I Have Freckles.

YAY! I GOT nominated.  I am going to cheat and present my 7 random facts in a blog post format.  I hope that’s ok.  It’s been a slow week on the Wonderful Wagon front.

Here we go!

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I have freckles.  All over my body. On my eyelids. A couple on my lip.  I look like a speckled pancake.  Except for my back.  On my back is a perfect outline of a swimming togs; the sort we used to wear around the garden as kids when the summers were always hot.  I also have a freckle over my left iris.  No idea what it is except sometimes I can get inside your head. 

I’m a mom driver.  In that I will do the school runs, get the shopping and that’s about it.  I am not confident enough behind the wheel to venture into unknown territory.    I would rather ask my almost 9 year old to take the wheel than do it myself.  If you want a laugh or fancy taking your life into your own hands, get me to reverse. 

I hate butter.  I may have mentioned this before.  But I want to kill it.  It, to me, is the vilest most disgusting, sick making vomitus substance that was ever invented.  I have almost cried at many a dinner table when a gorgeous Sunday roast was served only to find melted butter on the peas, the spuds, the carrots, flowing like lava over the turnip, and the ultimate of vegetable crimes, on the corn on the cob.  I remember being at a birthday party as a child and the mammy telling me I couldn’t have anything nice until I ate the sandwiches because I always got “a good dinner” when I got in from school.  No.  I didn’t eat the sandwiches.  They were the typical more butter than bread variety. 

I love a bottle of white wine.  Yes, I said bottle.  But I didn’t always.  In fact I hated it once upon a time.  I thought it was vinegar and always opted for a pint instead.  These days I hate pints and would take hand and all off you for a bottle of white wine.  I’m a bit partial to Pinot Griot.  See, I got snobby with it as well. 

I have a mad scar on my right knee going from one side to the other from the time it was ripped open because I wasn’t paying attention and had an argument with a car.  Let that be a lesson to you.  It’s not as bad looking as it once was.  But it’s still kind of numb and it gives me the heebie jeebies to touch it.  It’s as bald as an egg too.  Which is kind of handy.  Oh, and I like to tell little kids that a shark did it but I tasted rotten so he spat me out.  And if they ever meet a one-eyed shark on their travels, that would be the one I punched in the nose to make him spit me out.

I hurt easily.  Yes, I do.  You mightn’t think it but if someone says something shitty to me I dwell on that and nothing else for literally 48 hours.  I run it through my head over and over again, all of the different variations, the different sharp, snappy retorts I could have said instead of standing there with my mouth open like a goldfish trying to hide my brain frantically going “don’t cry! Don’t cry! Don’t let them make you cry.” And then I go off and cry.

I like to think I am fairly in tune with my body.  I can feel when a blue is coming on.  There are times when the racket my boys make can reduce me to tears. I am jumpy and suffer with sensory overload.  It is during these times I need total and absolute time to myself.  Silence.  No-one near me, touching me, asking for stuff, putting even the tiniest of demands on me.  Sometimes when I am dropping off to sleep at night the most random, horrifying scene regarding any one of my kids will pop into my head.  I have to work really hard at shutting it out.  “It’s not real.  That won’t happen. They’re next door to you.  They’re safe.  It’s not real!”

So to conclude, embrace your beauty marks, your scars, your C-section map lines, your stretch marks. They tell the story of your life.  Same goes for your likes and your dislikes.  They make up the map of you.  Your feelings are yours and no-one has the right to tell you what to do with them.  Be proud of your body.  It can do amazing things. 

Own it and make sure no-one else does.

Don't Stop Believin'

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I HAD a brief internal struggle with something recently.  Nothing too major, life altering or important but for me it was the principle of the thing. 

I was caught up in a will I or won’t I debacle? I knew I should and that I’d be raging with myself if I didn’t.  But at the same time I was fearful of appearing greedy and needy.

So I let it sit for a while and mulled it over.  I have a habit of acting on impulse.  I get a message from someone and I answer immediately – “that sounds great!  Let’s do that.”  Or “sure, I can do that,” and then discover it doesn’t suit either me or my timetable and I’m suddenly caught up in something that morphs from something enjoyable and into a complete stress fest.

