy?

2011-01-30T11:17:00.003Z

I've written before about that fuzzy old line that defines (or not) who is the child and who is the parent. In the last four months as my mum lies permanently entangled in her half-life post-stroke, I spoon feed her, change her, wash her and stroke her face, the line has disappeared as my actions mirror exactly those that I perform for my newborn baby. The child and parent in one.

But yesterday the line was broken again by my five year old in that 'slap in the face' sort of way. They say you should never work with animals and children, but I say everyone should have a child's perspective on life kept handy - there is no better way to see the world than through the innocent, uncynical eyes of a child. They have that ability to stand on that box and see inside and out of it. Recently I asked who or what she thought god was. "Is he the police? Because he likes to help people?"

So how do I take her recent golden nugget of observation? I asked her to stop jumping on the sofa and when that was met by a higher leap and a defiant eye I enquired as to who owns the sofa. She slapped that arguement away like a lion brushing a fly off his back with his tail. "Daddy does. He goes out to work. He earns the money. He owns the sofa!"

A very loud silence filled the space between her defiant eye and my horrified face. I decided she could never know the impact of those words. "I own the sofa too."
"No, you do nothing!"
That loud silence was now filled with the cries of sacrifice in my head - I gave up my career for you! I work so hard I can hardly stand some days.. all those organic pureed foods, all those hours of singing Wheels on the Bus, all those days of playing, all those nights of cuddles, ALL FOR NOTHING!!!!!!

Instead I put my sweetest smile on, reinforced with steel, and said in a tone that allowed no misinterpretation of who is the boss, "My sofa. My rules. OFF!"
She deferred to her better judgement and quietly left the room, while I lay stabbed and bleeding by her cutting remarks. That night at 2am, she whispered into my dreams "mummy, I need you" and I lay for a moment, tempted to say, "your dad earns the money, go wake him!" But that would have been childish wouldn't it? Instead, I pulled on my mummy face and cuddled her up and put her back to bed. After all, abject rejection and total confidence annihilation are just part of the (yes, unpaid) job description. But it made me realise that I have to step away from my post-traumatic lethargy of loosing my mum and having a baby at the same time, and reawaken the woman I am - a proud mum, an aspiring novelist and a freelance writer - and get back in the game. My five-year old daughter gave me the pep-talk I needed. The child and parent in one.

In search of me....

2011-01-24T18:45:00.002Z

I went to a party this weekend. In London. Not only have I not said those words since about 1986, but the decadence involved of dumping one's children, getting on a plane and booking into a hotel - alone - with one's husband to do something as frivilous as....a party... seems beyond my realm of existence of late. But I just did. So go figure.

No children. No mum. Just hubby and me. Did I mention we booked into a hotel?? Not that I had the faintest idea what to do at such a social event, but I was there.. in a sparkly top no less.

It was a friend's 40th - and as I trawled through my university photos for some snaps to take with me, I stared in wonder at the girl in them and found myself asking - who was she? That 20 year old. Where is she now? For I don't see her staring back at me in the mirror. She is young. Carefree. Eyes alight with anticipation and expectation. The only thing I've been expecting the last six years is babies, and the only thing I've anticipated is exhaustion.

But I went... with not just a little glimmer of anticipation and expectation in my eye (did I mention there was a hotel?) and you know what? I danced. I laughed. I remembered old friends and they remembered me. It's Monday now, and I'm back on the treadmill but today I had a little tiny, itsy bitsy spring in my step. I think I found that girl... if only for a little while, if only for one night. But it's enough to know she's still in there somewhere...

Small and Big

2011-01-11T20:08:00.003Z

I've never felt so small in my life. Or so big.

After years of believing I'm in control of my life I realise its fragility, and how, in an instant it can all be over. That's what happended to my mum. Literally. One minute she is reading her grandchildren a goodnight story, and moments later...Bam! Something explodes in her head and her life ends. It's just that she's still alive. Since then I'm terrified of my own demise. I lie in the dark and wonder when and how it will happen. I am shattered by the thought of leaving my girls and not being able to stop it. I don't feel like I can conquer the world any more..... more like I'm falling off the edge of a cliff. I feel small in the shadow of all that I do not control. It's a strange sensation and I suddenly dread the forthcoming birthdays, each one closer to my last. The very first blog I wrote was about the sudden accidental death of one of my peers - it was inconceiveable then that life could just end. It is no longer inconceiveable and that makes me feel very small indeed.

And that smallness is making me feel big. Because I can never be that little girl in my mum's arms again. Even as a mum, I have always been able to still be that little girl. Even the night before she left me (for her stroke did make her leave me) I was her little girl when she cuddled me as I cuddled my newborn, reassuring me and making me strong. For that's what my mum did. She kept me strong. And now I am alone. I will have to make myself strong. I have to always be the adult now. I have to finally grow up. Small and big. Big and small. All at the same time.

I have to start being strong. And I'm going to start here. I've been reading back over my early blogs - my life filled with the wonder of womanhood, of writing and the marvel of motherhood. In honour of my mum and all that she taught me, I must live that life again. So for the first time in a long while, I'm writing a story makes me feel good. And strong.

Today Poppy had her first ballet lesson. She's very little and lovely and based on her elder sister's reluctance to embrace new experiences, I wasn't sure which way this would go. I dressed her up in her petite ballet dress and off we set, my nerves wrecked before we even got there. There's something so vulnerable about Poppy, my heart is always breaking for her. I'm still not uber confident about walking into a room full of strangers; how was my little three year old going to fare? Like a little trouper is how. Without a backward glance she joined the group of dancers and proceeded to dance her little feet off. She never hesitated, she never looked lost, she bore a confidence that made my heart swell. After, Daisy (who'd lasted half a dance class last year before refusing to ever return) asked for Popcorn. As I was feeding RubyI gave her the money and told her to go and ask the girl behind the counter. She refused, too shy. 'That's ok' I said. But not for Poppy. Despite the fact she didn't come anywhere close to the top of the counter, Poppy strode off to ask for popcorn. She may be small, but she is unbelieveably big. Small and big, both at the same time....

Sliding doors of life....

2010-12-28T18:40:00.003Z

Even before the film Sliding Doors appeared, I often lived parallel lives. As a child, at unhappy times, I would literally live another life in my head, while my real life carried on. (Often this other life involved lots of interaction with Michael J Fox, but that's a whole different blog!).

Then, for many years, my sliding door to a different world stayed shut, the reality of my life good enough to experience in and outside my head - only occassionally would I become an intrepid traveller again as I washed the dishes, or rescued orang utans from the wild as I read The Tiger Who Came to Tea for the 63,839,586th time.

But now, I find myself living parallell lives every day. Not some wild escapism, not some far flung adventure, but simply the imaginings of what would have been, to soften the blow of what is. Three months ago my life changed for ever, for the worse. Since then I have tried to come to terms with loosing the mum I knew and adored, while learning to deal with the reality of a mum who barely knows my name and who will never share my life again. From the second hubby came into my hospital room in the dead of night to tell me my mum had had a massive stroke, my life split into two - the life I was planning and the life I am being forced to live. The last three months as I struggled with a new baby, I have dealt with the reality of waiting to see if my mum would pull through and then deal with having her settled at home, incapable of rational speech, thought or action. In my head though, I have lived through daily phonecalls, regular visits where she would hold my baby in her arms adoring her with song and praise, while sending me off to bed. I lived the experiences I knew we would have had, enjoying a cup of Earl Grey and a Butlers chocolate, showing off Ruby to strangers in the queue, reading stories to the girls. As I stood alone in my kitchen, the phone in my hand but no number to dial, I closed my eyes and pictured her coming off the Belfast train - 100 memories merged into one real moment, the smell of 'Beautiful' greeting me with her warm hug, tales of her conversations with strangers on the seat beside her keeping us company all the way home. As she walked through my front door she would say, "I love coming into this house, " and we would sit down with a cup of tea, children scurrying around us and she would be proclaiming Ruby to be the most beautiful baby she had ever seen. I lived every memory of the past to get me through the present.

And so it was at Christmas. Mum and dad were due to come down to us this year, and like every year, I was going to take Mum to the National Concert Hall, and on Christmas Eve we would all sit down to the Christmas Ham dinner and then wrap ourselves around the fire, wine glasses glistening in light of the flames, stuffing Santa sacks. In the morning, as the girls giddy with Santa surprises would be shouting "Nanna Look!" when her bed-bedraggled head curled round our bedroom door, she would sit on our bed and share their excitement. We would have a walk in the snow and then, a little drunk perhaps, try to produce a christmas dinner in the right order before finding just enough room for a couple of chocolates by the fire at the end of the night. Instead, their car did not arrive this year, bringing bags and bottles of goodies. I didn't book any tickets at the National Concert Hall. I hung up the lights and carefully placed decorations knowing they would never be seen by the person who would appreciate them the most. And when it hurt too much, I slid open the door and lived the version where their car drove up and they bundled into the house laden with love. I heard my mum say the house looked beautiful.

And on Christmas day, as my mum lay in her bed and we pretended to be merry the sliding door jammed and I could no longer soften the blow. This is how it is now. I have to organise our baby's christening knowing my mum won't be there. Plan a family holiday without her. Walk past the phone and not pick it up. But at least for a while yet, I can climb onto the bed beside her, the smell of my Beautiful rubbing onto her skin, and hold her hand. The past and the present still in tune.

Who's the mummy?

2010-12-16T16:04:00.003Z

Life used to be simple. Clear cut. Black and white.

Roles were defined and refined. We all knew were we stood. My mum was my mum. I was her daughter. Then I became a mum and I had daughters. So far, so simple.

Now... the roles are blurred, the lines in the sand rolled over by the waves of catastrophe and stress. Now, my mum no longer looks after me. I look after her. I brush her hair and put on her makeup. I clean her house. And my daughters? Well, I do look after them too - although they do their fair share of brushing my hair and applying makeup - some days I look like The Joker. Although I'm not laughing much. The angst of my mum's demise, and the sleep-deprived stress of a new baby have combined to make me 'grumpy mummy' as now defined by Daisy. "I'm not grumpy all the time", I insist, but she gives me that look that only children can give. The look that says, "yes, but it's the grumpy times that count."

And to rub it in, she brought me down to earth yesterday. As only children can. I was in my usual 'get-out-the-house-with-two-children-and-a-baby-dressed-fed-and-somewhat-intact-by-half-eight-in-the-morning' mode when the final hurdle of getting laced runners on Daisy's feet (why oh why did I not buy velcro???) was a hurdle too far. I lost the plot and threw a tantrum. It was quite impressive too. At one point the runners where hurled across the room.

As I strapped everyone into the car I took a deep breath and sheepishly apologised for my outburst. "It's just hard," I explained, "Getting everyone out in the mornings with no help from you." Daisy looked at me - not unlike my mother used to, it has to be said, when she was making an annoyingly accurate point - and said, rather aloofly.
"Yes mum, but we are little people, and you are the big person."
Ouch.
Ouch, but true. I am the big person, and no matter where the lines are, or what the roles are or even if I have no idea where I stand anymore, I should remember that at least. Parented by my child. Sounds just about right at the moment.

Lessons of life...

2010-12-07T20:07:00.002Z

My mum has taught me many things. How to bake. How to sew. How to knit. How to make a mean gravy. How to stack a dishwasher.... the latter something I never quite grasped much to my mum's annoyance. And as I ply my knowledge on a daily basis with the girls, I now pass on many of those skills. As I pour the cake-mix into the tin, two little voices squeal for me to leave some in, their hands already delving into the bowl, their faces smeared with chocolate goo. A flashback. My face. Mum smiling as she passes me the bowl and puts another cake in the oven.

As I make some Christmas presents, sewing on buttons, Daisy asks me to teach her and so I hand her the needle and guide her to push it in, and pull it through. A flashback. Mum making my dress for my first formal dance, allowing me to sew a few stitches.

As I fight the urge to delve under my duvet for a stolen moment despite the hungry mewls beside me from Ruby, two little heads peer round the bedroom door, and seeing me awake, leap onto the bed and snuggle beside me chirping and chattering under the duvet. A flashback. An uncountable number of mornings lying beside my mum, putting the world to rights. And not just as a child.

I am still shocked by what has happened. She lies downstairs, bedbound and trapped, while I wander round her bedroom upstairs, her things as she left them. Her clothes hang in the wardrobe, many bought with me on one of our outings. She will never wear them again. Her jewellery glistens in the drawer, each piece with a story. She will never wear them again. Her photos, her books, her momentoes of life scattered around the room like moments in time. She will never touch them again. And I realise what her most important lesson has been. None of those things mattered. She was always insecure about not finishing school or having a big career, or having any accomplishments. Yet, everyone who knows her, loves her. She invested her time on people. What she didn't realise is that the things that make a person great is not a list of accomplishments or a long CV. At the end of the day, as the last few weeks have shown me, the only thing that matters, the only thing that determines greatness is the love you leave behind. And if the love we leave behind is the greatest accompishment of all..... then my mum is the most accomplished person I know. And I will do my best to pass on that lesson too....

Letter to Ruby

2010-11-18T15:45:00.004Z

In the midst of all the darkness, there is light - a bright shining light of life. So while I grieve for my mum, I must remember to celebrate my new daughter.

Dear Ruby Rose,

You are 8 weeks old and glorious in gorgeousness. You've had a hectic beginning being looked after by so many people while I see your Nanna in hospital, but you cling to me and look so bright-eyed you convince me it's all ok.

I am meant to be your teacher, your protector, your guide, but it is you who is keeping me grounded, secure and in the moment. It is you who pulls be back over and over again from the edge of darkness when my mind and heart wander to my loss and grief. And while my heart aches for my mum, it soars for you.

Every baudacious burp, every satisfying suckle, every cheerful chortle and every gratifying grin; every little squeak like a mouse, every stretch like a little frog, every mew like a kitten, you push away the shadows. And my mum loves you, even in her absence. When I dry your chubby little legs after each bath, my mum's voice whispers over my shoulder,"dry her properly, get all those little creases in her arms and legs." When I sing you a lullaby at night, the song she taught me floats in the air. When I throw my arms up in despair when I can't work out why you are screaming while trying to get the girl's tea, her voice laughs beside me, "well, you did choose to have three!" You are loved not just by me, but also by those who have loved me.

I hold you close in the darkness of night, alone while the house snores quietly. I smell your head and know that while my world might be shaking, I will keep steady for you. You are beautiful. You are perfect. You are mine. And even though this is the saddest time of my life, I am the happiest woman alive.

Why did I wait so long?

2010-11-12T15:59:00.003Z

I've lost my mum when I need her most. She's still alive, but her life is over. She lies in a bed, trapped in her body, confused by her thoughts. I still have her, but I've lost her guidance, her support, her love, her ability to walk into my house and see the pile of ironing, the person who would have helped me bring up my three young children. My beautiful new daughter is seven weeks old and I found out this week that she has inherited my chromosome disorder that was responsible for all my miscarriages. And what devastates me more than anything now that I've lost my best supporter, is that I might not be around when she needs me most. Even if she waits till she's 30 (which is early by modern standards) I will be 70. If she waits until she is 40 like me, I will be 80. Will I be around when she needs me most? When she needs me to help her through possible grief and upsets as her fertility issues arise? When she needs me to hold her hand through her first pregnancy and help her with the housework? When she needs me to tell her her baby is the most beautiful child in the world and she is the best mum? To babysit, to councel, to listen, to share her joy, and share the burden. Why did I wait so long?

