Growing down

I've decided I want to grow down for a while.  Not reduce my height grow down, but the grow down that is the opposite of grow up. I want to grow down and find all those fun and childish values that get pushed out of the way to make room for more bone mass and chocolate induced fat cells as we get older.
Life has got super serious the last couple of years, super serious and super super stretched. I've taken on too much work, but still raise the girls, so I find myself lurking at my desk while the rest of humanity (rightly) use the dark hours for sleep, I have too much time away from them,  and back to the keyboard every evening once I've done the ususal routine of putting Ruby back to bed 14 times, whilst trying not to throw her (and me) out the window in frustration.
I care for my mum. I care for my children. I care for my husband. I care for the house, the family meals, the dog. I work. I no longer write my novel as there is no time. I barely write this blog.  But that's the time that's in it, those sandwhich years where I am the filling (nearing out of date) squashed between the breads of burden.
So to put a bit of life back into that filling (since I can't change the bread), I've two chutney challenges for myself.
The first is to reduce my workload so that I can fit some stuff in that (shock, horrow! How dare she?) is in fact just for me. Like writing, like running.  I have just made that income v living balance decision, and its scary but it's good.
And the second is to grow down. A few things happened in the space of a week to make me realise I've become too grown up. One morning Ruby was awake early and we went to walk the dog. I was in fowl form as I had hoped to get some work done before the girls all got up, so I stomped around the soggy park in the rain, dog and child in tow. I'd put Ruby's wet gear and wellies on so when she spotted a big muddy puddle she ran for it like a true Peppa Pig fan. The lure of her jumping around in this mire of mud was too much and I stomped right in and it splashed my mood away (I did not have wet gear and wellies on which made me rather sodden by that kinda added to the joy). And there it was. A moment of joy in a world of work. I grew down for a little bit and it gave me joy.
A few days later I was out with the girls and we were at an outdoor farm / playground place and Poppy said, "Mum, let's run to that fence and back again." I looked at her with that adult face that says, "for what purpose?" Because everything we do as adults has to have a purpose. And Daisy looked right back at me and said, "Why don't grown ups run?"  Kids run everywhere. Just for the pure expression of energy and joy. They see a space and they see a chance to run. Not the running (I'm supposed) to do where I set my distance, measure my pace and pound the path. Just a run. From here to there. Just for the fun of it.  So we did.We ran to the fence and back several times and puffed out lots of laughs between strained breaths.
I was at a worky workshop this week, and to start us off we were asked to draw the person beside us and then introduce them - their name and where they worked etc.  The room was full of apologies and cringy laments about bad drawings and 'it doesn't look like you's'.  The facilitator threw away a comment - if she had done this with a group of children, they would have attacked the challenge with vigour and made no apology for their masterpieces. Why do we loose that confidence, that enthusiasm, that total lack of embarrassment when we grow up?
And the last reason for wanting to grow down? If I don't grow down, and instead keep growing up, I'll keep growing old. My beautiful (grown down) daughter was sitting on my bed while I got dressed the other day. She came up behind me and squeezed my bum. "I love your bum mum," she said. "Thanks lovely!" I said, deligthed to be appreciated. "Yeah, it's really squidgy."  This was followed by a perfectly innocent "I like your boobs too - they look like monkeys hanging down from a tree."
So, two things I take from this. I have to make time to exercise so I do stay young and fit. And that kids call it as it is. They don't evaluate every comment, sanction every thought before they make them. They just accept who they are, and see things in simplicity.
So here's my simple thought. I'm super busy. I'm super stretched. I'm super sodding strangled.  And I'm not feeling super at all. In fact, I'm feeling rather crap.  So, I'm going to be grown up and cut down on work, and I'm going to be grown down and try and enjoy the simpler things in life.

the sound of heaven

Thre is no greater sound than the cacophony of childish giggles, yells and squeals. It is the sound of life living.

But there is no sweeter sound than the seconds after they all run out the door......a stampede of squealing, shouting shoe-searching, coat catching, that leaves a wake of  pure, blissful, unadulterated silence.   A silence so powerful it can knock you over.

It is rare, and all the sweeter for that. But, apart from being a mere pleasant moment that most parents at some points have sighed, "ah, peace." I wonder is it actually good for us?

I find myself increasingly searching silence. I used to relish the rare moments of being in the car by myself and slot my favourite CD on, blasting it loud and singing songs that didn't have the words 'bus', 'star', or 'baby.'  But now?  I turn off the cd player and listen to a blasting of silence.  I no longer have the TV in the background in the eveing while I potter round doing odd jobs. I potter in peace. I sometimes even take it a step further. I lie in bed sometimes and put my book down and just lie there. Awake, in the moment, taking a little moment to be, slightly amazed and bewildered that no-one is talking to me.

