It's a hard life being six

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.

Fitting it all in.....

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!

Which Cartoon Character are you?

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???

One day....

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!

Calling all Parents

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...

My 3 year olds last kiss

Last night my three year old girl – the light that has lit my world since the day she was born – kissed me good night for the last time. It was sad and beautiful.

This morning I hugged my four year old for the first time, and it felt fantastic. It seems like only yesterday I held my breath as I held her in my arms, so awestruck was I at her very existence. Yet in other ways, four years seems like a lifetime, my lifetime before her forgotten, like a murky dream I can’t quite remember.

Only four years of my forty, yet it feels like the other way round. Like all I learnt before would fit into four years, and all I have learnt since into 36. I’ve grown up as much as her, and at times it felt her rising star has shone more brightly in direct relation to my dulling down.

And yet… there are more times her light has shone a beam on me, highlighting a side of me I like better - a kinder, wiser, loving, caring me.

So tonight I will kiss my four year old goodnight for the first time, and see a better me reflected back in the glint in her eyes. We made each other it seems…. So happy birthday to me too….the better me.

Disaster days are often the best...

I just had one of “those” days. This one was so bad, it started the night before and kept on going. Having had two weeks of broken sleep, hubby finally returned from his various trips and I scuttled off to the spare room for a good nights’ rest. Sod’s law dictated though, that as soon as I snuggled under the duvet, Poppy’s croupy cough crescendoed and I ended up bringing her in with me, thus my sleep-filled night was a snot fuelled fright, and s’not a lot of sleep was had. It was 5am and I was ready for my bed.

We pulled back the morning curtains and searched for the sky, but the sun had put her hat on and marched off to another continent. It rained, it poured and the heavens snored thunderously. And being Dublin - where let’s face it, the rain reigns - no-one can cope and everyone and their dog got into their cars (including me!) and it took twice as long to drive as it normally does to walk, so we were late. But before the road rage there was an epic temper tantrum. Screaming and shouting and stamping of feet (that was me), wailing and crying and screeching (that was Daisy) and by 8.30 I was ready for the hills.

We finally got to playschool and Daisy continued her recent phase of not wanting to stay. Poppy on the other hand cries because she wants to go and doesn’t understand she is too young. So I have Poppy in my arms screaming and holding onto Daisy, who is being restrained in her teacher’s arms, screaming and crying and holding onto Poppy. We tear them apart (my heart along with them) and we finally get the right one to stay and the right one to go. It’s 9.30 and I’m ready for a gin.

I decide to head for Ikea to take half the shopping back from the last visit (I think it’s their marketing magic – you go for one thing, buy 20, take half back, but when you are there buy 10 more things, but end up having to take five back and the cycle continues until you are 90 and can no longer drive, but that’s another blog for another day.) Because it’s raining, it takes me an hour and when we get there (Poppy now trying to get herself out of the car seat in protest) I discover it doesn’t open until 11. I have to pick Daisy up at 12 so I literally turn around and head back to school. It’s 10.30 and I’m ready for retirement.

When we get home, I can’t even give them their usual half hour TV (my crucial half hour switch off) because in the midst of our respective tantrums this morning, I threatened Daisy with no TV today and now have to carry it out. It’s only mid-day and I’m ready for a breakdown.

With the mood inside as dark as the skies outside, I decide to abandon all plans to cook, and clean and write. When the pieces aren’t falling into place, sometimes we just need to figure out the puzzle, so I sat down on the floor with my girls and a jigsaw. We ended up doing 21. Yes, 21!





And with each one completed our smiles got a little wider and our moods a little lighter. We talked and laughed and eventually our bad moods lifted. I’ve run myself ragged over the last two weeks trying to do fun things, go to new places (art gallery a DISASTER), and I realised an important thing today. Like the proverbial Christmas present, kids often just want the box. In this case, me. At the end of our jigsaw marathon, I asked Poppy if she was tired. “No. I’m ‘appy”. It’s the end of the day, and I’m ready for that gin, but now, it’s in that “Phew, what a good day” sort of way.