I thought I had to live my life before I had children.... that they somehow represented the end of something. I never realised of course, that they are the beginning. Why did I waste so much time? Why didn't I give my mum many more years to enjoy her grandchildren?

My generation thought we were having it all by pushing motherhood later and later...... but I'm beginning to fear that we made a huge mistake. Now I think our generation will be left with nothing - no support systems, no guidance and no energy to help our children when they need us most.

Why did I wait so long? And another huge thank you to my blog-brethren - your support is so lovely at this time....... xx

a new phase

2010-10-28T13:46:00.002+01:00

The doctor warned us this would be a rollercoaster. I've always rather liked exciting rides. Not this one. This is a ride I can't get off. But, after the desperate dips of the last few weeks, we now seem to be on the long straight stretch - and I have no idea if at the end we plummet down a horrible frightening fall, or slowly tantalisingly rise up to new heights. It's a rollercoater ride with blindfolds.

Mum is off the critical list, and has been transferred to Belfast, alert enough to know who we are and what is going on. Great for us to have a little of her back (albeit a silent, parlaysed her) but awful for her as she is trapped inside a redundent body unable to express herself other than through half a smile and two bright blue terrified eyes. On good days, when she recognises me and touches my face, I am strengthened - like my lipstick reward of old when the taste of her lipstick when she kissed me as a child made me feel invinsible. On bad days when she is lost to me, I can hardly muster the strength to keep going. I spoon feed my mother, and come home to feed my children. I rub moisturiser on her drying out skin, and come home and rub oil on my newborn's growing skin. Two ends of the lifecycle spectrum and I am in the middle.

But. I must learn from my parent to be a parent. She taught me to carry on and find the good in the bad. Yesterday my baby smiled at me for the first time, and so did my mum. A new phase begins. A long phase of development and rehabilitation. They both need me..... and those smiles will have to give me the strength. Thank you also for all your good wishes and thoughts - my friends keep me going too.....

Life on the edge

2010-10-08T15:39:00.003+01:00

As I cling to my new baby's life, I watch my mum's old one slipping away. Old, but not done. Not by a long shot. She may have been in her 70's but she was as lively and vivacious as always. She did water aerobics twice a week, walked very day, did the crossword and had a more active social life than me. Always glamourous, she never left the house without lipstick.

I am a young mum, and am too young to loose my mum.
Who will call me every morning to see how my night has been?
Who will I call every afternoon to hear how her day has been, and be told how cold it is, even when it's 20 degrees?
Who will call me every evening during the kid's tea, saying "I know it's a bad time, but...."?
Who will fix my knitting?
Who will turn their face to the sun with me as we sit outside and watch the girls play?
Who will hold my hand, despite me being 40 years old?
Who will stroke my face?
Who will tell me I'm talented and amazing?
Who will tell me I'm spoilt and need to grow up?
Who will help me make all the forthcoming birthday cakes?
Who will I call when I can't make gravy?
Who will I want when I'm ill and no-one will do but her?
Who will I share all my joy and pain with?
Who will I share my everyday moments with over a cup of tea and a chocolate ("You can never have a cuppa without a bite of chocolate")?

The void she is leaving is too dark, too deep, too dangerous, too frightening to behold right now. All I can do is hold her hand. I suspect my three girls will hold me back from the edge.

I hold her hand every day, a hand that has touched and guided me my entire life.
I stroke her face, a face that has filled my vision more than any other face in my life.
My heart is breaking, and the person I need to fix it can't help me any more.

The eyes say it all

2010-09-29T18:39:00.006+01:00

How can one week change my life so completely? The second photo is the picture I wanted to show the world, to go with the blog I wrote in my hospital room 5 days ago when life was as perfect as it could be. Below is that blog. Then below that, is what happened when my world ended at 3am on Saturday morning, and so the first picture is the one I NEED the world to see.

For so long you have lain on my lungs and my spine, my stomach shoved under my left armpit, my bladder squashed somewhere behind my right buttock. But three days ago, they lifted you out and laid you in my arms, your head laid on my heart. For something so small, babies have an incredible capacity to fill every atom of the world around them - you are not yet three days old, yet I hardly remember life before you. You have filled every breath. My lungs are back in place, but the air in them is bursting with the smell of you. We are cocooned in our little world, the occassional visitor entering our womb of wonder but leaving us again. Your gorgeous ginger dad is delighted - his first excited words: "she's a red-head!" I'm not at all convinced but I'm not going to burst his ginger bubble yet. Daisy and Poppy, your sisters are smitten, and you are already accepting of being pulled and prodded.

I am hostage to your lips, smacking and slapping as they clasp my burgeoning breasts, sucking and searching constantly, one deep blue eye occassionally peeking at me, winking, watchful, wonderful. I'm a bit dazed, my c-section wound curtailing my energy bubble, which is supressed by your feeding needs. So dazed and bewitched am I, the Dr thinks I've been at the drugs cabinet. As he came in to see me we gazed at your perfection. My delireous smile faltered, I gasped, aghast. There was a cut on your head! How had it happened? How could I have been so careless? I was mortified, embarrassed, guilt-ridden. We quickly examined you, concern turning to confusion on his face, confusion turning to comprehension on my face.

"Ah," I said, taking a lick. "That'll be a dollop of my mum's homemade blackberry jelly." My guilty mid-night feast had been discovered.

I am getting to know you, so strange, yet so right. You are mine, and always have been. We were always meant to be and it feels like the final piece of the jigsaw has fitted into place, and now the picture is complete. I made you, but you completed me. Welcome my love, our Ruby Rose - a little gem in our garden of flowergirls.

4 days later- I am in the darkest days of my life. My worst nightmare woke me from my sleep at 3am on Saturday night, 4 days after my daughter was born, when my husband came into my hospital room and told me my lovely mum had had a massive stroke. My beautiful, vibrant mum, the woman who has shared time with me every day of my life, in person or on the phone, held me, comforted me, is lying in a bed looking 150, unable to speak, locked in a silent hell. Her eyes occassionally open and they see me. Sometimes they scream for me to help her. Sometimes they love me so intensly I feel the earth shudder with the force. In one week, I have had a new daughter whose eyes are dark pools of wonder that I have yet to discover, and my mum lies stricken, her eyes deep pools of fear and love - and a lifetime together of knowledge. My devastation is beyond my ability to comprehend, I don't know if the ground will ever be steady again.

In a week my world has transformed forever and two of the people I love most in the world are only open to me with their eyes. Somehow, I have to find the strength to be there for them both - and my girls and family. I have to look into their eyes and bring my baby forward, and bring my mum back.

The extraordinary ordinary

2010-09-20T13:59:00.003+01:00

Tomorrow, I'm having a baby. How strange to write that, to know that, but there it is. About lunchtime actually. Such an ordinary, everyday event. Yet such an extraordinary, primeval, earth-shattering, life-changing event too. Tomorrow I meet my daughter, a person I will love with ferocious intensity for the rest of my life.

As a child I always wanted to be different. I didn't want to fit in, instead I strived to stand out. I don't know why. I lived in my imagination, creating stories and imagined experiences, desperate for my perfectly fine, but ordinary, life to become extraordinary. That ambtion took me to Pakistan as a teenager to teach English, threw me into the scrum of women's rugby, led me to lead an orangutan through the jungles of Borneo and release it into the wild. With every book I devoured, with every word I ingested, my appetite for adventure increased.

I never wanted "the norm" and so I surprised myself along with everyone else when I married the man of my dreams, a wild-hearted adventurer and lover of life. And then it all became a bit serious - we had babies, we had losses, we had job-enforced separation, we had money issues, we had stresses. We had some laughs, we had lots of joy and even the odd little adventure. But I started to feel that old feeling of ordinaryness - a statistic even. Even my heartaches were numbers - one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage. Older mums have a harder time keeping pregnancies. It frightened me.

But as I feel the last kicks of my baby before I hold her in my arms tomorrow, I know that my life is utterly extraordinary. The sheer amazingness of the girls, the joy of being loved by a great man, the thrill of being a mum. In doing the ordinary, I found the extraordinary.

Life is not made extraordinary by the things we do. Life is made extraordinary by the people we love. And tomorrow, I meet a new love of my life. Extraordinary, don't you think?

Great Expectations

2010-09-02T09:51:00.003+01:00

Now I know it's not looking good, beginning a blog about great expectations with an apology, an excuse for laziness, a blagging of blogging failure. But I am. So there.

My name is Alana Kirk and I am a blogging basket-case, a creative couch-potato, a literary lout. My beautiful baby (the blog) has been neglected and abandoned in favour of my beautiful baby (in belly). There have been no words of wisdom, no funny fables and certainly no insightful...well, insights. As my stomach has swelled, so my brain has diminished until all I am capable of (until about 4pm anyway) is basic speech and a vague responsibility for my two children. All other tasks have turned into Mt Everest - impossible, dangerous and too bloody daunting.

Which leads nicely onto my theme for this rather tardy post.... great expectations. Do they help us strive forward and attain new heights, or do they crush us until we are quibbling wrecks of self-preceived failure and un-ticked lists? I've always thought the former, always lived on lists and always moved my little world continually forward. But now, to be honest, I am feeling a little deflated (despite my inflated body). I am finding the expectations on me from my family, my hubby and my children (expectations no doubt I have created through years of frenetic functioning and copious coping through everything) too much. Way, way, way too much. I am utterly exhausted. Six pregnancies in 5 years, three babies - well, two and one imminent), writing, living, and yes, I admit, far too much baking and decorating. I'm always the one who copes, so when I realise that at this precise moment in time - as my body defies gravity, my sleep-deprived exhaustion defies death and lengthy lists of to-do are lengthier lists of not-done - I am not coping, those that see me (I'm hard to miss) are not really seeing me. They are not seeing that I need not to have any expectations on me. That I am scared and incompetent and emotional and needy - all the things I am ususally not. But it works both ways too. I have great expectations of them, and how anyone live up to those? And so I conclude before my head explodes from thinking too much instead of mulching more brain cells.

Maybe we should all take the great away from expectations. Maybe we need to have real expectations. To completely ruin a beautiful saying ... give me the serenity to accept the things I can do, the courage to let go of the things I just can't right now, and the wisdom to know the difference. So with that I sign off with a flourish, and will NOT go and cook another 42 cottage pies for the freezer and instead sit down with a cup of tea. And a lovely (bought!) chocolate muffin. And it may be some time before I work up the energy to write again. Sorry.

Snooze Button Defect

2010-08-15T18:48:00.002+01:00

Kids just don't get the concept of snoozing. It's 'awake' or 'asleep' - no warm, fuzzy, lazy lazing in bed, eyes closed, thoughts open, aware the day has begun but not quite ready to face it.

That bastion of parental fantasy, that adult pleasure that is free and legal, that loss so keenly felt when it is violently ripped asunder by curious little people.

Daisy is a fabulous sleeper. I am praying to all my non-religious icons that this baby who will shatter my dreams and well as my snoozes in 5 weeks will take after her biggest sister. Daisy falls asleep mid-sentence, sleeps like the dead for 12 hours, then wakes up as brilliantly as a light being switched on and jumps out of bed, happy never-ending sunshine and bouncing for the next 12 hours. There is nothing inbetween.

Poppy on the other hand has many wonderful qualities. Sleeping is not one of them. Sleeping late does not register at all on her scale of important things in life. So it is at 6.30 (A - OMG - M), I am woken by the gentle stroking of my arm and the soft words ,"mummy, I need to do a wee wee." After I blindly put her on the loo, I urge her back to bed to no avail. In she creeps with me, and I snuggle down, her encased in my arms, and hope, just this once, she'll fall back to sleep.

But two minutes elapse (during which time she has kicked me several times, and my baby kicks her back so I feel like a football pitch) and turns to me and whispers,

"But mummy, is it morning?" On these summer dawns, it is hard to lie.

"Yes, lovely, but we're going to snooze for a bit. It's a bit early."

More football.

"But mummy, it IS morning?"

"yes...."

"So can I have a story?"

Twenty minutes later we are joined by her sister, all sunshine and bouncing, and we face the day whether I like it or not.

I know teenagers have a reputation for never getting out of bed. Can someone please tell me I don't have to wait another 9 years??? When does the Snooze Button start functioning? In the meantime, I suppose cuddles and stories aren't a bad way to start the day.

Fitting it all in.....

2010-08-01T10:25:00.002+01:00

Despite only seven (yes!!!!!! only seven!!!!) weeks to go until I can lift this enormous boulder that is my stomach off my spine, and cradle a light little lump of loveliness in my arms instead.. this title does not actually refer to the fact that my lungs and stomach are now so squashed I can only breath standing up, and only eat one marshmallow size of food before my aesophagous fires up in anger and burns a hole in my chest while belching loudly in riotous outrage.

No - 'fitting it all in' now refers to my near frantic frenzy of to-do-lists I have to tick off before I get too fat to waddle and then too tired to bother.

I have emerged from my sloth-like caterpillar stage, through some imaginary hormone happy chrysalis, into some energetic, creatively juicy, albeit rather heavy and un-graceful butterfly, fluttering and muttering to myself as I prepare our household for the onslaught of a new baby. How could something so small, require so much preparation? Thinking, list-making, knitting, shopping, cooking, decorating, did I mention shoppng?, preparing bedrooms, making childcare plans.... never mind preparing our two girls for their little steps into the big worlds of school and montessori.

Between the sickness and tiredness of early and mid pregnancy I had to abandon many of my regular activities and focus on the essential.... like feeding my children. But now - resplendent in bulbous blooming bountiful energy - I have finished my novel. It is done. It is printed and I even posted it to an editor for some feedback. It may of course spend the next thirty years in my desk drawer, but it is done. But that's not all! I've made the curtains for the baby room, bought the beds for the girls, moved the cot into place, bought the buggy, and I've even made the To do list for Daisy's birthday party in October and bought her presents (yes I know, but it's only 3 weeks after the birth so I need to have it done!). I still have a list that hangs down to my feet (though thankfully I can see neither the end of the list or my feet). I have finished articles for Christmas deadlines, and bought 20 pie dishes for my culinary challenge of filling the freezer with nutritious food so nobody starves in the first few weeks. Daisy's school uniform is bought (though not labelled - add to list!), I've been reading Poppy books on starting Montessori, I have even - yes, may I stand proud and non-apologetic - bought some Christmas presents. And I've even returned to my blogging world and caught up with some old friends..... if you are still with me - I've missed reading your stories and am loving catching up with your hurly burly lives once more.
It feels good to be alive again, and now as I tick, tick, tick my lists, I count the days until the sleep sloth of sweet surrender mists over me again as the sweet smell of my new baby's head renders all my lists meaningless.
But for now, I am leading the charge on those lists like a demented dragon. No wonder then Daisy looked confused the other day when hubby told her she couldn't have something because he was the boss and said so. She looked at him, genuinely baffled, before replying, " But daddy, that's not true. Mummy is the boss."
I'm back!

Who's the Dummy?

2010-07-21T16:30:00.003+01:00

Dummy. Soother. Whatever they are called, babies love them and parents hate them. In our house, Poppy called hers her Mee Mee (an indication perhaps of just how personally and emotionally she was attached to it). We have been through the gambit - pink ones, purple ones, little ones, big ones, animal ones, flower ones - and when she got desperate, even the doll's ones! Each morning I would drop it with distain into a cup of boiling water, and each evening little hands would clamber up to the counter (and even little legs would clamber onto a tall stool if I didn't respond quickly enough) to retrieve it.