Damn. I must be getting old. I'll be telling them to turn down the music next.

My new mantra

I'm a 40-ish woman. I'm pretty confident that anyone reading this in that age bracket has gone through enough matras over the years to fill a self-help book. In my teens it was all about 'fit in, fit, fit in.'  Then in my late teens, early twenties it was all about ' stand out, stand out, stand out.'  Then it became less about me and all about the world, 'escape! explore! Seize the day!'
Then my 30's hit and it was all about being deliciously selfish - 'be the best. Work hard, play hard.' Then parenting arrived like a punch in the face and it was all about keeping my sanity. 'just get throguh each day! Be a better parent tomorrow."
Now? Now my mantra is not to have a mantra.  I'm so over with mantra's. I'm done with the litte voice in my head always telling me how to behave, and how I should be. I'm so finished with self-imposed rules and regulations.
And as a kick-start I'm giving something up for Lent. It was going to be baking and dark chocolate and then I realised that the vista of 40 days without the central comfort compenents of my life was too appalling, I opened a packet of Bourneville chocolate and let it go.
So yes. My mantra / lent sacrifice is not to mantra. But I've also gone a step further and banned a word. Recently I have banned my middle sparkle from saying the word 'but'. Everytime i ask her to do something she replies with a sentence beginning with 'But... I'm doing something / too tired etc etc etc'. So I've banned the word. It was easier than banning her.
I'm considering banning rolling eyes too. And the word 'whatever.'
So I'm now imposing a word ban on myself. I am no longer allowed to use the words "I should be doing........" When I do something even remotely relaxing, or for myself, those words pop into my head. So now they're banned.
So no mantra and no 'I should be doing....." I'm just going to be. Damn, that sounds like a mantra. Oh well. Let it be.

degrees of separation

I'm no longer special. And it's great!

When I first had Daisy, I became her world. Literally. Like any parent. When hubby went off to Germany while I nurtured our new baby to be, Daisy and I lived in a little bubble of love together.  When Poppy came along, it was all about keeping them apart for fear Daisy would batter her!  And I became Poppy's world. She wouldn't let me out of her sight for two years! But slowly something changed. They became friends, sitting side by side in their double buggy like peas in the pod. But still, for a long time, they were little selfish beings who just wanted me or daddy. But now, as Ruby has entered the fold - along with a very needy puppy! - our little bubble has expanded and enlarged, its membrane glowing with the colours of a rainbow as the sun shines and warms us.

And I watch an extraordinary thing. Alongside the wonderful connection I have with each of them, I watch how each of my children develops unbreakable relationships with each other - Daisy and Poppy, Daisy and Ruby, Poppy and Ruby. And of course Ruby and her soul-mate, Olly the dog. Now I can step back a little now and watch, mug of hot tea in hand (how many cups of tea have grown cold the last 7 years, neglected while I am pulled away again to give comfort, or respond to need?) and smile as I watch from the sidelines as they fight. bicker, hug, love, laugh, joke, tease, enourage, teach and learn from each other. I am still their world I think, but their universe is expanding and we are all satalites to each other, spinning round each other giving and getting life.

As my brother and I navigate the traumatic and emotional landscape of caring for our parents, our life together stands us in good stead as we steady and support each other (and annoy each other too!).  And so I stand back and see that the beginnings of a lifetime of connections are forming now that will help carry them all through life. And me too. Phew, this tea tastes good hot!