Lice are Nice

No, really, they are. I’ve decided not to get hysterical about the hopping, crawling creepies that have festooned themselves in our household hair (my husband’s rather bald head notwithstanding). Instead, I’m going to rack it up as one of those ‘oh the joys of motherhood’ things and focus on the positive. Yes, like I tell my daughters, if you look hard enough, you’ll find the good in everything. (I so much prefer ‘do as a say, not what I do’ but hey ho, here goes)… the positive points of our family infestation.

1. We now all have really clean hair. Seriously, this stuff actually KILLS things..
2. The lice comb finally got out the three month old tangle in Daisy’s hair (it wasn’t really screaming, it was more wild whimpering on her part…)
3. I now feel like a ‘real mother’ with proper child-rearing experiences
4. It is preparing us for other such cringy creatures (“Just wait till they get worms!” my sister-in-law laughed helpfully)

Dear God, is there no end to the disgusting digressions our children take us on? As a little aside while I strain my brain for more lice positives… here’s my top 5 grim gross-outs:
1. lice (despite being nice, honestly… see above and below)
2. worms (even the anticipation of them is enough to make me wretch)
3. poo – everywhere, always, and inescapable. In nappies, on the floor, in the pants. It really is shit.
3. Vomit – on me. Everytime.
4. Snot – 6 months of the year. The height of horror when Daisy wiped her green goo away with my new Boden skirt. Actually wiped her snot on my skirt…

Anyway, I return rather hurridly to my positive points. Now where was I? Oh yes, number 6.

6. The shared experience brought us closer as a family (ok, nobody else would hang out with us…)
7. I can now advice other naïve mothers on what to look for, what to buy, and how to hide away
8. Our hair is really clean… oh, I said that already. But it really is VERY clean..
9. Even lice are nature’s wonderful creatures and must be loved. Even if that means loving killing them.
10. Oh Sod it. I can’t do it! Lice are NOT NICE! They are horrible, harrowing, creepy, dirty, nasty creepy creatures and I have exterminated them!!

Now bring on those worms.

Killer Food

I’m lucky to be alive. Really. I’ve had so many death-defying experiences in my life, it’s a wonder I’m here at all……. Or so you’d think if you spent time with my mum. The funny thing is, I don’t actually remember these calamitous childhood horrors, and I don’t appear to be traumatised by my early dances with death. But to hear my mum hover (yes, she hovers so intensely you can actually hear a soft hum) over my children, it would seem that life is one long list of dastardly death traps just waiting to happen.

It all began when Daisy was about two weeks old. I’d (so stupidly, obviously) placed her Moses Basket downstairs close to the table, where, lurking ominously a few inches away was ….. the Murderous Melon. Now being a new mother and all, I had never heard of killer fruit, and for all my voracious reading of baby bibles had never come across this phenomenon. So there I was, gazing goo goo at my little wonder, when I was scared out of my skin by the shrieks of my mother.
“What are you putting her there for? Move her away! Move her away!”
As I frantically looked around for the man-eating tiger, all I could see was the fruit bowl.
“There, there!” she yelled as she pointed towards the (very innocent-looking, it has to be said) fruit bowl.
“What??????” I screamed, fearing some exotic South American tarantula was somehow crawling towards my baby from the depths of the pears.
“There. There… the melon! It might roll off the fruit bowl and fall on her head!”
And thus the legend of the Murderous Melon began.

Over the last couple of years, the Most Wanted List has included the Dangerous Door (dangerous because it opens, you understand), the Terrible Tricycle, and the Sly Step to name but a few. As for letting them out of my sight in a shop…. my mum practically ties Daisy’s top to her handbag. My favourite however, has to be the Killer Crust. One day I’d cut the girls a slice of crusty loaf and pulled off the round hard edge to give them the soft bread in the middle. Daisy, ever the girlie, placed the semi-circle of crust around her neck as a necklace.
“No, No Daisy, don’t do that! It might strangle you!”
“It’s a piece of bloody bread mum!” I shrieked in exacerbation. “Relax!”
How on earth did I grow up to be such a well-adjusted (ahem..) adult – surely if this was my mum, I must have been cocooned in a cotton wool straight-jacket? But I wasn’t. I remember going off to play with my friends in the old deserted railway track and turning up back home when I got hungry. I must have played with dangerous doors and sat next to murderous melons with no ill affect. So why has my mum become scared of my daughters’ shadows?