So I try to rein myself in a little.  And I’m glad I did because I managed to compose a short, to the point request without appearing whingey, needy or “gimmie goddammit” and sat back to see what the response would be.

I suppose I should explain a bit. I’ve been working at something for a while now and it has, for the most part, been positively received but with no real [monetary] value placed on it.  

For me anyway. 

That had always been the understanding between parties and initially I was okay with that.  We all have to start somewhere.

Then things picked up a notch and in times of drought, I was asked to contribute a bit more.  I was pleased to have been asked.  I can deliver.  I’m good at meeting deadlines and I enjoy it.

But it started to rankle.  A little at first and then a lot.

If I can come up with the goods at the last minute (and before deadline) surely I’ve proved my worth.

So I took the bull by the horns, gently, sent off that message and waited.

Guess what?  I got a lovely and favourable response that made me very very glad I had stuck my neck out there, took the bull by the horns and just went for it.

If you don’t ask you won’t get, as the saying goes. 

So I asked and I got.  Not a lot but it’s still more than I had in the first place.

And it has also given me a little boost and encouraged me to quit the quitting thoughts and keep going for another while.

That in itself has to be something.

   

The Jack & Jill Foundation

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I GIVE OUT.  I give out a lot.  I could say, “Doesn’t everyone?” and throw in, “so do a lot of mother’s,” but I am not using my “position” as a parent to get out of this one.

I try to see the good in every situation, in every day and in people.  It’s not always easy. Sometimes it’s downright difficult if a tad impossible. 

But I try. 

At the back of it all, however, I am always aware of one thing; I’ve got four fine, healthy, hale and hearty boys.

Countless people, those older and wiser than me, have often commented whenever I complained about my boys wrecking the house or running riot somewhere they shouldn’t.

“Wouldn’t it be worse if they weren’t able to?” they say.

Yes, it would.  It would be unimaginable.  I cannot imagine it.

Yet there are parents out there who are not imagining it but living it.  Their kids are not so hale, not so hearty.

Their kids are sick.  Perhaps terminally so. 

My hale and hearty kids have never known an honest days illness in their lives.

For this I am eternally, absolutely grateful.

During the summer I entered a competition in conjunction with the RTE Guide and Poolbeg Publishing House inviting parents to submit a 500 word original story.  Twenty of which were to be selected and compiled in a children’s book entitled Once Upon a Bedtime with all proceeds from sales going towards The Jack & Jill Foundation.

I was delighted to learn that my story, Declan the Fire Breathing Dragon, was one of the winning entries.

I was always aware of The Jack & Jill Foundation but on a peripheral level only.   Thanks to my healthy kids.  Parents at the school gates mentioned how they would have been lost without the respite they received.  The care and support offered to and provided for those children with severe neurological and developmental issues.

That’s the medical bit.  But there’s more. CEO Jonathan Irwin highlighted how truly heart-breaking illness can be for families on a radio talk show recently.

“It’s a desperate world.  You cannot be in it.  You’re exhausted, you’re traumatised, you get no sleep.  An awful lot of partnerships and marriages that might have had a little crack in them break up.  It completely destroys the childhood of the siblings, and it doesn’t stop there; it ripples into the grandparents, the uncles, aunts, friends.  Everything.  It is a most negative influence all for this little person who means you no harm at all.”

And still I did not fully grasp the extent of their reach. The medical support provided is vital for the families of sick children.  But there is also the emotional side of it.   Most of us expect and take for granted the fact that we can escape every so often.  Even if it is only a quick catch up at the school gate.  What happens when you can’t even snatch those few minutes to yourself? 

The last few minutes of the interview brought it home for me.

“We [The Jack & Jill Foundation] bring the gift of time to get your hair done, to go to the supermarket, to take the children to a match or to a pantomime or on holiday because without it [time] I don’t know how people survive.”

Neither do I.

Once Upon a Bedtime is on sale now in bookshops nationwide RRP €14.99

Today I am Grateful

ON A DAY when a small four year old warrior lost his battle against cancer, I am grateful. 

On a day when there is usually a good chance I will let a few roars at the boys and issue the usual empty threats, today I will give hugs and smiles.

Today I will let them jump in every single puddle they meet on the way back to the car.