Closed minds

I've just walked through a riot. Ok, a riot in waiting. I always thought riots were moments of collective spontaneous combustion - a spark of anger / frustration / thuggery / protest - flared by a collective calamatous conscious of intent. But today in Belfast, I saw that in fact it is a premeditated, organised, cautious stand-off gone wrong (or gone right, depending which side of the barricade you are on.)
 A riot in waiting. The calm before the storm. The build-up before the explosion.
For weeks I've been watching the cowardly covered faces of youths who know nothing to the life we used to live in 'the old days' - spurred by the 'craic' of the riot rather than a passion for politics. Night after recent night I've watched the news with sadness, disappointment and a little shame that once again the streets I grew up in are being burned by petrol bombs and battered by bricks.
When I come up to look after my mum, I am more emmersed in the news, I shake my head in disgust at these overgrown children acting like violent petulant toddlers throwing a tantrum.
So I'm on my way to get the train back to Dublin, desperate to see my girls. My dad has driven me but I'm keen for him to get home quickly to mum, she can't be left alone for long. So when we see a big crowd loitering (they only loiter with intent in Belfast) I immediately tell Dad to stop. I'll walk the mile or so to go, he needs to get back to mum.
It was only when I got nearer, I realised the crowd was dense and deadly silent. Why oh why am I dragging my daughter's luminous pink wheelie case?  I realise a few of them have balaclavas and scarves over their faces. The side streets have shadows, and small piles of bricks.
Everyone is quiet. There is no noise, apart from the flock of helicopters overhead. Just people watching being watched. Because as I drag my silly fiscia case through the crowd, my heart sinks (further). The road up ahead is blocked by a police barricade of officers dressed in full riot gear, and about 20 riot vans. Behind them half a mile away is the train station.  There was no way through.
Do I agree with the protestors? I honestly don't know. I'm protestant but consider myself Irish. Northern Ireland is half catholic/half Irish and so I can understand why flying the Union Jack all the time upsets them. And I understand why taking it down upsets the unionists. If I had my way, I would remove all flags - apart from religion they have caused more death and destruction than anything else in history.
Anyway, regardless of what I think, any sympathy I might have had went up in the first whiff of smoke from a petrol bomb.
So I drag my bright pink children's wheelie case through the quiet, dense crowd. I avoid a balaclava and speak to a face. How might I get to the train station? He nods to the baricade, and suggests I ask. Oh. Ok then. Sounds like a plan. I realise everyone is calm (except me). Smiling even. Just waiting.
So I drag my pink case to the line of riot police and peer into a black visor. Both sides of the barricade use a facial cover to protect them from the other. What a weird world we live in. What a bizare way to spend your Saturday afternoon.
I point pathetically to my pinkness, and nod to the train station. He nods back and steps aside. I walk through this army of black and plastic shields, past the armour plated vans, and onto an empty main road. I walk as fast as I can (OK, I ran) until I was away enough to look back. yep. They're all still there. Waiting for the riot.
I'm at the station now. My train's delayed due to a security alert - just like the 'good ol' days'. Except they weren't that good. No matter how things change, sometimes they stay the same.

Nameless

The girl on the bus.

The girl with no name.

In most cases, having no name takes away our dignity, but this time it gives some.

Gang raped and abused on a Delhi bus, then thrown naked on the street like rubbish, her dignity was stripped along with her clothes. It's right that the world weeps for her pain and her death, but only her family and friends mourn for her. Keeping her name protects her in a way she couldn't be protected that night.

It haunts me. How the last hour of her life was so violent and shocking and sordid and painful and lonely.  Of course I want to see a picture of her, but then I will only imagine the terrible things that happen to her more.  Better her story raises the collective conscience, and not her face. Let her mother gaze and touch her face in the photo. Let her father and brothers and sisters and friends dream of her face. She belongs to them.  But her story belongs to everyone who wants equality and justice and basic bloody behaviour and attitudes towards women.

I have three daughters, all with beautiful, funny, bold, clever faces. As their mum, I am going to do everything to make sure my girls have an equal, strong chance in life. They will know and love their name, and never be afraid to shout it loud. I hope they have courage and kindness, belief in themselves and compassion for others, confidence and charisma. I've no doubt the parents of that girl, who now whisper her name every moment of the day in grief, felt the same way. 

I cannot imagine, I literally cannot begin to imagine how they must feel now. A beautiful, clever girl with a lifetime of potential, tortured, abused, and murdered by 6 evil creatures who deserve to have their names said loud and clear when the verdict returns Guilty.

I hold my girls a little tighter. And I say their names a little louder. That girl should have had her name read aloud when she graduated; whispered lovingly when she fell in love; perhaps said strongly when she married; replaced by Mummy when she became a parent. Now her name won't be said, but justice must be done, in her name.  And things must change, in her name. And those men should be punished, in her name. And tonight, girl on the bus, I will think of you, and whisper my daughter's names.

a headwreck

Do you ever have one of those weekends when the volume dial is just jammed on high?

The dog barked continuously, the mini maelstrome that is Ruby moaned all day, the middle monkey over-tired cried at everything, and the older sulked and sighed (very loudly) and my own screeching reached embarrassing levels as I tried to untangle three sets of christmas lights, stabalise a tree while the dog pulled it the other way, detangle said dog from the tinsel tornado he had become, and I generally let loose my furious festive fuming.

Do you ever have one of those weeks when your head jars with the constant jangle of 'I'm a crap parent today' melodied with 'you must be a better parent today', till your head feels like splitting in two with the bickering voices?