I’ve decided it’s just one of the many funny foibles of grandparenting. Like taking twice as long to do everything, it’s just one of those annoying things - that bug us mums to the point of murderous intent - that we have to accept (along with all the free childcare and hugs). You see, I’m too close, too frenetic, too hassled, too frazzled, too preoccupied with the next ten minutes of tasks, I don’t have the luxury of languishing in worry about rolling melons and dangerous doors. My level of worry only extends to the main criminal characters – The Road, The Stranger, and The Dog Next Door. Maybe when I’m a step removed too – with all the love and little of the responsibility – I might just be afraid of the Murderous Melon too…... that is, if Daisy or Poppy haven’t thrown it at me first! Now there’s a thought that would make my mum laugh in satisfaction…. My melon demise. You can just read the headline now… “Grandmother felled by Murderous Melon…”
(PS. Sorry mum, you know I love you!)

It's good to talk...

A weekend of sleepless nights, high emotion, and hugs and happiness. Just another weekend with the girls…. Only this time it was my girl-friends…

Four ragged mums decided it would be beneficial to all concerned (our kids most of all) that we step out of the fray for a couple of days and rejuvenate the batteries. That was the official line anyway. The less-tactful truth was we needed to escape the neediness of our daughters and sons, and embrace the solidarity of our sisters by putting on some sassy lippy and abdicating our responsibilities. Oh yes, and drinking copious amounts of Merlot. So off to Donegal we went, a four hour road trip suddenly an opportunity to talk rather than a challenge to survive; loud singing to Abba rather than the Wheels on the Bus; hang when we get there rather than beating the clock before the children implode.

Do I feel well-rested? Do I hell. I feel absolutely wrecked, and delirious with weary exhaustion. Do I feel better? Abso-bloody-lutely. We laughed, we cried, and sometimes we even cried laughing. We walked along a deserted beach, we ignored the kitchen and ate out every meal, we sunbathed (yes, we sunbathed. In Donegal. In September. In bikinies. Not a fleece in sight.) We confessed, we consoled, we provoked and we absorbed. But most of all, we talked. And talked, and talked and talked. And after all that copious amount of busty red wine was drunk? Oh then we really talked. And then some.

I haven’t stayed up to 4am without a baby in my arms for over 5 years! I missed my little girls of course, but I needed – for a little while at least – to be surrounded by these big girls, great, strong, vibrant women, of which it was life-saving to be reminded that I was one.

I’m as tired as I ever was in those endless weeks of nocturnal nurturing…. But I’m as happy too. Girls weekends are great – whatever the size those girls are. Now if only my hubby would agree to let me sneak off for a couple of days to recover…..

Back to school

With much wailing, knashing of teeth and beating of breasts, the time has come to acknowledge that summer is finally over. School is starting and the depression has sunk in. I’m talking about me of course. Daisy is fine… my little ray of sunshine actually told me the sun was shining inside her tummy she was so happy. It was me that was wailing and knashing and beating. My long lovely summer of lazy mornings in bed (reading to the girls I hasten to add, lazy mornings in bed by myself are a long lost lament..), lazy breakfasts in our pyjamas, picnics in the park, playdates and playgrounds has drawn to a chilly conclusion, and this morning’s early alarm clock declared my rude awakening that autumn is here and routine has come home to roost.

But it seemed there was another reason I was in my reluctant to return to school mode… I trussed her up in her new clothes and with one final lingering hug I tried to reassure her about her new playschool. “Come ONNNNN mummy!” she yelled impatiently and she struggled from my strangling hold, “I want to go, I want to go, I’m starting a new school!!” I washed over the table top again, I had another toilet trip, I tried to put the washing out …. “Come onnnn” she said through gritted teeth as she hurried me out the door. She skipped down the road and I dragged me feet. “Come Onnnnnnn mummy, I want to meet all my new friends!” I hung my head in dread. I was beginning to realise that this wasn’t the way it was meant to be playing out. Wasn’t I meant to be the happy one? Wasn’t SHE meant to be dragging her feet?