I've tried everything - bribery, withdrawal, and the cruelest of all - the 'only Babies have mee mee's, you're a big girl' card - only to be told my little independent explorer who insists on being grown up and doing everything herself, is in fact a baby. "But I luuuurve my mee mee mummy." Such plaintive little words would turn my stone heart to mush and I'd give in. Again.

Until now. On the drive back from Donegal I realised I'd forgotten the Mee Mee, left squandering alone in a cup of now cooled water. I took my chance. I kept my nerve. I drove past the chemist where gleaming rows of multi-coloured dummies sat on display. I was going to fight the Mee, and I was going to win.

I kept my jolly face on at all times, as I persuaded poor Poppy that now was the time. And since older sister has become obsessed with the Tooth Fairy of late, we decided that the Mee Mee Fairy was just as generous. We made a card for her - my enthusiastic drawing countered by Poppy's reluctant glueing, but in the end it was done. A sparkling silver card to the Mee Mee Fairy, asking her to take away the Mee Mee from Donegal and leave Poppy a token of her thanks under her pillow instead. As soon as hubby returned from work, I pelted to the shops to buy something beautiful and awe-inspiring and glittering and representative of everything sparkling and gorgeous that the Mee Mee Fairy would obviously be. But 6.30 on a Wedensday night at my local newsagent was not somewhere I think Mee Mee Fairies buy their gifts, so I ended up with a Lego set.

Still, I perservered. Now convincing Poppy to leave her card on the dressing table rather than under her pillow since I knew no lego set was going to realistically fit under there, we had a tearful hug at bedtime, but I pulled myself together and kept strong. Off to sleep my little girl went, Mee Mee-less and sad. I snuck in a few hours later, and left the present on the table, taking the card and putting it in her Treasure Box for reminiscing in years to come.

I felt so guilty. I had taken away my child's comfort. Because I don't like it. Oh, I've justified it to myself - they are dirty, she is three and old enough, it'll wreck her teeth. But still. I felt like Cruella de Ville.

But at 5am, a little hand stroked mine awake. I sat up in bed, groggy and sleepy. "Mummy, Mummy!" came a little whisper. "The Mee Mee Fairy came! She came! She left me a present!" And so I struggled out of bed to investigate, and lo and behold she had. I pulled Poppy off her sleeping sister, quite sure Daisy would not appreciate a 5am call to play and convinced her to return to bed. But at 7am, the lego was dragged in and has been the only thing played with in three days. The Mee Mee isn't quite forgotten, but we're beyond the stage of me running to the 24 hour chemist to get a good night's sleep. Another step on the road to being a 'big girl' has been achieved. So why do I still feel like the Wicked Witch of the West?

creepy crawlies and all things nice..

2010-07-16T18:53:00.005+01:00

I know I've written about the wondrous wilds of Donegal before. How the light shines in such an extraordinary way, as if the sun and clouds are dancing with each other; how the beaches are more spectacular than any tropical paradise I have been too - and empty; how the air energises you to your very bones and then just at the right time tires you to those same bones so you sleep like the dead, the grateful dead.

I know all this, yet everytime I come back it takes my breath away, the knowledge returning to understanding and my amazement renews itself and I remember why this is the most beautiful place on earth. Even my girls somehow know with their young years that this is what life is really about. Endless, too short hours running on sand, wind ripping our hair, sun competing for affection on our skin, rockpools bursting with wonder and life and adventure and untold discoveries.

Motherhood is momentous - so many roles and feelings and skills and jobs rolled into one delicious word, "Mummy!" It gets said a lot in Donegal.

"Mummy come and see this!"

"Mummy, what's that?"

"Mummy, can I touch it?"

"Mummy, I want to stay here for ever!"

Today I took on the role of David Attenborough, the great knowledgeable master of the animal world. Today we saw 3 stages of tadpoles and caught a frog, we picked caterpillars off the leaves and saw chrysalis and butterflies - we even got to see one of nature's best shows - a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, we found starfish, and caught crabs, we poked jellyfish and we ran from the fast incomng tide. Today I was an encyclopedia, and my girls learnt about the wonders of life.

This is what Donegal is also about. Beautiful skies. Gorgeous beaches. Luscious air. And most of all - life and living.

The Truth Hurts

2010-07-05T18:48:00.002+01:00

One of the loveliest - and funniest - things about children is their honesty..... although it can be a little brutalising! Recent raw rantings from my two include:

To my mum, who is rather sensitive about her thinning hair, Daisy declared:
"Nanna? I can see your head through your hair!"

She was then accosted by Daisy's best friend Mia: "You are a very old lady. But I like you!"

Being pregnant, it was only a matter of time before Poppy announced "You are fat!" This is a slight improvement on last summer when I was sunning myself in the garden when Daisy started pointing at me and counting, 1,2, 3, 4. I asked her what she was doing....
"Counting your rolls."

It's tough being a mum. I was recently sent off with my tail between my legs after being informed, "You are not pretty today." (Apparently I made the mistake of wearing blue jeans - these are unacceptable in the world of pink dress wearing daughters.)

And today, in a pique of annoyance at not being allowed another bun, Daisy stamped her foot and said, "You are HORRIBLE! I'm going out to dance in the rain!"

And she did. So I did what any self-respecting fat, ugly, horrible mummy does - I joined her and danced in the rain too. That got a lovely "I love you mummy" so all was well with the world again.

Reproduction Roullette

2010-06-27T09:12:00.002+01:00

Is it just me, or did it all used to be a lot easier? I'm sure in the folklore of familial heritage when someone wanted to have a baby, they simply closed their eyes, thought of their respective country and hey presto, nine months later they were up to their armpits in interfering mother-in-laws, sore nipples and buckets of rancid nappies.

Nowadays it seems so much more complicated. While me and my peers rode on the shoulders of our forbearing feminist barrier-breakers, we travelled the world, climbed the corporate ladder and took our rightful place on a bar stool. As we come down from those dizzying heights though, we find ourselves struggling not only to cope with pregnancy and parenting at the tail end of our body's best breeding window, we find ourselves struggling to cope with becoming pregnant at all.

I'm one of the new feminist statistics - pregnant at 40, exhaustingly extolling the virtues of late parenthood as I bring up two toddlers with no surrounding extended family, while secretly wishing I was actually ten years younger (as opposed to just looking ten years younger!) And I play perfectly into the fearful facts of delayed reproduction - three miscarriages in six pregnancies, my grief and loss hidden behind the awful commonness of my experiences. For it is not just me. All around me my peers - from my closest buddies, to my wider network of friends and acquaintances, we feminists are still fighting for our place in society - but this time, our place as mothers.

Infertility. Miscarriage. Chromosomal issues. Unexplained problems. A few years ago it would all have been about cross-stitched gifts and congratualtions, now it seems more about crossed fingers and commiserations. And so as I navigate the current wave of friend's frustrations and disappointments (while keeping quiet about my own little window of wonder), it was a super shock when I heard recently about a friend's good news. I almost burst with delight that someone else would be finally sharing the joy I feel right now. Nature's rainbow amid the cloudy skies. It shocked me how rare it has become.

And although I often think about what would have been if I had started my family earlier, thoughts pushed aside as I account for every year of travelling, career building, party pleasing as ones I would not have given up, will I be telling my girls to try for families earlier? Yes, I think I will. And not just because if they have inherited my dodgy X chromosome they too will be susceptable to a much greater risk of miscarriage, but because simply I would wish on them the rainbow, and not the clouds. And as I read in today's paper that doctors have now devised a test that could tell young women the precise age at which they will no longer be able to have children, perhaps the next generation can ride on our shoulders as well as the shoulders of our predecessors, and from those dizzying heights finally make the choices they need to make to have fulfilled and happy lives.

Enter Stage

2010-06-21T19:20:00.002+01:00

I'm approaching a funny stage - forget the 7 ages of (wo)man [although with my pregnancy hormones taking centre stage, I play all different stages in one day] - I'm in the midst of the three ages of childhood. Jury is still out as to whether this will be a thriller or a tragedy.

I am increasingly becoming an (albeit suntanned) beached whale as my baby cooks nicely in my tummy, and I cook beautifully in the sun-shine. I'm slowing down, being forced to watch a bit more from the side-lines rather than centre stage as the girls play and posture in summer silliness. They are funny little mites, and I settle down in my front row seat at the most amusing, amazing show on earth. And I need my rest, because it all kicks off in September. Usually I'm a mess at times like these (Daisy just finishing Monetessori for good) unable to let go. But this time I know September is going to be full of new beginnings.

Daisy starts school - a seismic shift in my parenting experience, mother to a schoolgirl.
Poppy starts Montessori - after three years of being home with me this is a huge step for us both.
And my new baby arrives - a unique show beginning all over again.

Three stages, each with its own challenges and triumphs, each mesmerising and unmissable. Three little people embarking on three huge steps of their lives - and I not only get to watch, I get to clap and cheer and hold their hands. Pass the popcorn and show me the emergency exits - I suspect come September I'll be too stressed, sleep-deprived, hyper, emotional and exhausted to appreciate any of it!

Notes on a scandal

2010-06-13T17:00:00.005+01:00

It's funny the things that trigger it off. You think you find a place for the grief, and then you open the Sunday paper and it bleeds out all over the pages.

I won't go over old ground here. Suffice to say loosing three babies took its toll and took time to try and deal with. When the draw of diving into a depression of grief became too tantalising, I had to make a decision that I wasn't going to let my losses become the over-riding force in my life. That has to be my gains; our girls, and now my third baby on its way.

But there are still moments. Moments still given over to my lost children; moments that belong to them; moments of longing and lost memories. But they are moments amid the mayhem of life and living, happy loud days where the sound of Daisy singing and Poppy laughing fills the silence. And my moments are easier because I know definitively that my babies were lost. I know absolutely they had died. And I know why. I know my chromosome disorder meant they were never going to live. I am lucky.

For the countless women reading the paper with me today who have also lost babies and do not have those assurances, I cannot imagine their pain. The ultrasound scandal that has jammed the Irish radio airwaves and blackened the newpapers has opened up raw wounds for so many vulnerable parents. As more and more women emerge to tell their tragic stories of being told their babies were dead, booked in for D&C's, but somehow had the instinct and strength to fight for second opinions only to discover their babies were alive and well, more and more women who didn't fight, who couldn't insist, who believed the authority bestowed on medical staff - and will now never know if they lost more than their dreams must be feeling the earth has shifted on its axis.

I have felt my losses all over again this week, and my heart aches for those women forever haunted now by the thoughts of 'what if'......

Post-holiday blues

2010-06-09T19:32:00.009+01:00

Ah the joys of coming home from two glorious weeks of sunshine and lazing about while hubby becomes my hero and does all the cooking, to pouring rain, unfathomable amounts of washing and ironing, and empty fridge and a week of cooking to get organised. Some things never change. Some things do though. This is what I used to say on holiday before I had children:
- Pass the Marlborough Lights love
- Another cocktail? Sure, make it three.
- Do you sell Ambre Solaire oil?
- Let's go to that cosy little restaurant and have a long romantic night
- Let's go clubbing!!
- We can walk around these ancient Greek ruins and then have a bottle of Rose for lunch
- Oooh - Shops!! I'll meet you in an hour.

Here's what I said on a holiday with two young children and pregnant:
- Put your hats on girls.
- Have you put cream on the kids?
- Shall we just go to bed when they settle? It's been a long day.
- Don't run round the pool!
- KEEP YOUR SUN HATS ON!
- NO! You'll turn into an ice-cream if you have any more.
- OK, no more ruins. Let's find a playground.

Still, wouldn't change a thing. OK, maybe the loads of washing.

The Time of my Life

2010-05-18T16:22:00.005+01:00

Life is hectic. One side of my brain - the one that is getting all the complaints from my sore back, my heavy feet, and my sleepy head - considers it hellishly hectic. I'm in a list frenzy of epic proportions. This week I'm planning my mum's birthday tea, Poppy's birthday party, my husbands birthday surprises on holiday, packing for said two week family holiday, trying to organise childcare so I go have a scan and take my mum out for lunch, baking for Poppy's school birthday celebration, baking and cooking for birthday party etc etc etc. I have lists for my lists. Holiday lists. Party lists. Present lists. My lists are so colour co-ordinated they look like the aftermath of a fight in a wool shop.
The kids sceam, the cats meaow and as soon as I sit down, the baby kicks the hell out of me.
"Take it easy," they tell pregnant women. Are they having a laugh?

But the other side of my brain is happy and relaxed. Whenever the frenetic fury of the other side stops squawking for a moment, my happy side realises that this is actually the time of my life. I have two glorious, gorgeous girls, one gorgeous, glorious guy, and one much loved, much wanted, long awaited baby on the way. My mum and dad, and brother's fmaily are close, alive and well.

My life is hectic, and rushed, and chaotic, and challenging, and exhausting and exhilerating, because my life is full. For the last two years, grief and confusion has played a large part in our life and the loss of three babies will always be felt. But. My life is alive and filled with love and laughter. I may be exhausted most of the time, but I am also grateful. And I need to tell the other side of my brain to chill out a bit more. This is the time of my life, and I want to live it.

What am I doing with my life?

2010-05-11T09:45:00.002+01:00

Maybe it's because I've recently turned 40. Maybe it's because I'm facing the prospect of bringing another life into the world. Maybe it's just the unfurling of my brain after a winter of hibernation. I've always been a liver and lover of life. But recently I've been wondering if perhaps I could have crammed more in.

There are mornings as I lay in the yet unseen bedroom, my eyes still shut, and I wonder what new things I will learn today. After a lifetime of learning, I seem to have gone on sabatical since my girls were born. And what makes my eyes spring open and stare, slightly perplexed, at the ceiling, is the vast dark abyss of the things I don't know.

I read an article recently about a man. He's the top dog at the British Museum. He has touched history (literally), he has studied life, he has experienced knowledge I could never attain. His whole life has been about discovery and learning. There are days I feel my whole life is about wiping bums and finding good deals on fresh fruit. Then I watched an interview with the award-laden Irish author John Banville. Litering his literary library, his knowledge in Greek and Roman mythology was so ingrained in his everyday thoughts, it didn't even seem like something specific he knew. It was just knowledge that I did not know.

I don't have a specialised subject. All those years of travel and working and reading - what did I actually learn? My geography is appalling, my third world development politics faded as my management skills took over - and lets face it - there's not a lot of knowledge there. Yes, I've read lots of novels, but what have I learned? Surely someone as widely educated and travelled and well-lived as me should know a few things? The essence of French cuisine? The planetary portfolio? The names of common plants and flowers? The bird species of Ireland? How to download the footage from my video camera to my computer?

So I have to start cramming. I have to put down my novels and pick up my text books. I have to get off the couch and go back to night school. Maybe once the baby's born. Ok, definitely once the baby is sleeping through the night. Maybe next summer. In the meantime I'll just have to wing it. But then again, not always. Yesterday Daisy asked me why I loved her. Ah. That I know. That I can answer that. Easily.

Love Letter to Poppy

2010-04-25T16:07:00.004+01:00

My Precious little Popstar,

You are turning three and although it is your birthday I'm buying for, you are actually the glittering present unwrapping before me every day. No matter how much I peek, or size you up, you always manage to jump out of the box and shout "Surprise!"