I've learned a lot about minding my own mental wealth after my bout of post-natal depression last year. And I've written here and been published in newspapers and magazines on various issues surronding mental health, and the pressure on young people in particular. I have three daughters and so have a keen interest in what might lie ahead for them. And like most parents, I am constantly wondering about how my parenting will affect them.

So it came as a bit of a shock to read that 50% of all mental disorders will have their onset during the school-going years. This terrifies me - what my girls will experience, and how they will cope will have a profound affect on the rest of their lives.  I will play one of the most important roles in making sure they can cope, are given the mental, emotional and practical skills to cope with family life, school life, social life, friends, academia, social pressures, etc

My girls are just in primary school, but already I deal daily with issues relating to the general gymboree of schoolyard issues. I can only imagine the challenges of the years ahead. Here are the stats in Ireland:
In an average secondary school class size of 30 students, 12 will feel depressed, 7 will not feel they can talk to anyone about how they feel, 6 will think about self-harming, and 3 will.

As I had one of my mummy mania moments over the weekend, feeling put-upon, stressed, overworked, undervalued - you know, the usual - I asked my girls what would make a happy household. I was leading to a smart reply along the lines of a happy mummy makes a happy household and helping, doing as your told, not fighting yada yada yada would make me a happy mummy. I know, crap mum moment. But instead, I was stopped in my tracks. My bright little button Poppy looked at me and said simply, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world, "Love. Love makes a happy household."
I dropped my duldrums and hugged her hard. She's right of course. Love is the answer. I just hope its enough.....

is is possible?

I don’t know if I’m jinxing things so I’ll whisper the words quietly, and write them in small font so they don’t get overhead by the gods of fate....by the laws of sod....by the ire of irony. But….

I think we’re almost through it.

The end is in sight, almost touchable, almost tangible. I can almost grasp it. Almost.

Seven long years I’ve been in the deep dark depths of early parenthood…. that brutal busy, physical tussle with irrational beings, that sanity-sucking limbo of baby-rearing, that cataclysmic chaos of nappies and sleepness nights, shit and wee, vomit and wind, pureed food, refused food, spat out food, spilled food, tantrums, toilet training, screaching, screaming, double buggies in small shops, Ryanair with a baby (don't need to say more), sixteen cars seat struggles a day, the exhaserbation (me), the exhaustion (me), the exhuberation (them) all whirled and wound togther in a wirlwind of wonderment and worry. And I'm nearly through it.

The other day, I took the dog for a walk. Daisy ran up ahead. Poppy rode her bike. And Ruby stuck her tongue between her lips and scooted with the concentration of a nobel-winning scientist on the cusp of cancer-cure. No-one whined. No-one had to be carried. No-one poo’d their pants. No-one threw themselves on the ground with a fearful ferocity for no apparent reason. It was a civilized walk in the park. I almost felt that a real person with a real family. Like on the telly.

And mealtimes have developed a promise of calm. A hint here. A glimpse there. Glimmers of possibility when all three actually sit in their seats at the same time for a full few minutes. I’m so taken aback I never quite know how to respond and I stare at them trying to find a topic of conversation that doesn't involve the words 'sit', 'eat' or 'aaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhh'.

We are evolving from a child management to a family participation unit. I'm excited. I'm nervous - what untold horror of hormones awaits me? But for now I'm writing my blog in peace. In peace!

The end is in sight.... and so is the beginning... a whole new phase of parenting.  Wish me luck!

little steps, big changes

Two years ago, I was horrified and harrowed by the awfulness of tending to the same needs from two people at the opposite ends of life - my mum and my newborn baby.  In the months after my mum's stroke just days after Ruby was born, one of the hardest things was the tasks I now had to perform for her, in complete unison with my daugher. Changing her nappy, feeding her pureed food with a spoon, figuring out what she was trying to say.

Two years later, and so much has changed, despite so much being the same. My mum can now talk and feed herself, albeit limited.  My daughter can now talk and feed herself, albeit limited. They are developing at the same stage.  And today, a momentous thing happened for them both.  My daughter completed her first jigsaw. And so did my mum. Ths first time either have had the concentration span, the cognitive intelligence and skills to complete a puzzle. The last few months have been like an awakening for them both. Ruby is working things out, recognizing more and more, communicating more effectively, being funny and engaged. My mum is making more sense, recognised a picture of her mother and last week said my name for the first time in two years.  We can laugh again together. Today we baked. I made the dough and rolled it out and with one hand she pressed the cutter. My mum taught me to bake, as I teach now my children. It is something we did together and today I got to do it again.   We walked the dog in the autumn sunshine as Ruby sat on mum's knee in her wheel chair and later we had a pretend tea party. Mum and Ruby laughed and connected - something I never dreamed could have happened in those awful awful months after her stroke.  Everything with Ruby is getting easier, and things with my mum are getting better.  It's the little things that make the biggest difference.

and then reality bites...