I had to finally acknowledge that it wasn’t just my fear of her starting a new playschool – my chats over the summer to explain that she wasn’t going back to her old playschool because we’ve moved house obviously doing the trick because she didn’t have one millisecond of doubt about starting all over again with new friends. With a shock I realised it was MY reluctance at having to make new friends all over again. It’s ME that has to make new friends with all the parents, remembering their names, their children’s names, their children’s sibling’s names, their husbands (wives) names – not easy when I can currently barely remember my cat’s name! It’s ME that has to look like a good calming, responsible parent rather than the chaotic, holding-it-together-by-a whisker wreck I normally am so that they will trust me with their children. …… so that I can leave MY children with THEM! You see, if I don’t make friends, then I don’t get to arrange playdates with like-minded good-parents-in-disguise, I don’t get to watch my child flourish in fruitful friendships, I don’t get to build those essential “can you pick Daisy up for me, I’m stuck in town” relationships that make life bearable! She’ll be a looser with no friends and it’ll be my fault and she’ll blame me for ever, and never speak to me, and end up putting me in a home when I’m old and frail. Forget exam pressure - parental pressure is much worse! Anyway, can’t hang about writing this. Must have a bath, wash behind my ears and go to bed early. It’s a school night.

Wet, Windy and Wonderful...ish

So the final piece of the motherhood jigsaw has fallen into place – the last singleton pleasure usurped by the wishes of two tearaway toddlers. Gone are the lazed holidays by a sun-drenched beach…… now are the crazed holidays by a rain-drenched beach.

We are having a ‘staycation’ as the recession-minded media are calling them. And we’re not just holidaying in Ireland. Oh no… we’re braving the wilds of the most rugged island off the west coast of Ireland… there’s nothing between us and America but a few hostile weather fronts and the Atlantic Ocean. And don’t we know it. “It’ll be an adventure!” we thought. Mmm. We had to abandon the tent on the first night due to ‘adverse’ weather conditions… otherwise known as a bloody big storm. Now, securely sleeping in a rather more stable structure, our Achill Island adventure is rather more the Wild Wild West than Dora goes Exploring.

My beach body has been replaced by beached whale body as I comfort eat between rainstorms. Who needs sunburn when scorch marks from a blazing fire at night scar our shins just the same? Who needs expensive Spa facials when sandstorms and North Atlantic howling winds take two layers of skin off for free? Who needs cooling cocktail umbrellas when you can throw your inside-out umbrella in the bin and surrender to the elements? Trapped in a small (we’re calling it ‘bijou’) holiday cottage, rain pounding the windows in relentless laughter as we try and entertain two children who have yet to unwrap that “we’re on holiday, we’re meant to be relaxing” gene, hubby and I keep looking at each other with a look that can only mean one thing…. Next year we are so going abroad. To the sun. And a fun park. It’s really amazing how much one bedraggled eyebrow can say.

But then again, part of me is delighted with our little adventure. Isn’t this what it’s all about? Isn’t this what we experienced as children, and didn’t it make us, well, more robust? Achill has probably never been called balmy, so today we were probably barmy as we ran onto the deserted golden beach (the best thing about Ireland is the beaches, the worst thing about Ireland is its rarely warm enough to enjoy them) the second the sun scurried out from behind a cloud, as it eagerly shone on us before the next grey sky descended. We might have had 15 layers of clothes on, but that sun was shining so we were going to enjoy it! The girls ran up and down the beach like manic munchkins, danced with the waves and collected shells. Daisy hasn’t stopped singing and talking since we got here, running from one rock to another in boundless energetic excitement. I even braved the fiendishly cold Atlantic Ocean and went for a swim. It was cold yes, but it was exhilarating in a way I’ve barely felt since childhood. We explored the rock pools and threw clumps of soggy seaweed at each other, then we wrapped ourselves in towels, added another three layers of clothes and headed to the nearest pub for some fine Irish seafood – thick warm chowder swarming with prawns, fishcakes crammed with salmon and trout, scampi as fresh as the fish we just left in the rockpools. Stuffed to our gills, we rolled home, sand stuck in places sand is not meant to be, faces ruddy, and exhausted in that way only wild windy days can make you. The kids are asleep upstairs, sleepy smiles settled on their weather beaten faces. Hubby and I are cradling cups of warm wine by a smokey turf fire. Even the wind has mellowed. The sun may not be shining on our holiday, but the girls’ sunshine is making it a scorcher. That said…. Where’s the ClubMed brochure for next year?