In the last few weeks my little baby has become a little girl, and as usual, like most things you do, it's like being hit on the head with a sledgehammer. I've already written about your own personal style (not practising walking with me depsite all my efforts, and then standing up one day and walking nonchalently into the kitchen; refusing all attempts at toilet training until one day you simply announced you were off to do a wee wee on the toilet and promptly did, completely bypassing the potty stage.) You do things your way, and you seem rather amused that I haven't figured it out yet. Last week you took one look at the plastic sheet on the car seat, and quietly removed it with a firm "I do wee wees and poo poos in the toilet now," with a look that told me 'Oh Please Mum, don't you know me by now?'

It seems Mother Nature has a sense of humour. You are my mum's revenge on me. As a child, my mum had an annoying habit of telling me she always worried about my brother, but she never worried about me. It used to annoy me at the time, but now I know what she meant. I was simply very sure of what I wanted, and had no doubts about my abilities to get it. It was just my personality type. And it is yours. But I will be worryng about you - I have no doubt whatsoever I'll discover my 16 year daughter is actually partying on Ibiza while I think she's at Irish school for the summer! But you are all your own self too. Totally self-contained, yet amazingly generous and kind. Since toilet training you now attend Daisy's pre-school twice a week and off you trot as if you'd been going for years. No fear. You never have. We go to the soft play, and you head straight for the big kids' section and whizz down the monstrous slides cackling with glee, while your older sister runs after you terrified for her life, but unable to leave you on your own. She's very protective - she hasn't realised yet there is no need! Despite your little-ness (only reaching 0.1 % on the centile chart) your strength of character is a giant. There may be 99.9% of children your age taller than you, but I suspect there are 99.9% of children your age who won't ever get one over on you. You wear big boots on those little feet, and I have no doubt the years ahead will be full of adventures and excitement (on your part) and stress and sleepless nights (on ours). But I know one thing. Despite the fact you still insist on wearing tights in bed (just one of many of your little foibles) and love your mee mee soother more than life itself, my baby is growing up. Happy birthday sweet sweet girl, and as you unwrap your birthday present I look forward to unwrapping your present to me for years and years to come - the wonder of you.

Love mummy

Why the Spare Room Saves our Marriage

2010-04-12T18:38:00.003+01:00

It seems in most marital folklore, the spare room is the dark dungeon of doom, the place where stroppy spouses sulk, and where only anger and resentment sleep. But I offer an alternative view.

My hubby is an oncologist who gets up at 6.15 every morning and is out of the house by seven before the girls wake up. He leaves work early so he can see them before they go to bed and then works every evening catching up on patient's notes and paperwork. He's busy. He's tired.

I'm on my sixth pregnancy in 5 years (my third baby) and have been pregnant two and a half years of those five. I don't sleep well, not helped by Poppy who decides to visit me at least four nights out of seven - often wearing a tutu. I have no childcare, and as well as looking after them and the home, I try to write magazine articles, blogs and a novel. I'm busy. I'm tired.

So sometimes we need a night off. The spare room in our house is not the Room of Resentment - it is the Bedroom of Bliss. We've never ever used it as a retreat from each other, but we often use it as retreat from the children. It is the Reward Room, the place we offer up to each other as a treat to refresh ourselves and get a good night's sleep. "Why don't you sleep in the spare room tonight?" is one of the nicest things hubby can say to me!

The other day I mentioned sleeping in the spare room to my mum and she raised that ever-expressive eyebrow (I've mentioned before how much my mum can say without actually talking just by raising her eyebrow - I've tried but I just look like someone whose face lift went wrong). "That's not good for a marriage you know," she claimed. I knew better than to argue (merely rolled my eyes - standard response to raised eyebrow - we barely have to talk). But I did ponder it. And as such, I've decided to go public with my findings.
THE SPARE ROOM IS A MARRIAGE SAVER. I'll tell you one thing that's a marriage breaker - Exhaustion, along with its team mates Grumpy, Short-temper and Snappy. If they are not controlled on a regular basis, then the spare room would indeed be used for altogether different reasons. So I just wondered... is anyone else a closet Spare Room User? Does anyone else want to come out and admit that closing that spare room door is the best part of the week?

Parenting Pressure

2010-04-08T07:36:00.003+01:00

There are some wonderful words being bandied about these days to describe modern maternity methods - positive parenting; raise your praise, not your voice; reward not reprimand. All sounds very pretty. All sounds very fluffy. But we all know what it really means. A less pretty word. The golden rule to happy parenting is - bribery.

Now I'm not dishng it. I started Daisy on sticker charts at about 18 months and was amazed how her behaviour changed (to my way of thinking!). Now I have three star charts on the go. Daisy needs 20 stars for eating her meals properly and she gets a small treat from the toy shop. Poppy is working (slooooowly) towards 10 stars for sleeping through the night - all she wants is a Jelly Baby. I can live with that - bad teeth for good sleep - sure isn't parenting all about compromise?? And of course at the moment, we have the potty training star chart - frankly she can have the entire toy shop if we get to the end of that one.

But there are other levels too. I threaten quite a lot (sorry, positively persuade). No TV if I get to three and you are still putting the cat in the washing machine. No Peppa Pig toys for a day if I count to three and you are still biting Daisy's arm off. We can use the right words, or we can be honest. Bribery. Threats. Extortion. I've decided to change my blog name from Mummy Mania. I'm now Mummy Mafia. Now I'm off to make them an offer they can' refuse.

... and my universe shifts again

2010-04-01T18:44:00.002+01:00

I've been changing nappies for nearly five years now. I can change nappies with them standing up, lying down, awake, asleep, in a car, on a floor, on a table. I can change nappies with my eyes open, my eyes closed, talking, cooking, telling a story, or just plain gazing out the window wondering if this is my two millionth or three millionth nappy. So ingrained in my every day routine, it's on a par with breathing, drinking and eating. It's just what I do. Occupation? Nappy changer. Hobby? Nappy changing.

So even though I've spent the last few months cajooling, negotiating, discussing, demonstrating, bribing, pleading and begging Poppy to consider giving up her nappies for the pleasure of pants, and been met with a definite 'NO!', I haven't been able to envisage a world without them.

And then yesterday my world shifted on its axis. Poppy announced she wanted to do a wee wee on the toilet, strutted off to the loo, promptly did her business, wiped and flushed and sauntered out with that look I've come to know so well. The look that says "on my terms, Mummy. On my terms." Two hours later, a poo was delivered with the same aplomb and we haven't looked back since. And just like that I'm living in a nappy free world. I am no longer a nappy changer. (I'm well aware that in exactly 26 weeks and 3 days it'll all start over, but I can enjoy it for a while!). I'm slightly at a loss.

I shouldn't be surprised though at the suddeness of it all. I saw that same look when I was trying to encourage Poppy to walk. She refused. Point blank. Then one day she promptly got up and strolled into the kitchen with a backward glance to my dropped jaw that said with a wink, "Gotcha."

I have a funny suspicion that I'm going to be gotcha'd quite a lot over the next few years.

Retreating into Myself

2010-03-24T19:13:00.006Z

They don't call life a rollercoaster for nothing. You have a dip, and then suddenly before you know it, you are climbing back up the ladder of life and squealing with delight at the top of the world. Does the universe just work it's magic sometimes without you really knowing? I really believe it does. Could I ever have imagined a year ago when I first thought up the idea for a week's writing retreat for my 40th birthday present, that the week that I chose was probably the week in my entire life when I would need it most?

All the dips of the last year - lost babies, a medical maelstrom, chromosomal chaos - have been overtaken by the climb back up. I write this with the sun on my face (yes, the universe even chucked in some hot sun on the west coast of Ireland in March to prove it's mystical magic). I have found a peace I don't think I've felt in years. Even the six hour drive was a treat - I'd piled up the passenger seat with CDs I haven't listened to in years, and belted out my youth as the sun shone on my road to the sea. I arrived on Sunday, and admittedly felt like the twelve year old who has arrived at boarding school. I missed home, I missed my girls, my room looked lonely and I was the new girl. But when I woke up on Monday morning in Anam Cara (Irish for Soul Friend) and pulled back the curtains, I literally stopped breathing. And I realised this place really was going to be a friend to my soul. The sort of friend who throws a blanket round your shoulders, bakes you a chocolate cake and hands you a slice with a large mug of tea. The view still takes my breath away. The desk in my room is against the window and every time I look up from my laptop I am still surprised by the beauty. The shimmering sea glistens in the crook of an arm of mountains and cliffs. I'm in the land of ancient celtic heritage. Mystical stone gatherings and folklore litter the landscape, while my own literary landscape has become as endless and textured as the mountains around me.

I write every day, and I walk, and I talk with the other writers here. Even my belly is swelling with happiness - although more to do with the freshly collected egg breakfast every morning and warm baked blueberry muffins, rather than my busy baby. As a self-diagnosed terrible sleeper, I am shocked to find I have to prise open my eyes in the morning to break the seal of sticky sleep.

This is a very special place, and a vey special time for me to renew, regather, regenerate - to write and sleep and to think (there are so many glorious places that make you want to stop and contemplate life it's amazing any writing gets done at all!) I needed this. So thank you universe for conspiring to make this happen, and thank you hubby for taking care of our girls for a bit so I can take care of me.

(http://www.anamacararetreat.com/)

Thanks to Susan partridge for your photo!)

TV is good for kids!

2010-03-16T14:12:00.004Z

Now before you all report me to the PC Police, let me explain my New Found, U-Turned philosophy. Before I had children I was one of those Pre-Parents who arrogantly (it has to be said) and confidently announced that no child of mine would ever be plonked in front of the evil box. Not that I had anything against TV per se - there was and is nothing more I love than curlng up of an evening with a glass of vino and Grey's Anatomy. It's just I figured that TV would have absolutely nothing to offer a child that would be so entertained and taught and enlightened by moi!

How preposterous us pre-parents were! Actually I was fairly strict at the beginning and the TV was never put on before Daisy went to bed for her first 18 months. And then I needed to feed my new baby which Daisy took great exception to and suddenly Dora became my new best friend.

Now four years on, I still have some issues with TV - I only let them watch taped stuff so they don't get exposed to adverts. They get half an hour at lunchtime (although I have to confess in my pregnancy fog of late, that might have been extended to an hour when that sofa gets a bit too comfy for my weary self), and half an hour at bedtime.

So admittedly we all know TV is good for us parents - a little in-house babysitting so we can send an email or make the tea. But I also think it does have value for them too. At least, my girls' current addiciton is. Who'd have thought a little pink pig called Peppa would make parenting so much easier? She's fiesty (but polite), curious (and smart), sociable (and kind), loving (and funny). Her family are a little madcap but they also do lots of everyday things - Peppa goes to school, she loves her friends (and falls out with them), her family go on outings, they talk about stuff, they have lots and lots of fun.... and they teach my girls quite a lot! Now I'm able to say things like "well Peppa always eats her dinner", and Daisy says things like "Peppa goes to the museum, can we go?" We even dealt with riding a bicycle the other day because Peppa had finally managed it!

Now everything I need to explain I can use Peppa as our perfect example. Admittedly English hubby is less enamoured and I'm secretely delighted that Mummy Pig is rather fantastic and Daddy Pig is a bit of a bumbling idiot....... but, his payback is that my little Irish girls now talk with a perfect English accents! Ah, how I eat my pre-parenting words as I curl up on the sofa with the girls. TV is good. Now, where's the damn remote.

Fabulous Forty - Part 2

2010-03-08T17:03:00.002Z

Sorry - that was a long intermission. The nausea fog is clearing, but the clouds of exhaustion still hang low.... anyway, back to my list. My Forty Fabulous Things I Love about Life (in no particular order) Part 2:

The colour purple
The way Poppy looks at me when she is naughty
Lists - making them, colour coding them, crossing them off
Planning and organising.... it's an affliction I know...
The crackle of a fire and the heat from the blaze on a cold windy night
A heartbeat at that first scan
When a little hand reaches up into mine when I'm walking down the road
My husband's laugh
Daisy's goodnight kisses
Stepping off a plane on holiday and feeling a foreign sun welcome me
Green chicken curry
Sunday's at home, pottering in a sunny garden with the girls running round throwing sand on the lawn.
Disappearing into a book and feeling like I live there on the pages
Every single thing about Christmas
Driving in the car (alone) and listening to music (other than the Wheels on the Bus) very very loudly
Colin Firth as Mr Darcy jumping into the lake
Saturday morning cuddles in bed with the girls, all warm and entangled
My family - and the fact that 40 years on I still want to spend time with my mum, dad and brother
The knowledge that the first half was great, and the second half will be even better because I will get to watch the best show on earth - my girls growing up
The thought that I'm going to spend the next 40 years of my life with him and them

So there we are. The celebrations are over, the presents unwrapped, the balloons burst. Back to getting on with this 40 year old life.... and just so I don't get carried away with all the love and affection I've received the last week, my girls know just how to keep me grounded. When I told Daisy I was forty last week, she was quiet for a moment and then looked at me forlornly - "That's old. Are you going to die?"

40 and fabulous - Part 1

2010-02-25T20:20:00.004Z

Yes, it's been quite a week. An extra heartbeat and an extra decade - I've finally left my 30's behind. I don't actually mind getting older, and despite what we're going through at the moment, I believe my life is pretty amazing. So that is what I'm going to focus on. Here is Part 1 of my Fabulous 40 Things I Love about Life (in no particular order).

1. The smell of my husband's skin, especially on his neck
2. The sound of Poppy's laughter, and Daisy's giggles
3. The feel of the sun on my face
4. The way the first sip of Gin & Tonic tastes after a long day
5. The way I feel when I write something good (like standing on top of a mountain)
6. Standing on top of a mountain
7. The smell of M&S chocolate chip cookies as they are taken out of the oven
8. The possibilities of life
9. The purr of my cat at my ear
10. Baking
11. Looking at my babies in the dead of the night, their faces perfect in sleep
12. The smell of bread
13. The surprising sound of birdsong when I realise winter is over
14. The smell of tropical sea
15. The memories, so many, so varied, so intrinsic
16. The smell of the pages of a new book (and even better, the smell of an old book)
17. My mum
18. My girls, my oh so funny, smart, loving, beautiful, astonishing, wondrous girls
19. My girlfriends, without whom life would be a mere shadow of what it is
20. Colour coding, lists, and planning - I'm salivating at the mere thought of it.

I could go on, but this burst of bustling energy is slowly fizzling out as the fog of nausea returns, like a curtain announcing the end of the play. Time to retire until they open again. I might just drag my forty year old ass upstairs and look at my girls as they sleep. Always good to do something we love.

First hurdle

2010-02-23T18:30:00.003Z

A heartbeat. A glorious, furious, tiny, fragile little heartbeat. We have reached 8 weeks (is it only 8 weeks?? I feel I've been pregnant for 8 months!) and our early scan showed a beautiful beating baby. I know it's still so early. I know we have a long way to go before I can breath a sigh of relief (about 18 years I suspect) but it's a start. A baby step. A baby heartbeat.

And while a little heartbeat wildly beats alongside mine, my other wild hearts continue to run riot amid my nausea fog. Today it was my make-up drawer. The sight of my Benefit liquid rouge spilt all over my bedroom, mixed madly with my mascara and nailvarnish would normally have me hitting the roof. But today, I sat on the floor, and laughed. A hearty, heartbeating laugh.

Wild at Heart

2010-02-16T14:52:00.002Z

I've been to the dark side - and emersed myself in some of the realities I might have to face over the coming weeks and months. But I didn't like it there, so didn't dwell, deciding for now that it is better for me, the girls and my baby to focus on the positive and take this rocky road one step at a time.