I love it when I write a post like my last one, as if suddenly the world has shifted on an axis and there are no troubles to be found.  Because I should know by now, when you have three kids, a job, a parent to care for, a marriage you'd quite like to keep, and a dog, troubles are never far away. Although I have to admit that after the Troubles of the last few years, it's nice to have troubles with a little t for a while.

Working from home had it's challenges - the constant pull of needs leaving me feeling I was making nobody happy any of the time. Every minute was allocated to at least three different functions and craziness ensued.  Now the pull is of a different kind - the constant guilt of leaving my girls, the logistics of organising meals, school pick ups and general family needs around the demanding 5 days of work in a three-day a week job.   Every minute is allocated - from 6 am when I have to get up to walk the dog before hubby goes to work, to the moment I lay my heavy head on the pillow, assuming at last this is my moment - only to have Ruby cry out. No. That moment isn't mine either.  All my  moments are theirs.  I realise that now. And that's ok. I've spent the last 7 years waiting for things to calm down. Just around the corner will be some peace. Just get through this week, and I'll be able to do all those things like tidy the baking cupboard. Maybe next year will be easier.

Daisy turned 7 today. I think I've finally realised it isn't an itch that needs scratching. It's life.
I have kids, ergo life is hectic and full, and challenging and chaotic, glorious and gruesome, exhuasting and exhilerating. Every moment is allocated, because every moment is full.

 My beautiful, wonderful, funny, exhuberant, smart, fiesty, thorny, caring, loving, curious, creative gorgeous baby is seven. And like the day I became a mother by becoming her mother, I still feel new to this parenting process.  But I now kinow this;  I'm going to stop waiting for the ride to stop so I can step off for a moment and catch my breath. She is seven and only a few moments ago she was a baby. So I'm buckling myself in and holding on tight. I'm on this ride, and I'm not getting off.   Bring it on!

Changing times

Life has changed so much in recent weeks. Speeded up, slowed down, eased off, taken off.  Since coming back from Donegal where the days rolled into each other like the sea on those glorious beaches, and the horizon was limiteless, the autumn now drags the dark skies in earlier and a new phase of life with it.

Poppy has started school with her usual confident shyness, and Daisy has bounced into her third year with a happiness that was covered in trepidation the first two years. And Ruby.... well Ruby has reached the big 2 milestone, leaving her official status as baby behind. However, she is as minxy and exhuberant as ever. This week she got into my baking cupboard (she rattles them until the locks break) and covered the puppy in Pink food colouring. Last week it was green felt tip pen, and we're all still recovering from her covering the poor pub in nappy cream!

But the big change is me. I have a new job - the first time really working out of the house since the girls were born. We have a lovely au pair from Germany who has taken all my stress of childcare issues away, and I now wear lipstick and talk to adults three days a week.  It took a lot of time for me to come to terms with the change that would take me away from the girls, but it's been amazing. In a good way.  I love my new job, I love the fact that for the first time I'm not working from home - it means when I stop working, I STOP WORKING!  Weirdly, I have better time with the girls now, because when I'm there now, I'm there for them.  I'm not juggling them, my gmail, my yahoo mail, my work mail, my iphone, my housework, my general life. Oh, and my marriage!

Now, I have time to be with the girls. I do my own stuff in the evening instead of finishing work deadlines. And....... one night a week, hubby and I have a date night. A DATE NIGHT!!!!  I've even managed to squeeze an extra au pair hour this week so we can go and walk the dog. Together. As a couple. I'll say that word again. Together.

After 7 years of baby care, I think I'm finally into the new stage of childcare.  A new stage of work life. A new stage of marriage.

Here's to change. And it being as good as a rest!  Coz there's no chance of that!

the answer to all my problems!

A near perfect day

Yesterday was one of those days that I kept catching myself and watching as if I was above and looking down.  It was near perfect. It was the kind of day I remember from my childhood. The kind of day I wanted for my un-born children as I wondered how our lives would change. The kind of day our girls will recount when they are older and reminisce about their Donegal summers.