Summer time and living is easy...

I feel like a child again. For the first time in years I have a lazy summer holiday ahead of me. Now, I feel like it’s reward for all the hard work. Now, I realise what it’s all about. Now, I remember why I gave up my job. Now, I understand I did the right thing. Now, I’m having fun.

Somehow in the blur of birth and the chaos of child-rearing I careered into seeing being a mum as a job, with hard long tedious repetitive hours, little appreciation and not much gratification. It seemed there were days that all I did was respond to the needs of others. And when my job was done, I was too tired to respond to my own needs and write. But suddenly the sun has appeared from behind the clouds (metaphorically I assure you, as the sun is definitely staying away this summer) and the summer holidays are upon me. School’s out for summer and I’m no longer a mum. I’m just a kid, hanging out with her friends. Because suddenly, that’s what my two girls have become. Suddenly, I don’t feel I have to do every single thing for them. Suddenly Daisy can dress herself and Poppy can make a pretty good attempt. Suddenly the possibility of no nappies is nearly upon me. Suddenly they can all talk and chatter and play together and I’m no longer the only person who can satisfy them. Suddenly I want to join in and it has all come together and despite the crappy weather (oh the joys of an Irish summer) it’s just me and the girls…. and girls just wanna have fun. While hubby still trundles the toiling treadmill (oh how I used to resent his ‘escape’ to the outside world), we live in a different world – a world of picnics and playdates, adventures and days out, lunches and high teas, breakfasts in the garden, lunch in the park, tea in Applejacks up the road. And while he still marches to the rules of work and wage, we dance to a different tune, our routine random and reckless. I dreaded Daisy finishing up at playschool for the summer, and now I dread her returning in September. My holiday will be over along with hers. Oh I still have colour coded schedules on the fridge (you can take the girl out of work but you cannot take the project manager out of the girl!), but now it is filled with new activities (red), lists of parks to picnic in (green), beaches to explore (yellow), daytrips to plan (blue)…. lazy mornings at home in the garden (sun permitting), or baking (rain insisting) not colour coded but as important as the rest.

And so once again, motherhood turns me on my head. For years now, I have resented my hubby’s ‘freedom’, planned Houdini escapes to capture some me time, organised our days in minute detail to save my sanity, dreamt of running away from the crushing neediness of my two adorable girls. And now? Now, I feel guilty when he goes to work, leaving us in bed to read stories, because suddenly there is nowhere else I’d be. Now, I hate having too many things in the diary because suddenly an unplanned day is a joy. Now, I can join in the fun and stop being the boss, because suddenly we are interacting and talking, and playing as friends. I read somewhere that time shapes with silent hands. Often I’ve resented that time, but now I give it freely because suddenly it seems we’ve all grown up, me most of all.

Washing up a little nostalgia

I’m not a Luddite, although the fact that it took 6 weeks for us to figure out how to get the internet to work in our new house does suggest my husband and I are not blessed with technological prowess. I might not embrace every new fangled fascinations and I’m no social twitterer (where do people get the time??) but I do throw my arms around and hug all time-saving devices that make my life easier. I often think back to my mum’s time and wonder how on earth she coped with two young children, a job, and no microwave, dishwasher, washing machine, car, disposable nappies and all those other things I just take for granted.

So for a brief moment, when our dishwasher gave up the ghost and had a nervous breakdown, I almost joined it and had a small seizure at the terrifying thought of actually having to wash up after the 1473 meals a day I cook (ok, it’s actually about five but sometimes it does feel like it). But a strange thing has happened. Every time I go to ring the repair man, I hesitate and then find something else to do (washing up for instance).

I’ve noticed my husband and I are talking more. Now, instead of one of us rushing off to do something after dinner while the other silently, solitarily stacks the dishwasher, we have a conversation. A real one. He usually washes up and I stand beside him drying the dishes as he places them in the stupidly small, but very cool rack that is only there for ceremonial purposes (well, when you have a dishwasher, who needs one that is actually practical?). We sling banter at each other, and occasionally he flicks me with water, or I get a great flick of the drying cloth on his leg if I get my wrist action right. It’s been a long time you see, and I’m long out of practise. When I was growing up (with no dishwasher remember) clearing up after dinner was a family affair. Mum would wipe around the cooker, dad would put the condiments away, my brother would wash and I would dry. I remember some of the best conversations with my brother over the kitchen sink. And so it seems again. The death of the dishwasher is breathing new life into our washed out routine.