I'm having a good hour, so I've rushed to the laptop. (I should probably be rushing to do the ironing, hoovering, stocking the freezer and all those other neglected jobs but hey, I'm not feeling THAT well). Despite this being my 6th pregnancy, I had STILL forgotten how debilitating the tiredness is and how devastating the nausea. I must lie on the floor at least 6 hours a day, and then go to bed at 8pm. The girls have taken to talking to me with their heads tilted to the side, since they rarely get me in a position where they have to look up to me anymore. I groan a lot too. Not sure it's as affective as the ginger tea, but I do it all the same. And as I lounge (groaning) on the sofa, the girls are running a little wild. Yesterday, as I hugged the floor they floated into the kitchen. How much harm could they do? Quite a lot it seems. They decided to do the washing up (sad indictment of my lack of energy these day that my four and two year olds feel they need to take things into their own hands....) I finally dragged myself into the kitchen at the sound of shattering glass.... it looked like the early stages of the sinking of the Titanic, everything within a little arm's radius of the sink had been submerged in suds - including my radio.

Later, after I'd cleared up, I let them go upstairs to dress up, thinking "I'll just lie down...." When I eventually called them for dinner, I misinterpreted their sheepish grins - their outfits were a tad Vivienne Westwood. It was only when I dragged them upstairs for bed almost dead on my feet I discovered their secret. Their floor had disappeared. Completely. In it's place was a sea of clothes. Every single item of clothing from their two chest of drawers, their wardwrobe, their bedding, the (extremely full) laundry basket and anything else they could get their hands on. It was almost too tempting to just lie down on it, but I resisted and it took me 45 minutes to refold and put everything away. My pregnancy fog clouded my anger, and I had to even suppress a smile.

It's like they've been let off the leash, their imagination no longer constrained by my boundaries and presence. My good hour is up, I feel the wall of nausea wrap itself around me so I am off to lie (groaning) on the sofa. And they can run a little wild. I'd say it's good for us all.

Swirling and Whirling

2010-02-08T20:12:00.002Z

Firstly I have to say thank you. Thank you to all my on-line friends for your words of love and support. And thank you to my off-line friends for all your hugs, emails, and endless cups of tea.

This has been one of the most difficult weeks of my life. The Geneticist threw up more questions than answers. My head is swirling and every time I try to think of something else, I eventually come crashing back down to this dark unknown road all over again. As those of you who know me by now, know I'm a type A, list-upon-list, micro-managing, uber organising kinda gal. Having what I deem the most important parts of my life out of my control is like not being able to wake up from a nightmare.

It's not just that I have a rare chromosomal disorder anymore. In between getting the tests done and being called in urgently for the results, I found out I was pregnant. Delirious and determined, I absolutely believed this baby would stay. Three miscarriages was just bad luck, and my luck was going to change. And then the shocking news that it wasn't bad luck at all. It was bad chromosomes.

So now this doesn't just affect my beautiful girls, it also affects my unborn child - my dream third baby that I have fought and grieved so hard over. And this is what I know. I have a 40% chance of losing it. If I don't (and these days tick by slower than purgatory as I try and notch up enough weeks to make it more and more viable) I have a 50% chance of having a healthy girl or boy (with my good X chromosome). But I have a 50% chance of having a baby with my defected X chromosome. If a girl, she (and my two girls who we have not tested yet) have a 10% chance of having fertility and ovarian dysfunction. This ranges from the pretty bad (what I have) to the bloody devastatingly awful (no eggs, no ovaries and no prospect of natural puberty). I can't even take my head there. If it's a boy, because of where the chromosome break is, they suspect he would have significant learning (and possible physical) disabilities. I don't even know where to begin trying to figure out what I even think about all this. All day nausea (a good sign, right?) is draining me pretty low, not leaving much for this, the biggest thing I've ever had to deal with.

I write this because A) it helps to get it out, and if I repeat it enough it might start to make sense to me, and B) because I might be a bit distracted over the coming weeks and withdraw a lttle from my beloved writing world and women.

While I don't want this to take over my life - I have two beautiful girls to raise and an unborn child to nuture - I need to take time and space to work through this. So please forgive my silence while I try and deal with this. The other possibility of course, is you'll have to forgive my endless witterings - I don't know which way it will go yet.

So thank you again, to all my virtual and physical friends - I couldn't do this without you.

My Own Personal X-Factor

2010-01-31T12:13:00.002Z

Sometimes when you ask a question, you get a different answer. I think every person in the world hopes they are unique, standing out a little from the crowd. But now I wish I was a little more like every one else. This week, results came back from the various tests I had done to try and discover why I have had three miscarriages. Because I have had two healthy girls, they didn't expect to find anything. But they did. Oh yes indeed. (Excuse my slightly manic upbeatness - it keeps me off the windowledge). I have been diagnosed with a phenomenally rare chromosome disorder. To be precise (and if I repeat this enough, it might eventually make sense to me) I have a pericentric inversion of my X chromosome. This means part of my chromosome detached itself, rotated 180 degrees, and reattached itself and is present in that twisted way in every cell of my body. Two days ago I knew nothing about chromosomes other than they sound like hormones and we all know how much trouble THEY cause. Now, I'm an internet expert, and still know virtually nothing.

Except this. When my dodgy X chromosone meets my husbands (perfectly good) Y chromosone when we conceive, we produce a fetus that is incompatible with life. And that is what they were. Three pregnancies incompatible with life. Which is funny, in that heart-breakingly awful sort of way, because I thought they were wonderful beginnings of life. We are seeing a Geneticist on Wednesday to try and find out what implications my 'disorder' (thanks, like my chromosomes are guilty of disorderly conduct) have on my girls, me and our chances of having another much-wanted baby.

So on one hand, I now know why I have lost three babies and there is some comfort in that. Not enough to take away my grief, but enough to know I hadn't done something wrong. On the other hand, a whole scary vista of not knowing has opened up before me. And there may not be any answers. Out of 7500 people on the UK's Rare Chromosome Disorder Support Group database, only 7 have a pericentric inversion of their X chromosome, and none have what I have. None. My consultant has never come across this in 20 years. When my husband said I was one in a million, it seems he was being very conservative.

And my chances of having another baby? My head is hurting from the swirling odds, and statistics and percentages that actually tell me nothing. But all I know is this. Somehow, in the chaos of my chromosomal catastrophe, two miracle girls emerged in a statistically sinister environment where the odds were not stacked in their favour. I have been incredibly, incredibly lucky..... and that, more than anything else in the last few days, is what has turned my world upside down.

The Green Eyed Monster

2010-01-25T16:07:00.004Z

Following on from my last post, I’ve moved on from Swine envy to child envy – from Mummy Pig to the Green Eyed Monster. Maybe because my 40th birthday is breathing down my neck like a dirty old man on a crowded tube, but I’ve been having weird thoughts about my eldest daughter recently. Up until now, I have firmly been the mother, and she has firmly been the child. I am the boss, and she is the bossed around. I have all the wit and wisdom, and she has all the innocence and ignorance.

But once or twice recently I’ve caught myself looking at her and feeling a little off colour. It’s not that my rose tinted glasses have slipped off – she is as dynamic and dazzling as ever. It’s just that there has been the hint of a haze of green that clouds my eyes. I’ve actually been feeling a twinge of jealousy. Is that awful?

Her life sprawls before her like a long lazy summer’s day, while I feel a chill in the air as I enter the autumn of my life. Is this normal? I think of all the life and loves she has yet to experience, all the excitement and energy she has yet to enjoy. Her life is like a beautiful map – a chaotic ramble of roads and avenues unknown and unexplored. Mine resembles a shopping list – things to get before I run out.

But then as I snuggle her up at the end of a long day of shared moments together (making collages) and shared moments apart (like this one, where I ‘do important work on the computer’ at the kitchen table and they play beside me lost in their imaginary world of Peppa Pig figures – life imitating art more and more!) and she asks me to tell her a story. As I rack my brains, she prompts me to tell her about when I was a little girl. And I sit on the floor beside her, stroking her long hair and I tell her about my eating so much chocolate one Easter, I threw up. I tell her about my rabbit who nearly bit my dad’s finger off. I tell her about the elephant that chased us in Africa. “You were chased by an elephant mummy?” I was. And many, many, many other adventures and excitements and experiences, many in far away lands, that have made my life incredible. And in telling her, I suppose I will relive them again. And I realise that while she has her whole life ahead of her, I have half of mine behind me and it is a map littered with roads and avenues explored and enjoyed. And hopefully I have another half yet to live, more paths to travel, unknown and unexplored, and the difference is now her footsteps will walk alongside mine.

And so I embrace that smidgen of envy and mix it up with large dollops of pride…it will keep me reminded that I must keep making my life – and now hers – extraordinary.

Which Cartoon Character are you?

2010-01-17T18:55:00.005Z

Since we mums spend so much time watching, singing about, helping to colour in, and picking up soft toys of cartoon characters, they can sort of take over our lives. The other day I even found myself thinking, "You know, I'm just like Mummy Pig". For months now, Daisy and Poppy have been obsessed (with slightly worrying stalker tendencies) with Peppa Pig. They only get half an hour TV a day, but it has to be Peppa. All they will play with are Peppa Pig characters.... and since the family have pretty much moved in with us, I feel like they've become us. Or us them! Certainly Mummy Pig is worryingly like me. She constantly tells Peppa she "has important work to do on the computer." Ahem. Sounds a lot like me. The great thing about Peppa is that Daisy now respects my work as something very important. I was writing my blog the other day and I could hear her tell Poppy, "Leave mummy alone, she has important work to do on the computer." I gave them an extra episode that day! Mummy Pig is the voice of reason in the midst of mayhem, and I like to think I bring a little calm to the chaos...... (I'm hoping my hubby doesn't read this one...). Mummy Pig is kind and loving, and smart and intuative, a great mother, a lovely wife, a worker, a warrier, and I find myself smiling when I hear her hamming it up, bringing home the bacon, and fixing whatever pig's ear Daddy Pig has made of things.

And so it has come to this. I used to aspire to great women - Virginia Woolf, Kate Adie among others. And now? I'd be happy to live up to the moral code of a pig. Mummy Pig. Honk honk. Forget Swine Flu, I have Swine Envy.

What children's character are you???

my favourite photo

2010-01-14T12:46:00.004Z

Thanks so much for Hot Cross Mum's tag - to show and tell my favourite photo. In this digital age when we have more photos than blades of grass in our garden, this was no mean feat. But I'm a great believer in instinct and not over-thinking, so the first picture that popped into my head when faced with the challenge is the one I'm going for (as opposed to the 254 subsequent ones that i picked after much thought).

This is me and my mum at Daisy's christening. I love this photo for so many reasons, the obvious one being the sheer joy and happiness and love we all share - three generations of smiles. But it also represents the beginning of so many things. A new relationship with my mum - one based on our love of my children, and her being needed once again, after years of being pushed away by an independent, cocky teenager and twenty-something. It represents the beginning of my life as a mum, an incredible journey that I am still only on the first tentative steps of. And finally, it represents the beginning of my writing career - this picture was included with my first ever published article called Mothers & Daughters (www.alanakirkgillham.com/Publishedarticles.html ) that began a new era for me and hopefully the stepping stones towards a lifetime of writing .

The future is impossible without the past, and often I have struggled with managing the two forceful elements of my life - the pre-children and post-children me.... and yet my mum has been the bridge between the two, keeping me sane and intact while while I often unravelled. Three generations of smiles are still smiling, and that makes me happier than pretty much anything else.

My history of feminism

2010-01-10T12:24:00.005Z

Dare I open this debate again? Many previous blogs on the princessing of our daughters - and my responses (afraid to speak my mind if I’m honest, because the consensus seemed to be against me, and I was feeling on shakey ground as you’ll see below) – have left me feeling like I got up in the middle of my lunch and never got a chance to go back and finish it. So here I am, taking a big bite. Like many things these days, it was my daughter’s natural assumption that women should rule the world that made me strong again.

I regard myself as a feminist, and here’s why. I believe in my potential – not just as a woman, but as a person. I believe in my daughters’ potential, and will make it my life’s mission to ensure they know that they have every opportunity open to them to suceed in life. Suceed in career, in love, in knowledge and most of all, in happiness. But I’ve been rather confused of late, unsure what legacy as a stay at home mum I’m leaving my daughters, and by the (seemingly minority) opinions I have that there’s nothing wrong with girls being princesses. Did this mean I was no longer a feminist?

I started out believing the tired old crap I learned by rote…. “all men are bastards.” I actually used that phrase in my youth…. yet my brother is one of the best men I know. I didn’t think for myself, just took on board the beliefs (wrong as it turns out) of others. But at uni, I fell apon a course that changed (literally and literaryily) my life. Through Women Writers and the words of Virginia Woolf, Mayo Angelou, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, Margaret Atwood and others, I began to empower myself and open up my mind to the realisation that feminism has nothing to do with men, and everything to do with women – strong, brave, kind, loving, generous, creative women. I built my life on their teachings, and they journeyed with me on many roads. I travelled the world, I broadened my knowledge, I made friends, I worked hard and strove harder. I did my best and did well. I had a wonderful career and I found love. The perfect feminist life: all the brilliance with none of the bluster; all the vigour with none of the violence; all the adventure with none of the aggression; all of the loving and none of the hating.

And then my world turned upside down. I became a mother. I fulfilled the role my body, my biological engineering, my nature and my nurture was destined for. It was less a case of earth mother and more a case of coming down to earth with a bang when I gave up that career to stay at home with my girls. I loved my job but I loved being wth them more. It was that simple. I have no regrets whatsoever about giving up my (paid) job but I often worry and wonder about how I look to my girls -the personification of all I had fought against. They see daddy go to work while mummy washes the dishes. But then I realise that actually it was my most feminist of all my actions – making the choice that best suited my lifestyle. And the one thing Virginia Woolf wrote about in her essay A Room of One’s Own, and others that blazed (braless or not) the way for women, was not actually that we just have to reach to pinnacle of the career ladder, but that we have options and choices available to us to follow the best path to reach our own potential and development. For me, that was the choice to take time out from my career to focus on bringing up my girls while they are very young.

Into this came the blogging debate. “Prissy” was used regularly to describe (you could almost see the lips curling in scathing disgust) the awfulness of daughters loving pink. 'Pink is the problem' was the message. But I kept asking myself why? I kept asking why ‘tomboy’ (a kowtow to the ‘men are better’ attitude that supressed women for so so long) was a better message? If a girl likes pink, let her wear pink. Surely that is what Virginia and others fought for – our right to be who we want to be? Our right to be feminine and still achieve all we want?

Daisy is a pink girl through and through. At one point she would only wipe her bum with pink toilet paper. Poppy however is red. And occassionally orange. I love both of their individuality (sure many other girls are into pink, but because it’s Daisy’s own choice, her own nature that views the world through rose tinted glasses despite the fact I had never dressed her in pink previosuly, that makes it her individuality). She also likes digging up worms. Wearing pink doesn’t make her a prissy princess, any more than liking worms makes her a ‘tomboy’. It makes her her. She might like watching Snow White, but she’s smart enough to know when things don’t seem right to her. I was singing The Sun Has Got His Hat on last summer, and she turned to me, and said “No mummy I think the sun has got HER hat on.” Quite right, I thought. We went out to build a snowman yesterday and she said, “Actually mummy, why don’t we build a snowgirl.” Quite right, I thought.

So now that I feel ok that despite my dishwashing she will naturally grow up in an environment where it won’t even occur to her that she can’t achieve anything, and already questions the masculinity of phrases (like Snowman), and that the women around her – me, her godmothers, my friends , her family – are all vibrant, smart women, I’m brave enough to enter the blogging debate again, and this time, defend my pink position.