It started well. I had a lie in..... Hubby arrived the night before and after two and half weeks of solo parenting, I got to slumber in my duvet and tune into my own thoughts wthout the perpetual background symphony of little voices.  Then, after Ruby went for her morning nap, the four of us had a family game of Monopoly.  When I was a child and we went on our family holidays to Donegal, my brother and I would have epic three day games of Monopoly.  Daisy and Poppy are now equally addicted, although Daddy had to go and bankrupt us all!
Then I wrote a long letter to my mum and sent her all the pics of our beach adventures.... I know she will clutch that letter and hold onto it for hours.... an escape to the outside world.
Then....... we went and saw some puppies.  We've been wanting one for ages, and there in the local little shop was a little notice. I knew immediately one of them was ours. Serendipity. A little piece of Donegal with us always. We went to see them and the girls chose their new pet - the little dog that will share all the days of their childhood.  And here he is...... Olly. Serendipidous. He was already called Olly, the name we were going to call our boy that never happened.

In the afternoon we climbed up sand dunes, and rolled down them, laughing out sand, spitting out sun. We walked though a meadow of orchids, cow parsley, cowslips, thrifts, dancing in the long grass. We left our footprints on the soft sand, and Ruby waved at the waves. We climbed rocks and threw sand and wet seaweed at each other screaming in laughter.
Then we got home and sat down together to a great big steaming fish pie, talking about our new family. With Olly.
When the kids went to bed, the sun called us outside and hubby and I sat in the shadow of Mount Ericle and supped wine and smiled.  Then we fell asleep in front of a roaring turf fire. Does it get any better? Does it make up for the endless days of frustration and tears, hard work followed by hard work, rearing and roaring, teaching and tearing my hair out?  Yes, actually. It does. I say near perfect, because I wish my mum would be able to read the letter I sent her. And come and visit us to meet Olly and step her footprints beside mine in the sand as she has all my life.  But then, I know I wouldn't have been able to have this near perfect day if her footprints weren't there.  As they always will be. As mine will always be beside my girls whereever they are.

Donegal Dreaming..... 2012

I'm back. Back in the glorious expanse of sky that makes me feel part of a huge beautiful world. All year I have waited for this. All year I have plodded and puffed, toiled and teared my way through the months waiting for this.....

..... the wet smulch of sea-soaked sand between my toes. The wind blowing away the stands of stress with every bluster.  I'm back. And as always, the beautiful wilderness of Donegal makes me feel alive, alert, appreciative.
I'm back..... in every sense of the words.

You can't win

Today I had an encounter of the weird kind. Quite upsetting actually, although I'm forcing myself to laugh. Laugh in the face of nutters, right?
There I am, bubbled in the babble of morning mayhem - striding up the road to school, three kids in tow, ten minutes late and dealing with the normal emotional meltdowns that cover young girls like an invisible aura. Poppy was whining and whinging and lagging behind. She stayed awake last night longer than is required for happy family life, and was making sure everyone knew about it.  I did the only thing one can to survive a day of endless crying and hysteria - I ignored her.  I strode on ahead and she scooted about 4 feet behind,crying and shouting. At some point, I turned round and told her to grow up and hurry up. So far, so normal.  (Just to point out, there are plenty of mornings - when the required amount of sleep is had, that we all skip to school singing songs and chatting our heads off).

Suddenly a young man walked past me and as he did he turned to me angrily and snarled, "It's hard being a child. How dare you treat her like that. You're one of those angry mothers you see everywhere!"
Once I'd picked my chin off my shoes, I spluttered out an incoherent retort along the lines of 'How dare you!  How dare you comment on something you know nothing about. You know nothing about me or what I'm going through!"  Did he walk away? Did he apologise?  No!  He stopped, turned and shouted at me in front of my three girls. In a furious attempt to just get rid of him, I told him to 'clear off!" Honestly - no stronger.  Where I found the self-restraint not to swear I don't know - probably the look of horror on poor Daisy's face. Suddenly another school mum appeared, saw what was happening, and literally chased him away up the street.  I hid my upset from the girls and carried on to school. But I was bruised. He might as well have slapped me. A complete stranger called me a bad mother in front of my children. His words pressed down on me all day, like a large thumb crushing my head. Every insecurity, every pore of guilt that I have ever felt came gushing through me.
And then I had coffee with my friend. She has three daughters too. And last week she was on her way to the shops with them. Like mine, she had one in a pram and two were scooting a bit ahead of her.  Suddenly a man approached her and said (and I quote, lest you think I'm joking) "If you let those girls go ahead of you like that, they'll get lifted by a paedophile!" My friend spluttered some shocked reply, and he retorted, "you need to let a roar out of you and control those kids!"
So there we have it. One week, one road, two men giving us mums some advice. I'm a bad mother for shouting at my child, and my friend is a bad mother for not shouting enough.
We can't win, can we?