So here’s my plan. I will get round to ringing the repair man one of these days, because let’s face it - nostalgia is one thing, but reality bites and my hands are beginning to suffer! But I think as my girls get older I might just have to pull the plug occasionally on the time-saving device so we can have some time-enhanced discussions as our busy lives take over.

A grave matter...

Apologies for the radio silence – I went underground for a little while, burying myself away while I tried to come to terms with the loss of another baby.

Just days after seeing the heartbeat and recognising my child amid the black and white confusion of a scan , the little busy heart just stopped, leaving my own beating alone and lost.

From the moment I became pregnant with my first daughter, I have celebrated the wonder of my body, amazed at its ability to provide life-support, to be a host, a nurturing, building wondrous machine. But it never occurred to me that life has an opposite, that death is as real and present as life. And so it should be that my body that can hold life, should also hold death.

For a few weeks after our scan until I knew things had gone wrong, my body was a grave. My baby’s grave. And so it is. For two children I was a life-support and for two others I held their life but also their death within myself. I write this now, not because I want everyone to know, but because I cannot continue to write this blog as if nothing has happened. I have to acknowledge my baby, give it its history, before I carry on with my written amazement at my two beautiful girls.

For a while our hearts danced together, and like all the four hearts that have beat alongside mine, it changed my tune, and I now beat a rhythm that is better for its accompaniment, however short.

Leaving Home

6am, lying in bed unable to sleep, the clock accompanying my vigil, ticking time with my hours of thoughts. We leave this house tomorrow, and somebody else’s life begins here.

How many nights have I lain awake in this room? Fatigue, hangover, pregnancy discomfort, babies crying, anxiety, restlessness? How many mornings have I looked out into the square, the trees that have kept watch all night, swaying hello to a new day. I know this house so intimately – you could say we rebuilt it – not a square inch did we not analyse, discuss, rebuild, paint, admire. Literally not one square inch.

I arrived in this house a single girl in love, full of dreams and ambition. Soon after, I walked through the front door in my wedding dress to embark on a new adventure. And back through that beleaguered old door I brought home my two babies, my greatest creations of all. This house is all they’ve known. It is their entire world. In this house I learned to be a new person – a wife and a mother…. and a writer.

I made this house, but it seems this house also made me.

These old thick walls have held the lives and loves of many families in its 160 year history, and so, while it has nurtured me through the most important years of my life, we are a mere chapter in its long life story. But maybe we have left our marks, little reminders that we were here. Our girls’ footprints in the cement, a beautiful garden my husband toiled to create, tearing down overgrown mayhem to plant seed by seed, tree by tree, a magnificent explosion of colour and organised chaos.

We will say goodbye, our whole marriage wrapped in these walls, and as we drive away tomorrow for the last time, the trees in the square, my protectors all these years, will sway their goodbye and we will all start over again. But I imagine a little of our spirit remains: a childish giggle of delight up the stairs; the heat of my upturned face to the sun as I sit in the garden seat; an occasional clatter from my endless hours in the kitchen as I came to grips with the monstrous monotony of cooking for kids; the tapping of my keyboard; the laughter from dinner parties round the table; whispers in the lounge from our talking, our laughing, our rowing, our crying, our loving and more of our laughing.

We loved this house and this house loved us. And on Saturday morning a new face will pull back the curtains at our bedroom window, and I hope she’ll smile as the trees sway hello to a new day.

Thinking outside the box

We’re moving house, a monumental upheaval that is making me sweat just thinking about the lists I have to write. But to distract myself from the enormity of the task ahead, I have started packing away completely useless boxes of stuff that bear no relation to the actual packing that is required. I know there is a voice out there somewhere telling me to face my fear and all that, but right now, I’m putting a box together of wrapping paper, random ribbons and torn tissue papers, lovingly marking it “present wrapping stuff”.