Today I will let whoever has the tap on full blast in the bathroom, enjoy the hand washing without stressing about the mess.

Today I won’t care about dirty faces and hands and how it will get rubbed onto school uniforms.

Today I am grateful that the seven year old went swimming this morning and his older brother will be playing football after school.

Today I am grateful that my smallest boy opted to eat only his Yorkshire pudding at dinner and two small pieces of chicken.

Today I am grateful that my house was too warm and I needed to turn down the heat.

I am grateful that my Junior Infant still wants me to walk him into his classroom each morning. 

Today I am grateful for the large pile of toy cars and wooden building blocks that litter the floor.

I am grateful for the rain.  For the roast chicken dinner in my belly.

Today I am grateful for my hale and hearty boys who run and shout and fight.  Who hug and kiss and thump and punch.  I am grateful for their noise, for the constant demands.  I am grateful for their washing, for their laughter.

Today I am grateful for life.

Over the Hump

My 5 year old looks older than his years.  A lot older.

Last September I was bombarded with people asking him was he all set for Big School.  He had just turned four.

In the supermarket his health was regularly asked after.  I made the connection after the fourth “is he sick?”  People assumed he wasn’t well and was off school.  He had just turned four.

Now that he is in Big School, last week a mum thought it was lovely he was in the classroom checking on his little brother.  Anther wide-eyed and taken aback reaction when I said that he was the actual Naíonán Beaga (Junior Infant).

My 5 year old could pass for a 7 year old.

He is in school as I write this.  Sitting at his bord (table) with the other paistí (children) learning how to count as Gaeilge (in Irish).

He cried a little going into his seomra ranga (classroom) this morning.  And Monday.  And Tuesday.  His hugs are getting tighter.  More frequent. 

He tries to hide his upset from his múinteoir (teacher) and classmates but doesn’t quite manage it. 

Today might be Wednesday, mid-week, but my 5 year old is not over the hump yet.

Unsolicited Advice

Daithí O Sé made headlines earlier on this year when he expressed his annoyance over the deluge of child-birth advice he and his wife, Rita Talty, were receiving pending the arrival of their first child.

The verbose Kerry man is not the first and he certainly will not be the last new parent to be on the receiving end of unwanted pearls of wisdom.

It is practically impossible for an “experienced” parent to keep their lips zipped when they see a gloriously heavily pregnant person about to give birth.  They feel the need to educate others about what is ahead and regale them with all they should or should not be thinking of doing.

I admit to being guilty of this crime at times too.

But I try very, very hard to keep my thoughts to myself when I see the glowing parents of a new-born.  I say glowing because we all know the grey, ashen pallor appears approximately 7 days following the birth shortly after the euphoria has worn off, beaten into whimpering submission by sleep deprivation, constant crying, leaking body parts (sorry!), the lack of showers and food, time for yourself and not to mention worrying about the baby.

Because I’ve been there.  I know.  Let them, the new parents, stay on cloud nine for as long as they can.  Try not to inform them it won’t last; that new-borns don’t sleep forever.  Resist advising them to take a photo of their beautiful showroom house as it stands because before long their peacefully slumbering baby boy will be running around trashing it.

Don’t tell them teething will be hell.  Hold back on what can be the nightmare surrounding introducing solids followed by constipation and more food splattered on the walls than is ingested.  Stay schtum on the pain of immunisations.

Refrain from insisting the enrolment of their baby in the nearest school first thing because current waiting lists are unbelievable.

As a mother of four boys, very different boys I might add, there are only a handful of things I have taken from my 8 years of parenting. 

Some of the gems that made things a tad easier for me are as follows. 

This too shall pass

It might not be a welcome statement, seem very helpful or even make a whole lot of sense when you are experiencing temporary insanity from lack of sleep, but it really is true. Even the worst day is only 24 hours long and taking that day one five minute segment at a time, will see you falling face down back into your bed in no time. Albeit perhaps for just three hours before you are forced out of it again, but before you know it you will be helping your child blow out the candle on their first birthday cake and marvelling at how fast time goes.    