The map of motherhood

Do you ever read something and it resonates so much with your moment in time and space that the words leap off the page and slap you in the face?  Or maybe it's a lyric that rings in your ears long after the song has stopped? I read this last night, and it nearly stopped my heart:
A mother draws a map for her child and places herself at the centre of it. Her death wipes that map clean. She leaves you knowing that you must redraw it to survive, and yet not knowing where to start.
My mum didn't die but the map was wiped clean when she had her stroke. Those three lines sum up how I've felt over the last two years, and how I have struggled not only to redraw the map, but to figure our how or where to even start.
Grief is more than an emotion. It becomes a physical part of you - like shrapnel embedded in your flesh - as real, and permanent as your arm and leg. It is always there, although we might seem to heal and live with the scars, it is hidden in your muscles and your bones, your brain and your heart.
Every day I mourn the loss of all that could be, as much as what was. People say time is a healer, but it is also the blunt knife that cuts deeper. Sure, time softens the pain and the heart-stoppping terror, leaving behind a low-level ache. But the knife of time also cuts deeper, reminding us over and over again that as life is moving on, we are leaving someone behind.
My mum lies in suspended animation, a still frame in a world of moving pictures. Poppy turned five last month, and danced in her first ballet show. Daisy is writing stories and singing songs, and Ruby is full of wonder. We have adventures, we make plans, we live our days, and my mum is missing it all. But worse, we are missing her.
I know that over the last year, no-one would have devoted more time to sitting on the sofa hearing Daisy read than her. I know she would have started to write letters to Daisy, and get replies, just like mum and me wrote to each other all our lives. I know she would have been measuring every centimeter Poppy has grown this last year as her gluten-free diet kicks in, and listened avidly as Poppy regales tales of her imaginary friend, Heart. I know Ruby would be wearing little dresses ("I just couldn't help myself") that mum would bring down, and my mum would be bending the ears of everyone she knew with Ruby's minxy antics.
I know that, because my mum was the centre of my map and those are the roads that lay ahead of us. Now I stumble down new tracks, unmapped areas and try to mark my way. All I can do is take the navigation tools she taught me and hope I find my way.

This old house

I'm spending so much time in my childhood house these days as I care for mum, that it has that old familiar feel. I'm not the random visitor of that last 20 years, leaving my breath on the window pane on my way out. Instead, I leave my imprint in the bed, my things accumulating in bedside drawers and wardrobes once again.
As my mum lies in her dining-room-converted bedroom, I wander the rooms of my adolescence and remember the memories. Fights, laughs, chats. The front door opening and closing a thousand times as I went to and from school. The hours I spent standing in the hallway talking on the phone to friends and shy first boyfriends. The whispers my bedroom walls heard as I revised for exams, wrote secrets in my diary, gazed beyond my horizon and imagined my life ahead. Hours spent beside my mum, licking baking bowl spoons in the kitchen, sitting beside her on the sofa learning the lessons of my life.
These walls housed many family sagas before our own. When we moved here I wandered about then, touchng the walls and trying to listen to the whispers of other people's stories. Now I sit with my mum and go through old photos.... black and white characters no longer filled with the colour of life. Long lives, long lived, but over now. Now they are the ageless faces in aged albums. Like the people who once lived in this house.
And as our family sage comes slowly slowly to an end, I cannot help but wonder who will live here next. What fights, laughter, chats, hopes, dreams, heartache, pain, love will fill these walls.  But for now, we must still fill this hosue with the noise of our family. Until those memories too drain of colour.
Replaced in brick, but never in hearts.

A gift

I've been given a special gift this week, made all the more precious because it was unexpected, a still frame in the blur of life. For months, I knew I was coming up to care for mum for a week while my dad took a much needed break.  But my focus was on finding childcare (my gorgeous aunt-in-law came over from Uganda to help us out!!!), school pick ups (thank you Brid!), and making meals for every night so Aunt Judith didn't have to cook as well as looking after three young tearaways and change her first nappies at the age of 60+.

So when I arrived it was in the tailspin of planning, packing, and panicking. You do suddenly panick as you run out the door leaving three small children in the hands of a woman who has never had kids - my worry being for her, I hasten to add, not them!

But as squeals of delight greeted me down the phone every day, I began to relax into the week with my mum. When my mum had her stroke 19 months ago, I never thought I'd enjoy my time with her again. She was a shadow. And I was scared of her strangeness.

But this week was almost like days of old. I did her hair and make-up every day, and we laughed. Really laughed. She has made so much improvement, that at times I forgot the fear, and enjoyed the fun.  For the four hours a day that she is in a wheelchair, I took her out to the amazing Titanic Exhibition, to the shopping centre, and round the park in the sun. Her friends came round for lunch and stayed all afternoon. We watched and sang to the Sound of Music, and we went through old photos.  She still can't remember people or names, but she engaged none the less. Every morning, I brought a little table in beside her bed, and worked beside her on my laptop, chatting and drinking tea. And in the evenings, I would hop up on her bed and lie beside her while we watched TV. 