Anyway, there I was, rolling ribbons, when my girls came into the room. “That’s that” I thought, as a long afternoon loomed before me trying to distract them while I carefully folded tissue paper that will probably never actually be used to wrap any presents. But before I could say “Shoo”, Daisy spotted the large cardboard boxes. In she got and literally didn’t emerge for two and a half hours. TWO AND A HALF HOURS! Of contained, happy, non-needy fun! And of course it made me raise my eyes to the heaven – because once again my mum was right. “Why do you need all these toys? You buy them too much stuff – you’re spoiling those kids. In my day you played with a box!” Of course I would smirk in a condescending way – no child would ACTUALLY play with a box. That’s just folklore. Myth. Annoying mother-isms.

But no, I can now confirm, all a child needs to be happy is a box. And in case you doubt me, here is a list of the things Daisy has done with the box (might as well get at least one list off my chest):
· Decorated it with a choice of felt-tip pens and unfortunately a rather nice Estee Lauder Rose pink lipstick
· Played house.
· Cast away in a ship.
· Made it her bed (“sleepy sleepy box”)
· Filled it with things.
· Emptied it of things.
· Pushed Poppy around in it thus making it a pram
· Sat in it constantly asking “Close the box mummy”
· Took in her torch to explore.
· Opened the bottom and made a tunnel.

At one point, Poppy and I fed her grapes through the handle hole (“It’s a window mummy”) just in case she expired from boxed-in exhaustion. She is so delighted with her plain brown box it was the first thing she showed her best friend today on a play date.

So there you go. While my daughter is thinking inside the box, I’m having to think outside of it and get writing those lists. And if it all gets a bit much, I might just get in there myself…

Outshone, outperformed and outnumbered

We spent the weekend in Galway, shooting a TV programme on family holiday breaks for the Seoige show where I do the weekly book review. You know the sort of thing, just an intimate affair – hubby, myself and the girls – and a TV crew. You can imagine the nightmares I was having – not only were I and the hubby to be on best behaviour (not easy at the best of times as we negotiate the minefield of activities, mealtimes and strange beds with two temperamental toddlers) – but a camera was going to record every tantrum, every sullen response, every food flinging fiasco of my daughters. Standing in front of a camera and talking was nothing on the fraught forebodings I had of my family in meltdown on national TV.

It didn’t begin well. Planning to shoot for two hours in the aquarium (“My kids love aquariums!” I had enthusiastically told the producer) was put in jeopardy by Daisy’s hysterics the minute we arrived, clutching hubby’s neck whilst screeching “I wanna go home!” for the entire visit. I ended up presenting the section on sharks by myself while hubby retreated with the girls to the shop where only fish on display where of the cuddly kind.

I looked at the long list of activities we had to film over two days and inwardly groaned. What’s that they say about working with children? Add to that, the fact they were my own and that meant revenge for all those forced broccoli sessions, and I was having a quick re-think about my career options.

But like all things with my girls, they surprised me in the most wonderful way. Once the horrors of the deep where forgotten, they laughed and chuckled and flirted outrageously with the cameraman. I saw them through the eyes of the lens and they outshone, outperformed and outnumbered me on every level. I might have been presenting the programme, but they definitely stole the show. There is no way I am able to compete with gappy grins and girlie giggles. And that is the greatest thing about being a mum. I am no longer the most important person in my life. It is no longer the “Me, Myself and I” show - I step aside, and give you, the one and only…. Daisy and Poppy show. And I have the best seat in the house.

The night terrors

The night terrors are upon us – and I’m not referring to our kids. Just when we think we’ve outsmarted them, they go and raise the bar.

People who talk about those first few sleepless weeks of babyhood as some isolated phase, clearly have not had toddlers. Between babies, coughs, nightmares, shenanigans, Christmas Eve searches for Santa (3.30am the spectacular new low), I think we’ve probably had about 5 full sweet slumber-filled weeks in 3 years.

I almost yearn for the moon-lit feedings of a newborn – at least you are prepared, at least it has a routine, and at least you can read a book. But to be rumbled from your dreams by a slumber-killing screech at some unpredictable time of the night because your wobbler wants a hug, her dummy is on the floor, the batteries have run out on her mobile, or just because she is bored, can shatter your sleep for the rest of the night. And every time we find a solution for the newest nocturnal nemeses, we are woken to a new nightmare.