I believe those who diss girls for being ‘girlie’ are doing them - and all women - a great diservice. They should be allowed to be exactly the girl they want to be. A good parent will teach their daughter to be happy and confident with who they are, and smart enough to always strive for their potential, whatever colour they wear – that is what feminism is. Are Disney’s princess stories bad for them? I don’t think so. Yes, the stories are old fashioned – and isn’t that a good talking point? But they are also all, without exception, about good beating evil, about kindness and generosity over nastiness and selfishness, about overcoming challenges to follow your dream. Isn’t that what feminism is teaching us?

We were watching Sleeping Beauty the other day, and I could see Daisy was a bit agitated. “Why does she keep sleeping through everything?” Quite right, I thought. So I’m a stay-at-home mum, with a pink princess for a daughter. Am I a feminist? Damn right I am. Because I made choices that made my life amazing, and I will let my daughters do the same. My girls won’t be sleeping through the action, but they may be wearing pink.

What do you think? If you disagree, let’s talk. I’m ready this time.…. And for those of you who haven’t already, please go and join Judith’s Room – Virginia’s legacy of wonderful women who have made choices to make their lives extraordinary.

Postscript- 3 days later - Just asked the girls what they want to be when they grow up. Daisy said "builder" and Poppy said "a man." You gotta laugh!

High Fives

2010-01-06T21:10:00.003Z

This has been a good day, for lots of reasons. We are snowed in and I managed a whole day trapped (ahem, that meant to read enjoying) in the house with the girls without any major tantrums. The girls were pretty good too. I was commissioned to write 3 articles today (I’ll not focus on the fact it took 12 pitches). I lit the fire at 3pm – always the sign of a good day. I enjoyed an avalanche of creative musings from my on-line friends (where we all snowed in or did Josie at Sleep is for the Weak hit on an amazing idea?). Daisy and I built a snowgirl. Hubby came home early and threw a snowball at me. And, to top the tip top day off, I got two, yes count them, two high five memes from the lovely, the witty, the entertaining, the courageous and the good Carrot in Mum’s Hair and Foodie Mummy. (Is there a connection with my over love of food and the fact both my cheerleaders today have food in their titles??!). So I accept the high fave tags and bow down to the task of writing my five highlights of 2009. I’m going to call them my Five Family Favourites.

1. We moved into our family home, the place I will sleep (hopefully), laugh (definitely), cry (probably), and write (inspiringly) as we raise our children and deliver them out into the world loved and laden with encouragement.
2. Our family holiday. It was local, it was wet, it was windy and it was wonderful.
3. My summer off with the girls. The first time I realised I could let go a little, and enjoy (while not being pregnant or breastfeeding) long days of just being a mum in the sun, picnics and adventures galore.
4. Our extended family holiday when the Kirk Clan descended on Dublin, little people laughing while big people ate – bliss.
5. After a hard day at home with the girls, coming home in the evening with a glass of wine to my blogging family – wonderful women who teach and inspire, and challenge and support and encourage and make me feel I belong to something amazing. Oh wait… I do!

And so I offer the High Five tag to the following…. And I’m sorry if she’s been tagged before but I have to add Josie in there,
Sleep is for the weak
Spinning Plates
Rosie Scribble
Vegemitevix
Rewriting Motherhood

High Five y’all, and here’s to the many highs to 2010.

Certainties of Parenting

2010-01-05T18:45:00.001Z

It’s a new year and that means lots of reassessment, fresh ideas and approaches. Eat less, exercise more, write a lot, and watch TV less. Mmm, sounds worryingly like last year’s list… and the year before. And actually a lot like the year before that. Less new and fresh, more rehashed and recycled. Maybe it should be called Try It Again Year?

Lots of “oh, I’m going to plan my weekly menu every Sunday so I know what I’m cooking all week”s, and a few “Right, no more chocolate Monday to Friday”s and even a couple of “right, I AM going to get up at 6am and go for a run”s. But while we are busy renewing ourselves, the reality that January 1st is in fact just another day with no actual seismic shift in the universe is demonstrated by our children and the ever constant certainties of parenting that show no regard for new years, never mind new decades.

Despite all my resolutions, the revolution of parenting remains as dormant as the snowdrops. As I contemplated the ten new things I was going to change this year, I realized they have no impact on the ten old things that will stay exactly the same:

1. There will always be another poo-ey nappy to out-stink the one before. It will always be done seconds before you leave the house.
2. Kids will ALWAYS get sick on a bank holiday when the doctors are closed.
3. Kids will always get sick – and pass it on to you – when you have visitors so they all get sick and you get labeled the House of Pestilence.
4. There will always be some smug single man who designs children’s toy packaging for a living. He may even do it as a hobby, since only someone with a passion for destroying the fraught mind and fingernails of mothers everywhere can come up with the engineering feat that requires a screwdriver (I kid you not) to unpack a Peppa Pig toy from the packaging.
5. They will always wake up before me, and I will always want to go to sleep before them.
6. They will never eat their home cooked tea with same wild abandon they eat chocolate and sweets. I will never get over this.
7. There will always be dishes to wash. Always.
8. They will always start screaming and fighting as soon as I start talking on the phone.
9. They will always show up the child in me. The petulant, tantrum throwing, sulky, “It’s MINE!” selfish child that is.
10. They will always make me smile. Even through gritted teeth.

So, five days in, and the hinge has fallen off the chocolate cupboard so often has it been raided in its groaning post-Christmas splendour; I haven’t managed to actually leave the house, let alone go for a run (I’m blaming the pestilence and the snow)…. (and the large amounts of left over chocolate); this is the first thing I’ve written in 5 days (see next excuse); and I’ve got stuck into The Wire series 4 boxset with such vigour the TV is smoking. So on the whole, my Try Again Year has already sludged down the slippery slope to Same Old, Same Old Year. Good to know some things never change. Even in a new year.

Christmas Surprises

2009-12-29T21:06:00.002Z

We got more than we bargained for in our yuletide surprises this year when surviving Christmas took on completely new meaning. WE got through the day itself in one piece, despite almost exploding from overeating and almost imploding from the joy of seeing the girls faces after Santa’s sortie, we had a much more serious dapple with death the next day. Icy relations with the in-laws warmed dramatically when the icy roads nearly ended all relations. We drove up the Wicklow mountains for lunch and the girls entertained us (and everyone else) with a few renditions of Rudolf. …like one of those scenes in a film where everyone is happy and laughing, minutes before disaster strikes. The roads had become quite treacherous and as I cautiously drove down the mountain, I clung desperately to the steering wheel as if holding it tightly would somehow grip the wheels to the perilous path. With hubby ahead with his mum and aunt, I followed behind with the girls and grandpa. Suddenly we came to an empasse, cars approaching and all of us slowing to nearly stop as we passed each other. As hubby slowed, I braked and my first surprise happened. The car speeded up.
With an increasingly increasing speed, an icy downhill, and hubby’s bumper bouncing towards me I had about 3 seconds to make a decision. And this was surprise number two. In three seconds this is what I was able to think:
“Shit! I’m not going to stop. Here are my choices. I can keep going and hit hubby, and maybe push him off the mountian. I can avoid him to the left and head straight off the edge ourselves. I can veer right into the oncoming cars. Or I can pull hard left and drive into that handy 20foot pile of logged trees there. “
I opted for the latter. And so, three seconds later I had time to yell “we’re going to crash!” before we……. well, crashed. Head on into a very high, very solid, wall of wood. And here was surprise number three. It made a bloody big bang. I dread to think how loud a fast crash is. And here is surprise number four. We all survived, we all had a cry and then we all had a laugh about it. Isn’t the human spirit amazing? (OK, the car in banjexed but who cares?)
After a rather lacklustre table chat over Christmas, suddenly Boxing night was full of life, and laughter. And there was my final surprise. A brush with death brings a family to life. Not recommending it of course…. But still, I hugged my girls a little closer, and I laughed a little louder. And that was my best Christmas present of all…….. what was yours??[1]

[1] Christmas Surprises
29th Decemeber 2009

Letter to Santa

2009-12-24T17:17:00.003Z

Christmas Eve. Its here at last. I can almost hear the distant “Ho Ho Ho” over the crinkling of wrapping paper as stockings are stocked and stuffed.

Have I been a good girl? Well, let’s see. According to the good behaviour rules that my children would recognise, lets take a look:
Saying please and thank you – yep.
Flush the toilet – yep.
Eat up my dinner – no problem
No biting anyone – yep.
Sharing my toys – yep.

Great – so now we’ve established I’m a good girl what can I ask from Santa?
I’m a simple girl, I don’t want (many) diamonds

Dear Santa,
1. Another hour in the day please. Just so I can read the mountain of books I have waiting for me.
2. A tape (see previous post!)
3. A computer that doesn’t freeze every ten minutes forcing me (against my will) to swear in front of my children.
4. A lever on my fridge (just like the one you push to get ice) that delivers home-made nutritious delicious kids food three times a day.
5. A Government scheme to pay work-at-home mums a decent wage so I can buy a pair of boots (or even a bra) without my husband knowing. Or without me having to ask.
6. An Orla Kiely bag. (It’s always on my lists)
7. Some sun. Just a little. I know we chose to live in Ireland but really, just a little?
8. A memory stick for my brain, so I can remember every single second of my girl’s childhood, especially this day.
9. A self-slapping machine that gives me a good whack whenever I forget how lucky I am, and start whining about stupid crap that is totally meaningless.
10. And finally Santa, if I may be so bold, can you arrange it so that next Christmas we have a third little stocking hanging on the mantelpiece?

Thanks Santa, and good luck tonight. I know what it feels like to have everyone expecting stuff from you, and not enough hours to deliver them in.

You can see from the picture that Daisy and Poppy have made you a cookie and some milk … and a carrot for Rudolf. It’s by the fire. Oh, and watch out for Smeagal my cat – he might get a fright when you land down the chimney. But a quick tickle under the chin should put him right. I won’t come down and see you, I’ll be upstairs with my girls, awake with anticipation of the day to come.

Loving Christmas

2009-12-21T15:09:00.001Z

Ah Christmas…..always loved it. All that glitter and glutton. All that ho ho ho and he he he. All those presents wrapped under the tree, all those presents hidden in the cupboard waiting to be stuffed into expectant stockings. Little eyes glittering brighter than the lights on the sweet smelling tree.

But, now, I have a new glorious reason to love Christmas…. It’s Monday morning and I’m lying in bed enjoying my cup of tea. I haven’t said ‘hurry up’ once. Not once! Normally by 7.12am I’ve said it 14 times. The kids hardly know which way to turn with no-one barking directions at them, so they run around in every direction, giddy with the freedom of a silent mummy.

Yes, my new reason for loving Christmas is the Christmas holidays. Three weeks of not having to start my day as a military major on speed. So as a little treat to myself, I’ve come up with a cunning plan to keep the calmness continuing into the new year.

I’m making a tape. The tape will run for an hour and a half and be played from 7am each morning, Monday to Friday. You see, we’ve been doing this routine every morning for over a year, yet every time I say “Clean your teeth”, or “get dressed” they look at me as if they’ve never been asked to do it before in their lives. So next year, it’s going to be different. At 7am I’ll press play and lie back with my cup of tea. I might even read the paper. And let the tape run: “Get, up, hurry up, downstairs, hurry up, eat up, hurry up, come on eat your porridge, hurry up, now drink your smoothie, hurry up, COME ON, hurry up, now upstairs quickly, hurry up, into the bathroom, hurry up, no the bathroom, hurry up, no out of the spare room, hurry up, stop jumping on the bed, hurry up, clean your teeth, hurry up, don’t forget those back ones, hurry up, now get dressed, hurry up, put your pyjamas under your pillow, hurry up, no not on the floor, giddy up, hurry up, no you can’t wear your tutu, hurry up, no you definitely can’t wear your swimming costume, hurry up, now come on, stay still while I brush your hair, hurry up, HURRY UP, now downstairs, hurry up, shoes on, hurry up, SHOES ON, hurry up, out of the playroom, hurry up, now put your coats on, hurry up, hats and scarves, hurry up, yes you have to wear the hat, its snowing, HURRY UP, HURRY UP, HURRY UUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPP!”

Until then, I’ll be snuggling under the duvet for another half hour. The girls might even join me. Loving Christmas. What's your favourite thing about Christmas??

Testing Times

2009-12-16T20:32:00.001Z

I’ll never forget the shock and surprise when the first blue line changed my life forever. And the rollercoaster ride we embarked on, first with Daisy and then Poppy, was a journey like no other. But never did I think our journey would end here. In a waiting room getting ready for tests to try and answer the questions I have constantly whirling round my head: why have I lost three babies; will I have another? But no-one can tell us.

So this morning I found myself sitting in the clinic of a new hospital – I couldn’t face my old hospital having walked out there empty-bellied and empty-handed three times, the joyous memories of my two glorious girls there diminished. Pouring grains of rock salt into my raw wounds (my last miscarriage was only 5 weeks ago), two women sit in the clinic with me waiting for their newborn’s checkups, their post-baby bellies exulting their triumphs, while my flat stomach hosts only my grief. It doesn’t matter that I have two beautiful babies, they and any subsequent babies will never rub out the loss of my other three. All I have of two of them are the scans, and the sound of their heartbeats still thudding in the dark of the night as I lie awake, wondering.

I have nothing from the third. It was announced with a blue line on the day my previous pregnancy was due. But six weeks later it was gone. Like a new mother, I am intimate with the long lost hours of the night, sleepless as if my brain is expecting to be woken through the night, in denial that I have no baby to soothe. So instead I go and check on my girls, my glorious girls, and their sleeping smiles soothe me. Grief is the loneliest emotion. I cannot share it, I cannot explain it. It just is.

And suddenly I am lifted. A new doctor, and new face. She is kind and patient and authoritative and just what I need. We will have tests – antibodies, chromosomal, bloods, scans, but more importantly we have a plan. I’m not going into this alone. It may only be aspirin and hormones, but it feels as though I am doing something positive. It may lead to more heartbreak, but it may lead to a new wonderful life, and either way I’ll know we tried everything we could. It may be another rollercoaster, but I’m ready for the journey.

I promise to return to a more jolly festive fever soon…..

Role Reversal

2009-12-12T13:44:00.002Z

The girls may be responsible for most of my exhaustion (indirectly at least), but they also are my rainbow at the end of a crap day.

Yesterday I hit the wall. Up again most of the night with various coughs and complaints (and one lost Pinkie, Poppy’s can’t-sleep-without-toy) I could barely muster the energy to get out of bed. This has probably only happened about 3 times in my life. When daisy announced she was too sick to go to school, I jumped at the chance and jumped back under the duvet. Our usual morning military mania is up at 7, downstairs (me dressed) by half past, breakfast and cleared up by eight, dressed and teeth cleaned by twenty past, coats on and pram out by half past and walk to school in 25 minutes. Exactly. Instead this morning, the girls clambered into bed with milk and breadsticks (and a nice cuppa for me, thanks hubby) and we read stories for a while before breakfast. I cancelled everything. All my manic plans for school, Claphandies, dance class, visiting, shopping, and posting all postponed. I haven’t left the house. In truth, I actually couldn’t leave the house. I’m tired to my very bones. When hubby kindly offers me a night in the spare room so I can sleep, I feel like yelling “this is not a one-night’s sleep tiredness!” This is three miscarriages in a row, months of early pregnancy exhaustion, Christmas carryon, endless hospitality, chronic sleeplessness, and two lively girls who hang off me every second of the day and most of the night tiredness. I cook and bake and clean and shop and wrap and plan and wash and tidy and write and play and read and draw and paint Santas because if I stop the cog for one second, I might just fall apart in the vacuum. Every minute I am aware of the missing stockings that should be hanging on the mantelpiece.