For a week, I've had my mum back........ one of the most precious gifts I've ever had. 

Things I learned on holiday

Apologies for the blog hiatus - but frankly I was too busy eating chocolate and drinking wine over the Easter holidays to nurture my neglected baby. With the girls off school, I was busy nurturing them instead..... and my waisteline. We went to Wales for a week, followed by a whirlwind tour of English friends. Then Belfast, back to Dublin, off to Meath, and here I am back in Belfast, catching breath. And letting out my belt. Here's some of the things I learned while I was away...

1. Don't be fooled by the sneaky sun. Two days bluffing and I put away all the winter clothes and unpacked the frivilous summer fabrics. Then we went on holiday. We were doing great the first two days as the girls swam in the sea and we picniced on the beach. And then it snowed. Twelve hours after sunbathing, it snowed. We had no socks. I had to go out and buy fleeces. Next year the jumpers are staying out until July.
2. If you eat all your children's easter eggs, you will get fat. And unpopular.
3. Five hour ferry rides are not enjoyable. Five hour ferry rides with a livewire toddler who won't sit still, while 40 drunken students dressed as pirates sing and cavort the whole way across the Irish Sea is just plain hideous. I didn't know whether to grab their port and start singing, or jump overboard.
4. If you drink wine every night, while sharing a room with your baby, you will soon feel you are dying from sleep deprivation. Combine this with chocolate overdose and you will actually wish you would die.
5. As my mum would always say, "it's lovely to go away, but it's even nicer to come home."
6. Mum's are always right. Even when they eat all your chocolate.

We Survived

Dear Ruby,

today, you are exactly 18 months old. This may not seem like a big milestone to some, but for us, it's a miracle. This was the age there were times I never thought we'd make. This was the age I set ourselves to reach at the darkest abyss of the beginning - 'if only we can get to 18 months, we can get through it all', I would say, wishing away every minute.

There are four babies I'll never hold, so holding you was life-changing. I remember the joy of your birth. My mum was with me and we laughed and joked and smiled at the wonder of it all. Hubby was overjoyed and especially delighted when you came out ginger like him! Daisy and Poppy couldn't believe their luck - a perfect little doll that moved. All was well with the world.

And four days later, I lost my mum. She did not die, but I was left with her shadow and the loss of never being held ferociously again, as I held you.

Those days and weeks and months that followed, I'm ashamed to say, were dark, dark, dark dark days. It was as if my heart wasn't big enough for all the love and all the grief I was feeling, and so the grief overwhelmed it all. There were days, even moments, when I literally did not know how to get through to the next.

But you are a fighter. You are an energy force unlike anything I have ever encountered. You are a mystical beautiful beast that rose from the ashes of my life and battled and beat me until I broke through the grief and bathed in the love. You are like dynamite. You are a ball of fire. You are a hurricane of love and glory and mischief and enchantment and magic and mayhem.

We have made it to 18 months and you got me there by the sheer will of your love, the ferocity of your hugs, the glory of your gusto. You are a little goddess of goodness, and a little demon of devilment.

You have broken every bowl in the house and have started on the new batch. We no longer have stools or chairs in our kitchen as you use them to climb into the cupboards and break everything you find. You're favourite was dragging the stool over to the fridge door and pushing the water dispenser until the floor was flooded. No-one is allowed a drink because you pour water over my computer whenever you can. You eat snails and worms and terrorise the cat. You've battered the kitchen cupboards so much all the locks have given up in defeat. You've drawn on every surface of the house, and yesterday poured my nail varnish all over our bed. Most days, all any of us say is a screeching "Rubeeeeeeee!"

But you have the smile of an angel. You have the giggles of a cherub. You have the capacity to love and show affection like an army of babies. When you run into my arms, and bury your face in my neck, squirming to get your body as close to mine as humanly possible, it's like the earth melts away and we are floating in space. And nothing makes my mum's face light up as much as the sight of you.

Today you are 18 months old. I no longer wish away the moments, but relish every frustrating, fabulous second (with a slight trepidation as to what you're going to put me through over the next 18 months, the next 18 years, and the next 18 years after that. I'm on a health regime just so I can stay alive long enough to keep you out of trouble for as long as possible).

We made it. I've been up since 4am with Poppy coughing. Yesterday Daisy called me a Poo Poo Head before storming out of the room. And you? You smashed my iphone. For the third time.

Happy days.