For several weeks, Daisy started coming into our room at some un-godly hour. The first time she did it, I had to peel myself off the ceiling after waking to a demented mad-child standing beside my bed saying “mummy, mummy, mummy” over and over again like Damien from the Exorcist. Eventually I solved this problem like most other problems with children – with bribery. I put a timer on her bed-side lamp and promised her a lolly every time she stayed in bed until her light came on. (The joy of this is I set the timer an hour later at the weekend!! Wahoo!).

Phew… back to bedded bliss. That lasted about 3 days. On the fourth night I was snatched from my slumber by a murderous shriek and leaping into their room found my 19 month old standing beside Daisy’s bed poking her. Daisy was rightly a little scared and upset. I was frantic. My baby is tiny. I put her into bed inside a sleeping bag in a tall cot. Had someone broken into our house and taken her out??

Dazed and confused I put her back. As I made my way back to bed wondering if I was actually dreaming, I heard a “thump”. I opened their door to find Poppy sitting on the floor grinning at me. I couldn’t believe it. There was NO WAY she could get out of that cot! I padded the floor with pillows, put her back in and took position lying prostrate on the landing floor peering under their bedroom door (the things you find yourself doing at 4am when you have kids…). Sure enough, the little minx hoisted herself up on the rail using her arms like some Russian gymnast on the bars, rocked forwards and backwards to gain momentum, and with one final kamikaze lurch, threw herself head first in a backward flip over the top of the cot onto the floor. Needless to say, there was more no more sleeping that night!

Our short-term solution is to put her in the travel cot. But it’s too small for her so we have to come up with something else. At this point in time however, I’m too tired to figure out what that may be. I guess I’ll just have to sleep on it.

Where there is no credit to crunch..

I’m tightening my belt – and not just because my frenetic physical assault on my body is finally reaping results. No, the preverbal budget belt is going on a diet too. We’re hoping to buy a new house (I know, I know, we’re mad to be selling in this climate!!!) and we need to gather every penny about ourselves.

Phase One of Operation Opulent (spend less, feel richer is my motivating line..) began before Christmas. We cut back on childcare, waved a tearful farewell to our cleaner, and decided to eat the food that’s actually piling up in the cupboards instead of continually buying new stuff. “I’m a hoarder, I can’t help it!” I confessed, as my husband counted 14 tins of chopped tomatoes in the back of the larder. “Learn” he says sternly, suggesting a week’s worth of recipes using the offending tins. So once I’ve exhausted my repertoire of chilli, lasagne and bolognaise, it’s back to the recipe books for some inspiration. No bad thing probably… my repertoire could certainly do with a little revitalising.

Cutting back a couple of hour’s childcare a week means I’ll have to write in the evening when the girls are asleep. No bad thing probably – it’ll keep me off the sofa munching chocolates (two punishments, I mean birds, with one stone), and I get to spend more time with the girls. Getting deep and dirty with the Ciff won’t kill us – I use the word ‘us’ because housework is a shared responsibility (I’ll keep you posted on how THAT one works out..). But again, no bad thing probably. I can get the girls involved and make it fun. (OK, I’ll keep you posted on how THAT one works out too!).

We have now begun Phase Two of Mission Money Saver. More childcare cutbacks, holiday cancelled, and a few painful choices on which friend’s 40th’s, weddings, and family birthdays we can go to. No bad thing really – do we really need the hassle of dragging ourselves and the kids to multiple overseas weekends throughout the year? And you know the surprising thing? It actually doesn’t feel that painful. It actually feels a little good. It feels good to look at the price of food before I drop it (or not) into the shopping trolly. I never used to. It feels good to patch up a few holes in the girl’s trousers instead of throwing them straight in the bin. I didn’t use to. It feels good to savour family time than zoom off on yet another expensive exhausting weekend. We didn’t use to.

And the girls? Are they suffering? Are they moaning? Of course not. They’re as happy as always and probably a bit more. And us? So we have to clean the house and we have to stay home a bit more. There are other sacrifices we are making, but they won’t kill us. They might even make us stronger, as the saying goes. But we have a roof over our head, (multiple) food in our larder, and two happy kids. So, while our credit is definitely crunching, I write this with respect and real sorrow for those people for who this recession is really hurting. For those whose children will suffer. And for those who can’t afford to spend less.