Striking a balance

I’ll be completely honest.  This one flummoxed me and I felt inadequate for not having found mine so I decided it was another one of those media makey-uppey catch phrases. With four small boys running me ragged and no child care, I realised all I wanted was ten minutes to have an uninterrupted cup of coffee not half a day to have my highlights done.  Finding your balance can be reading a book, taking a shower alone, or even just pushing the trolley around the supermarket at your leisure without a little one keeping you company.  As long as it’s your time off and it happens regularly that’s balance enough for the moment.

What works for one child will not necessarily work for the next

A friend recently expressed her shock when neither of her children were born a blank canvass, as she had expected.  Like adults, children are hard wired in their own unique way, all of them possessing little quirks, likes and dislikes.  Two of my boys were dreadful sleepers and one gifted me a full night’s sleep at just 6 weeks old.  Three of them refused to nap in anything except the buggy and the youngest demanded zed’s in his cot.  One ate cardboard as if it was top of the food pyramid whereas his three younger siblings wolfed down vegetables.  Wouldn’t it be a boring world, after all, if everyone was the same?

Pick your battles

With my first son, I was a tad obsessive about his daytime naps.  They absolutely had to be at the same time each day and in his cot.  Upstairs.  When I finally relaxed and admitted a spell in the travel cot downstairs wouldn’t make me a bad mother I realised how miserable we both had been as slaves to a regimented routine that wasn’t working.  Once I allowed my son, not the clock, decide when he was tired he fell into his own routine.  And began to sleep at the same time every day.  When my second son developed a strong attachment to his Spiderman costume I told myself at least he was dressed and the padded muscles would keep him warm.

The days are long but the years are short

It is the end of yet another 15 hour day and all you’ve eaten is a banana, 6 Haribo jellies and tanked up on two gallons of coffee.  You didn’t get near the overflowing laundry basket.  Again.  The slice of toast that landed sticky side down is still under the table and the bathroom beggar’s belief.  Will it ever end?  On days like this I look to my own mother for strength and to increase my morale.  She had twice the number of children I do.  She didn’t drive, was without a telephone and the internet hadn’t been invented yet.  She got through it and I believe, because I have to, that I will too.   

I am still learning to keep my mouth firmly shut even if I am not always successful in this department.  For this lapse I apologise, I really do because there is nothing worse than a “been there, done that” parent telling you stuff.  Because it is always their stuff and their stuff most likely will not make even the tiniest dent in your parenting experience. 

I offer you my final, and perhaps truest, piece of advice. Take what works for you and leave the rest.

I like to Break Shit

ANOTHER lovely ceramic bowl, one I had been using as a fruit bowl, died this evening.  I’ve had it a long time.

There are little ramekin bowls to match but they don’t get used much.  I like to store loose change in those.

Sometimes cups and the odd plate die in our house too.

This is not unrelated but I like to swear.  When I say like to I mean I can’t help it.

*yes, you can*

No, I can’t.

*yes. You. Can.*

Oh shut the fuck up!

See?

I experience a feeling of such release when I let loose with foul language.  It really takes the boil off my pressure cooker. 

And yes, the odd time I swear in front of the boys.  I am aware of this and working on not doing that at least. 

But something is well and truly lost when you just mouth the word or say it in your head.

Not the same thing at all.

See, I suffer from frustration. 

*Don’t we all, dear?*

Piss off you!

I get frustrated when I don’t get “me time.”  Who invented that anyway?  Weren’t we a much happier bunch without it?

But I need my “me time.” My downtime.  Alone.  With no-one at me, touching me in the slightest way.  If I see one of the boys even walking in my direction, my skin crawls with the need to be left alone.

We all need that space.  And if we choose to spend it looking out the window, so be it.  We need to do what works for us.

So when I am on the go all the time I get antsy.  I become short tempered. Cross.  

Miserable and I feel trapped.  I feel like I am being swallowed alive and I need to do something to release that feeling. 

Something for me.

So I swear.

And sometimes I break stuff.

Like ceramic fruit bowls.  Cups, the odd plate.

Not this one.  This one makes good coffee

I do not have butter fingers.  I am not clumsy.  I am human.  I am a mother who sometimes feels broken with the constant demands of her children.

I am a mother who swears and breaks her crockery.

And I fucking enjoy it!