And so as I lay in bed this morning, my eyes leaden and laden with exhaustion, I suddenly felt a little butterfly on my cheek. I opened one eye to find Poppy stroking my hair, smiling and whispering “There there mummy, it’ll be ok”. And she kissed me again. She then hugged me and stretched over to get my brush and began brushing my hair. I closed my eyes, the love from her overwhelming me, until I felt something soft being nestled under my arm. My other eye opened to see her giving me Pinky to cuddle. Her Pinkie. The most precious thing in her life. Then Daisy got her medical kit and checked me over – my reflexes, my ears, my tongue and finally she listened to my heart. I’m not sure what my heart told her, but she seemed very clear about what I needed.
“Mummy, you are very sick, and you need 20 years in bed with us.”
I think she might be right.

Overwhelmed and underperforming

2009-12-10T20:34:00.004Z

I feel a bit of a cheat. My last blog obviously gave the impression I was some sort of smiling Stepford wife, happily baking and whipping up a trifle whilst knocking the oven door shut with my hip, loaf cooking and emitting Nigella warm and cosy smells into the kitchen, while the children play happily at my feet, all Walton-like and wholesome.

Yes, indeed, our house has turned into a hotel for the foreseeable future. And yes, I am prone to the odd bit of home baking. Last week I even skinned a salmon (won’t be doing that again). Waltons, however, we are not. There are no sweet serenades at the end of the evening, as we sing Goodnight to each other through the walls. “Goodnight Johnboy” is now a rather a high pitched “GO TO BED” as I collapse onto the sofa to write the 150 Christmas cards I’ve just made on the computer. Yesterday I actually (really, actually) thought I was going to have a heart attack as I raced from a meeting with Poppy under one arm (try trying to look like a professional with your toddler in tow because the childminder you have for a whole 3 hours a week cancelled), and her lunch under the other as I had to feed her in the car on the way to pick up Daisy who I was late for and had to call another mother to hold onto her for me till I got there, so that I could put Poppy to sleep as soon as we got home, so I could make the mince pies for the freezer, so I could get Poppy up and Daisy and I out to the shopping centre to get all the stuff I need for this weekend’s visitors, and back in time to give them their tea so I could get the presents wrapped and the lists done for four days of Xmas meals around Christmas so I could order the turkey and ham today and get the cards printed so I could write them today so I can post them tomorrow (50 done, 100 to go), so I could change the sheets because my mum was down last night and my father-in-law is over tomorrow and we only have one set, and then Daisy wet the bed last night at 3am and I had to get up and change it and so I had to get the waterproof sheet dried to go back on the bed tonight, and shit, I haven’t hovered, but I might have time tomorrow after I’ve dropped Daisy to school and taken Poppy to ClapHandies and walked home and made the dessert for dinner before getting Daisy up and taking her to dance class at 4.30pm on a Friday afternoon at the other end of town but she likes it and all her old friends are there from our old house so we go there instead of the one down the road with no friends and then get back about 6.30pm and try and feed, bath and TV them before 7pm, when I am supposed to then get my novel out and get inspired and write for 3 hours, but usually only manage the sofa and a box of Black Magic. Did i mention I shout a lot?

Can someone please tell me why I can’t make life easier for myself? Why can’t I just go to the bloody shops and buy a packet of biscuits? Why can I not relax and enjoy the moment? Today, I took my mum and the two girls to the National Concert Hall to watch the Snowman, while the orchestra play the score live and a choir sings. It was stunning and beautiful and special. And I almost didn’t enjoy it because I was so stressed about the fact Poppy didn’t sleep in the car on the way, and my well-planned, well-ordered day was at risk of falling apart. Thankfully at one point, I rested my head on my mum’s shoulder as Daisy sat mesmerised holding my hand, and Poppy nestled into my chest and I took a deep breath. It was a good moment. Why can’t I take more deep breaths? Is it just me? I don’t think so…. Why are we so pulled apart from every day living? Why is motherhood so hard? When am I going to be able to take a deep breath, and when oh when did it all get so bloody complicated? Even the girls are finding Christmas too much! I think all I want from Santa is a day off.

Feast or Famine

2009-12-07T13:20:00.002Z

There are several advantages of not having family living nearby…… no over-enthusiastic visiting from mums and mother-in-laws; no loosing your husband to Saturday DIY sessions at the grandparent’s house; no Sunday lunch obligations; no cousin babysitting. Of course the disadvantage list is longer with no free babysitting taking the top three spots. Actually, the top five.

Somehow when our families were settling down everyone had a philosophy of “pick a country, any country” and therefore ended up flung around Ireland and Britain like children playing hide and seek in a large house. Our kids don’t have a single relation living in their own country – grandparents in Northern Ireland, Vietnam and England, cousins in Scotland and Brighton. In our family, we don’t have get-togethers, we have invasions. Take this Christmas – our first in our new house. “Come see us” we offered excitedly in our drunken champagne exuberance of actually owning a family home. And so this Christmas our family festivities are a bit like the proverbial bus – we don’t see them for months, and then they all arrive together.

This weekend my parents drove down from Belfast and my brother’s family flew in from Scotland. And it all sort of whizzed past me in a blur of noise – 6 adults and 5 children shouting, screaming, laughing, pushing, shoving, eating drinking, talking, and eating and drinking some more. And suddenly as quickly as they all arrived, they’ve all gone, leaving the house shell-shocked and me wondering if it actually all happened. The Christmas tree is about the only thing left standing, and even it looks pretty dazed.

Last weekend it was my husband’s brother and all his kids. Next weekend it’s his dad. Christmas is his mum, step-dad and Aunt and at New Year we have 18 (yes… count them with me – 8 adults and 10 children including us) for three days. I feel like I’m on some sort of entertainment rollercoaster where life has become a cycle of shopping, cleaning and changing beds followed by a manic three days of not seeing my own children while up to my eyeballs in whatever breakfast, lunch and dinner I’m trying to conjure up to feed the masses, following by the shopping, cleaning and changing beds again.

Hubby and I have a dream of someday opening a small but quaint B&B by the sea… I’m beginning to loose my enthusiasm. Anyway, must dash… got the beds to change..……

Movie Star Syndrome

2009-12-01T20:46:00.001Z

The last couple of days I’ve felt like a movie star. OK, I regularly feel like a movie star…. Matt Damon, Ryan Gossling, Matt Damon… but I mean it differently this time. This time I felt like two movie stars… sadly though, neither was exactly glamorous.

On Sunday, I was Mary Poppins. Without the flying umbrella. It rained, it poured and as the Old Man snored off his hangover, I hung out with the girls, making pancakes, singing carols and even making curtains for their playroom. Then, as the thunder rolled, we pulled the curtains at 2pm (how gorgeously winter), lit the fire (how gorgeously Christmassy), cuddled up on the sofa (how gorgeously gorgeous) with a large bowl of sweets, and watched Happy Feet. A perfect day…. (rounded off rather deliciously once the kids were in bed with a bottle of wine and a double dose of X-Factor…)

Yesterday however, I turned into Cruella de Ville. With a chirpy smile on my face to lull them into a false sense of security I took them to the local hospital for their Swine Flu Jab. As we queued and filled in forms, they danced and laughed and played – oblivious to the outraged screams of pain coming from the other room. Pale faced parents carried red faced children back through our room, but my girls danced away, blissfully happy in the trust they have that I will never cause them harm. I did try to explain, but there’s a fine line between a warning and scaring the beejaysus out of them.

So they led us into the room and behind the curtain. And now I had to make a choice. Who was going to go first? Who would be braver? I opted for little Poppy to have the blissful ignorance, judging I could rationalise better with Daisy. As the needle plunged into her podgy thigh, she screamed, her shocked eyes wide and accusing. No-one was laughing now. Especially Daisy. She now knew what was coming, and she was intent on going. She made a run for it but I managed to pull her out from under the table, desperately trying to ignore her wretched cries “Please mummy, don’t let her hurt me! I don’t want a hole in my leg!” I soothed her with (false, let’s face it) words of comfort but it still took me and another nurse to hold her down while the second took the plunge.

In fairness they recovered as soon as soon as two lollipops made an appearance, but as we sat in the recovery room (I have no doubt this is in fact for the parents to have time to get their legs to stop shaking rather than to see if the children have a reaction) Daisy looked quite determined, hands on hip, stamping of foot. “I am never coming back here again!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her she would be… round two is in three weeks. Oh joy.

Those shoes

2009-11-26T18:13:00.002Z

In answer to another of Josie’s excellent blog prompts at her Writing Workshop at Sleep is for the Weak, here is my answer to “Find a picture of a shoe that best sums up your personality” (of course, I’m late and the workshop is over – maybe I should have put up a running shoe since all I seem to do is run from one thing to another?!).

So here is my wedding shoe. Look at this shoe – shiny, glittery, impractical and glamorous. Just like me. Then. Look at that ankle – slim and waxed. Look at those toes – trimmed, manicured, and painted. Look at that heel – soft.

And even though I no longer have those ankles, those toes, those heels, I do have those shoes. And that makes up for a lot. The ankles may have thickened and be less poised due to permanent flat-shoe-pram-pushing action; the toes may be chipped, unclipped and hairy; the heels may be hardened from carrying two toddlers, 14 bags, an assortment of nappies, half eaten apples, 11 mini boxes of raisons, spare pants (Daisy’s not mine I hasten to add) and a small bottle of bubbles for what seems like 12 hours a day, I still have the shoes, which still gleam and shine and glitz. They are still impractical but I love them. Occasionally when I carry another load of washing up the stairs I stop, pick up the dusty box, lift the lid and gentle pull apart the tissue paper, the sparkle lighting up my face like a treasure trove of gold. They are my Gina shoes. I’m allowed to be proud, since they are the only pair of shoes I am ever likely to own that have their unique brand name….. unlike all my others from M&S and Next that share their name with a shop that also sells, pants, socks, thermal underwear and those fuzzy nightdresses that very very old ladies wear.

They nearly cost more than my dress but I threw caution (and Euro) to the wind as if I knew they would be my last act of irresponsible, decadent frivolity. And although now I can barely walk the length of the kitchen in them, they danced for me for five hours on my wedding day.

And although now it is my girls that bring me my daily dose of sparkle, every so often I run upstairs to slip into something more uncomfortable and wear them to dinner with my husband… they raise me up, and not just with their 6 inch heel. And so to use that old wedding wisdom, when I wear these shoes…. From the past I borrow, and cannot feel blue, because when I feel old, they make me feel new.

Great Expectations

2009-11-24T10:24:00.001Z

There are many reasons I love Dickens – his word wizardry aside. Who could not love a writer who gave me this perfect antidote in my hour of need when I weigh up washing my dirty laundry in another spin cycle, versus airing my dirty laundry on another blog cycle. “Mrs Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but had an exquisite art of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and unacceptable than dirt itself.” Bah Humbug says I, clearly cleanliness is highly overrated. We’ve all been in houses like that and it’s no place for a child.

But still, just to keep us in a technically clean and safe environment I used to clean the house constantly. Not constantly clean the house you understand – of course I ate and shopped and played with the girls. But in between that, I cleaned the house constantly because sadly time never stands still. Not even for a millisecond, so the moment I have finished hovering, I see a speck newly gleaming on the carpet, magically morphing before my very eyes from a clean spot to a now dirty spot. As soon as I’ve tidied up, the girls empty a container of farm animals and playdo on the kitchen floor. As soon as the laundry basket is empty, a rancid pair of socks appear. So the constant flow of housework constantly needs doing. When people look at my girls and say “Oh you must have your hands full,” little do they know that yes, they are full – of washing, ironing, shopping, food going into the fridge, food coming out of the fridge, nappies, toys, hairbands, pants, socks, dolls clothes, dolls dummies, dolls prams, dolls, window cleaner, cooker cleaner, toilet cleaner, dishcloths, drying cloths, face cloths….

So, what has happened to make me a dirty minx? I got a cleaner. Yep, now someone else has their hands full and I get to be hands on with my girls, and (let’s be honest) my computer. So is my house sparkling like my merry eyes? Is it hell. It’s a pit. A den of dereliction. A heap of hairy carpets, and piles of pants. Do I have a bad cleaner? No, not at all. She’s great – she even puts my washing machine on! I’ve never been so pampered. The problem? She comes once every two weeks. So the first Tuesday of the month, I come home from the school run and step into a palace, gleaming and sparkling and shiny. But the next Tuesday a funny thing happens. The gleam has dulled down, the sparkle has fizzled out and the shine has been replaced by stains. But can I step up to the (dirty) mark? No. I have a cleaner, and as such seem to have been struck down by a complete (and constant) inability to do any cleaning myself. It gets to Wednesday and I think… the upstairs needs hovered, but sure its only 6 days before the cleaner comes. The toilets are a bit grubby, but hey, I have a cleaner. They can wait. I’ve gone from wearing a dishcloth as an accessory to someone with beautiful hands.

So like everything in this world, be careful what your great expectations are. I wanted my house cleaned so we got a cleaner. It’s never been dirtier. Or worse still, I have a cleaner, but I still have to clean. As the great man said, Bah Humbug.

One day....

2009-11-18T21:46:00.002Z

In answer to Josie’s fantastic blog prompts in her Writing Workshop at Sleep is for the Weak, here are my thoughts on my dreams for ‘one day…’

One day, I’d like to fulfil my dream of having a menagerie of weird and wonderful animals lounging around in my little backyard pet rescue. Chickens, goats, dogs, cats, donkeys and seals (yes, I know, but for some odd reason I’ve always wanted a pet seal). But then if I had that, how would I go on holiday? Better not.

One day, I’d like to be someone famous and glamorous – maybe an Oscar winning actress heading off to the awards having had my hair, and body and clothes ‘done’ by the experts with George Clooney on my arm (I usually have this dream while carrying the washing up stairs, or the ironing downstairs, and jump in fright when I see the wild woman of the west staring back in the mirror). But then would I want that crushing media exposure? And isn’t George Clooney gay? Better not.

One day, I’d like to have a squillion euro so I could lounge around the Med in my yacht while the nannies feed the kids with the food made by my chef, while my masseuse rubs my shoulders on the bed newly straightened by my maid. But then, if I had all this, what would I do for a treat? Better not.

One day, I’d like to wake up and have no washing, ironing, folding, cleaning, cooking, shopping. Actually, I’d quite like that another day too. Better not think about that too much.

One day I’d like to wake up and roll over and kiss a gorgeous guy and know he loves me. Then I’d like to go into the bedroom next door and get kissed and cuddled by two gorgeous girls who call me mum. Then I’d like to call my mum on the phone and know all my family are alive and happy. Then I’d like to open my laptop and immerse myself in my blogging world and see how all my internet friends are doing, knowing this mothering writing lark is hard but I’m not alone. One day I’d like to write for a living – a blogging life, a writing life, a full and frantic family life, with a cat, 3 fish and two chickens on the way.

Oh wait, that’s today!

One day I’m going to stop moaning and wishing my life away, and enjoy what I have, when I have it. Maybe I’ll start today…… no more ‘one days’. That said, one day
I’ll get round to doing another of Josie’s prompts…. Thanks Josie!

I'm cracking Christmas

2009-11-17T19:44:00.001Z

There are times when my outer children reach in and grab my inner child by the hand and pull her out to dance around the house. But at Christmas, my inner child steps out all by herself, grabs everyone by the hand and takes no prisoners.

I know, I know, it’s only November. Mid-November at that. But I’m one of those really annoying people who love Christmas so much, I start shopping in September. I can’t help myself..... I just love being Santa’s little helper. I normally hate shopping. I’d rather be naked than bustle busily in crowded shops at sale time. But Christmas? Bring it on! If there is a website on gifts, I’ve surfed it. If there is a catalogue, I’ve flicked it. If there’s a shop, I’ve browsed it.... although this year I’ve added arts and crafts websites to my list in an attempt to make some presents and cut back on costs.

I’m actually giddy with girlie glee at the prospect of decorating the new house and seeing my girls shine in the glow of the fairy lights. And it seems my Festive Fever is catching.... Daisy and Poppy have been wearing their Santa dresses since August! So to kick off the jolly season, and get us all in the mood, here are my top ten reasons why Christmas is cracking....

1. It fuels my fury for colour coded charts and love of lists. With presents to buy, family to entertain, a house to decorate I am in UBER List Mode…. a state of near delirium. My fridge is a veritable rainbow of charts, and I’m showing great self-restraint by not producing the glitter highlighter pens until December.
2. I have a rather worrying penchant for tacky decorations – we have more singing snowmen, laughing Santa’s and glowing Rudolfs than Hamley’s toy store... Ho Ho Ho.
3. It’s an excuse to go shopping, even if the stuff isn’t for me. And let’s be realistic, prams weren’t really designed with children in mind... sure walking is better for them anyway. Prams are the ultimate bag carrier.
4. I get to eat the Christmas Tree shaped cookie that the girls and I make on Christmas Eve for Santa, reluctantly leaving one solitary chocolate chip on the plate to show how hungry he was.
5. I get to drink a very nice bottle of red, in front of the fire with hubby on Christmas eve as we wrap presents and stuff stockings.
6. It’s the only time of year I can realistically get away with wearing something sparkly and not look like mutton dressed as lamb.
7. I get to add another wine choice to my evening splurge.... white, red, rose and mulled... oh the decisions.
8. Eating. Lots. Of. Chocolate. I do this all year anyway, but now I can do it guilt-free.
9. We are allowed to forget the limited TV rule, and curl up on the sofa in front of the fire and watch the Snowman with the girls.
10. Watching their faces on Christmas morning when they realise that Santa really has come down the chimney and left them presents.

Christmas will be a little leaner this year, but that’s ok...because the best parts of Christmas are priceless.

May I be the first to wish you all a Merry Christmas!

Accepting acceptance

2009-11-16T20:34:00.003Z

For someone who rushes everywhere at warp speed – I’ve even been known to eat my breakfast and clean my teeth at the same time - I realised recently I’m actually a bit slow. Daisy starts school next year but it’s somehow taken me 4 years and 30 days to really come to terms with the fact that I’ve become a mum. Like I said, a bit slow.

Despite my kaleidoscope of colour coded charts, my litany of lists, and my plethora of plans, I actually didn’t see the wood for the trees – or to be more specific, the news for the nappies. I’m a mum. A walking, talking, baking, cooking, smiling, yelling, singing, driving, bum wiping, work-at-home mum. I fought a good fight, but I finally surrender… and of course, wonder why I bothered to fight at all.

One of my favourite authors, Alice Walker, wrote a disturbing but incredible book called Possessing the Secret of Joy. All the way through the story, the main character ponders the assertion that black people possess the secret of joy. At the end of the book, in heart-stopping drama, she is finally given the answer. Resistance is the secret of joy. And maybe subconsciously I adopted that because I did a pretty good job of resisting my maternal mantel – and despite never being happier, never complained more.

But I realise now, for me at least, that my secret of joy is not resistance. My secret of joy is acceptance. I like this life. Accept it. I thrive in this life. Accept it. Damn it, I think I’m even good at it. Accept it.

And the reason all this has come into my thoughts was reading so many of my fellow mummy bloggers and the recent chat about why we write our blogs. I write mine to use my brain other than for calculating the salt content in Barney crisps; to capture moments in time because said brain is like a sieve; to remind myself in the future how I felt; to remind myself now how I feel. Because writing is like therapy… and like all good therapy it takes a while to work through the crap and see the smiling baby shining down at you all the time. So writing has helped me accept the change that children brought to me. And finally I write because I very much like my blogging mummy friends….. and accepting that I’m not the only one enjoying this gig – but struggling with the washing, cooking, cleaning, time suction and other ranting that we share with each other…. Among many other things.

So here is to acceptance. And accepting friendship in cyberspace. In particular I’d like to thank a few fellow fighters who have helped me work through the therapy!

Hot Cross Mum
Sleep is for the weak
Who’s the mummy
Musings in Mayhem
Re-writing motherhood

A little something for my hubby

2009-11-15T08:50:00.003Z

Do you know the best thing about life? It goes on.

But best of all, it goes on with you.

And while we mourn the loss of our unborn children, it is our two very present children who make us smile, despite ourselves. We’re still coming to terms with my new official medical identity – multiple miscarrier – and that means a new road of tests and scans and lots of questions and few answers. And I know I’m probably not the easiest of people to live with right now….. as someone who loves a colour coded chart more than life itself, I’m finding it hard to breath in these un(coloured) chartered waters, where the future we dreamed of is so uncertain, in terms of babies at least. What is certain though, and what keeps my head above water is that Daisy’s beauty takes my breath away in a completely different way, and Poppy’s mischief makes me smile, even in my sleep. And that you are here with me, always.

And so yesterday I took a deep breath, and we celebrated all that we do have. Our 5th wedding anniversary was the perfect way to look back and see the good, despite the bad. Amid our cocktail sipping, we wondered how so much has happened in such a short period of time. Five years – five pregnancies, five new wrinkles, five big rows, five job changes between us, and about 50,000 nappies. But also too many laughs to count, too many adventures to number. But the best number by far was our two daughters – two beautiful, funny, heart-stopping, breath-sucking, life-affirming daughters. And one story that still makes me giggle - you proudly putting up a curtain against our front door to keep the draft out. Which it did… unfortunately it also kept everything else out too as you nailed the curtain rod actually across the front door so we couldn’t open it. I love you despite your DIY skills, not because of them.

In five years, we’ve had more highs and lows than we ever expected. I suppose they don’t call this a rollercoaster ride for nothing. And as life goes on, so does the ride, and as I take your hand my lovely, I know as long as you are with me, I’ll be holding on tight and looking forward to every moment. Just as I was back then when, in the first flush of romance, I knew there was no-one I would ever want to jump into this adventure with but you.

How did I become that woman?

2009-11-07T09:36:00.000Z

For someone who never wanted the traditional family life, I sure as hell pursued it with a passion. In my youth, I craved excitement, not commitment; I sought travel, not stability; I choose freedom, not responsibility. But then I met someone who made my world turn on its axis – someone who was following all these paths too it has to be said – and somehow together we wanted something different. Something more.

And so, before I really knew what was happening, I became a wife, and a mother and – still shaking my head in disbelief – a stay at home mum. I went from travelling to Iraq to witness the impact of the oil-for-food programme on children with UNICEF, to travelling to the toilet to witness the impact of date and banana smoothie on my children. And although it took me time to adapt, despite the shock, it actually felt like coming home. It felt right.

So how suddenly has my life become so wrong? Two days ago I lost my 5th baby, my third miscarriage. How did I go from the person who had two glorious girls, just like that, without really thinking, blinking or winking an eye. And then the next page turned in my book of life but this chapter feels like it’s been ripped out of another book and doesn’t belong to me. It doesn’t feel right.

How can I go from happy new mum to two toddlers to woman with 3 miscarriages in 18 months? How did I go from mad mum with two glorious girls to devastated woman with three terrible tragedies? I’ve now had more miscarriages than children and I have no idea how that happened. How did this happen? Why did this happen? How have I become this person? Why oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why? I am writing this because my anger has consumed my grief. I have cried so much for my last two losses (cruelly, my last baby was due this week) and now, to be devastated and disappointed again is too much. How can I turn back the page to the woman who had it all and no fear about having another baby? I don’t want to be this woman who is scared, and unsure, and lost, and bereft, and desperate, and disappointed, and shocked. For someone who never wanted the traditional life, I now need it more than anything in the world – I desperately need a happy ending.

broken bones and unbroken habits

2009-11-05T08:44:00.003Z

Poor Poppy. After all that wrenching and wailing, it now seems her elbow was broken after all (well, it certainly was after all that wrenching and wailing). When the pain persisted, we took her back to A&E where a tiny fracture was diagnosed. Everything about Poppy is tiny, so why should her injuries be any different? So now she’s sporting a rather fetching (tiny) red cast – she chose red to match her shiny (tiny) red shoes. And so proud is she of her colour co-ordination, she only wants to wear the cast and the shoes. Which is a tad impractical in November.

And as Daisy then went through Poppy’s drawers pointing out all the red clothes that she has to wear for the next three weeks, I realised that they have come down with a severe case of Fashion Faux-pas Fever. You see, I’m a matchmaker of Monica-esque proportions. I match my socks with my bra. I match my bra with my pants. I match my scarf with my gloves. It would be inconceivable for me to wear a blue bra under a red top. I actually wouldn’t be able to leave the bedroom. I’m no clothes champion I hasten to add. The words Alana, trendy and is have probably never been said together in a sentence. I’m more grounded than heeled. But, I can only wear brown boots with a brown coat, or black boots with black jeans. Black and brown shall never meet on me. I know it’s an illness. In the midst of a medley of things that matter, what they eat, how we’ll school them, recession cut-backs, and the multitude of decisions I make every day to keep us all alive and thriving, I allow myself this frivolous fashion foible, this trivial tasking of colour coding clothes, this – lets face it – shallow luxury. I may look 108, haven’t slept properly in years, have 2 inch roots, but damn it, my bra matches my socks.

It’s genetic of course. Just like her arthritis and bad eyesight, I’ve inherited my mother’s “don’t miss-match” mania. And so it seems I’ve passed it on to my girls. Even a broken arm can’t break the colour code. Bless them. Secretly though I was delighted Poppy chose the red cast. It goes with her red shoes, and red coat. How on earth could we have left the house with a colour-clashing cast??

I know, I know, I need to get out more. …. But only if my shoes and coat match.

Love Hurts

2009-10-28T20:35:00.000Z

So today I felt that parental pain like no other – pain worse than my own, the pain of watching your child suffer. It’s pretty depressing when your child ends up being more heroic than you…

There we were, monkeying around at the zoo, having a whale of a time, when Bang! A wobble, a topple and a thud, and our day tumbled upside down. I knew the minute she hit the floor that Poppy was hurt. Badly hurt. The cry was pitched just that octave above normal, her eyes wide with shock rather than that wide-through-the-crying-look while trying to assess if I was watching enough and needed to upscale the wailing. There was no faking this time.

As I ran with her to the First Aid booth, I knew her arm was broken and the first thing I screamed at the nurse (I’ve given up trying to pretend I’m calm in a crisis) was, “Painkillers! Give her some pain killers!” Naturally enough she did no such thing. But all that time… all those ticking moments that she examined, assessed, asked questions, wrote down details, my child screamed. And while I answered and nodded and gave out my telephone number, I screamed too, inside. “Just take the pain away! TAKE IT AWAY!”

But all I could do was hold her, knowing there would be no pain relief while we waited for the ambulance, no pain relief as we rode to the hospital and no pain relief until she had been poked and prodded by a doctor. A whole horrible, hideous half hour of pain. And it made me want to actually vomit, knowing I couldn’t take it away. But worse was still to come. The X-ray showed it wasn’t broken. Instead, her elbow had popped out of its socket. Turn away now if you are squeamish. I had too. Yes, the doctor took my little 2 year old baby’s twisted arm, pulled it out and wrenched it around until he got it back into position. Poppy hit the roof, and I hit the floor. Hubby had to carry both of us out of the hospital.

Poppy and I spent the afternoon under a blanket on the sofa, recovering. She’s finally asleep now, plied with as much medicine as I can legally give her. I’m not sure I’ll sleep though, no amount of medicine can take away the sickness in my stomach. One painful afternoon and I’m drained. So this is a tribute, a hug, a tip of my cap, a salute to the brave, incredible strong parents who have to do this on a daily basis. To parents whose children are ill and have long term pain. I do not know how you do it.

Who's a good mother anyway?

2009-10-21T18:56:00.007+01:00

Well, not me for starters. So here I am writing a magazine article about good parenting, and as I read through the many emails and blog replies to my survey (thank you everyone by the way), I nod in agreement as people place patience, quality time, sense of humour, creativity and flexibility as the ‘super’ ingredients in the melting pot of parenting. I even tap myself on the back for ticking a couple of the boxes.

And then this morning happened. Trying to get two toddlers up, fed, dressed and out the door by 8.30 is hard enough at the best of times. Add to the chaos, Daisy’s Halloween parade and torrential rain and I was just a smidgen stressed. I hurried them, they harried me. There should be a law against having to face-paint a witch (“with sparkly bits mummy!” ) before it’s actually light outside. By the time we were ready to plunge into the thunderous downpour I was cackling menacingly like the witch I’d just painted on her face. Crackling in an evil, hoarse, shouting, impatient, bad-mother sort of way. I even had a couple of moments as a fully screeching banshee.

Daisy wouldn’t wear the leggings under her witch’s outfit and my patience flew out the window on a broomstick, leaving me in the midst of a foot-stamping tantrum. I yelled to the point where she cried. I even slammed a door. I’m pretty sure I didn’t see ‘slamming doors’ on the list of good parenting ideals.

And I realised that maybe the first rule of being a good parent is that there should only be one child in the relationship? We kissed and made up and she was a bright ray of sunshine again before I could even say Abracadabra. But as my little witch (“I’m a good witch mummy”) skipped into school, this bad witch flew home on her broomstick with a sour taste in her mouth… the bitter bile of guilt.

And as I sit down to write my article on what makes a good parent, I realise it’s a lot easier to write about it….. and a lot harder to do.

Calling all Parents

2009-10-18T18:30:00.003+01:00

A bit like death and taxes being the certainty with life, you can rest assured there are two things we can rely on in motherhood - endless nappies and endless guilt-tripping. The pressure of parenting is palpable - from the magazines we read (who needs to see some celeb emerging with newborn in size 6 skinny jeans, I ask you???) to the school gates where we congregate (often the most bloody of battlegrounds) - we are bombarded with images and examples of how we are supposed to be. But are they realistic?

I'm writng an article for an Irish parenting magazine on the difference between society's perception of a 'super mum' and how we, the actually parents, think.

As part of my little survey , can I be so bold as to ask ye super / semi-super / not super at all parents your thoughts?

If you could list three things that make a good parent, what would they be?
Is there one area of parenting you feel intimidated in by other parents / magazines (spending time, parties, fashion, academic results, etc)
How do you think the media portray 'good' parents?
What 'celebrities' are portrayed as good parents and why?
In a rating on 1-10 how would you rate the following in terms of importance (as taken from a widely read magazine) - being a size 8 2 months after birth, child in matching Louis Vuitton accessories, spending quality time with your child...
Should we feel guilty for wanting to escape occassionally?

thank you, thank you, thank you.. any other comments very welcome.... one word answers can suffice although any ranting essays are welcome too....

will post up finished article soon. thank you...