What the Wonderful Wagon Did Next

So it was the second week after Christmas and I was feeling extremely virtuous.  I had lost some weight over the Festive Season.  Forget the virgin birth; I've a miracle for yiz all right here. I had a shitty week. I mean shitty. I was all, "What'll I do now? I know! I'll eat a tin of Hero's!" Boredom eating. All week. With no running whatsoever.

Was seriously tempted to give the weigh-in a miss but I was brave and stepped up. Guess what! I had lost two pounds!!!!!! I was so sceptical (and shocked!) that I moved the scales downstairs and tried there too. Same reading. That made it five and a half pounds in total that I lost over December and into January.

I was sick the week before Christmas and nothing was getting past the inflamed area that was my throat.  Much the same over the holidays.  I had neither interest nor inclination to eat. 

I was also a better parent.  In my own mind at least.  This was due to the presence and assistance of Mister Husband and the regular change of scenery.  I was able to go out for a run most days and to say I enjoyed each and every one of them is an understatement.

It was a lovely Christmas.  I even managed to get out and socialise no less than three times.  That is three times in one month.  The last time I had been out was during the summer.

It’s a bit like having that first Pringle.  Once you pop, you can’t stop.  I’ve had my appetite whetted once again for a bit of craic with a glass or five or six of Guinness and I intend to keep going.

Then the schools opened and it was back to abnormal.  Ho hum.  I could feel the walls of the house (and my brain) closing in on me. 

I am not cut out to be a housewife. Or a cook. Or a child minder.  I crave conversations with people over the age of 7.  And myself.  And Ray D’Arcy.  I covet head and body space.    I can’t seem to escape the constant noise that breaks me, each and every day. 

I woke up, Thursday 10^th January 2013 still with a strong urge to kill or at the very least, seriously maim something, anything and poor Conor was nearly that something, anything, anyone.   (Sorry, Con)

To add insult to injury the car was going through a serious teenager phase and refusing to co-operate.  Not even the jump leads or a swift belt with a wrench could persuade her to giddy-up those last two days. 

*I have fallen into the man trap of calling the car a “her.”*

Grandad received a phone call that morning and he very obligingly came over to help us out.  As we knew he would.  Many apologies for hauling you out of your winter morning bed.

So I was housebound. Housebound, I tell you!  Yes, it was frustrating, especially at this time of year.  But it also meant that Mister Husband had to do the remainder of the school runs.  And the pick-ups until the car was sorted.  It was harder on him as his work was interrupted.

That Thursday morning, the three older ones were in their various places of education and it was just me, Juno and Smallest Boy.  I put on my wellies, our coats and we went for a lovely walk around the garden to chase away the cobwebs that had been lingering all week.

It wasn’t a run, not even close but it helped.  It helped a lot.  I realised that it was the first time I had been outside the door of the house in two days.  Maybe there is some truth behind all that Vitamin D stuff.

And then a little chink of light made its way through the closed curtains.  Smallest Boy went for a snooze and I got to spend a very enjoyable and most productive couple of hours at the computer.  It. was. Bliss.

Mister Husband got rasher sandwiches for his lunch and I got three blog posts done.  From scratch.  And etched out a couple more.

I love Thursday mornings.  They are the new Friday and I want more of them.  I was in my happy, creative bubble and loving it.

The washing, cooking and cleaning will always be there but those few hours of easy silence are precious and will be gone in exactly one hundred and twenty minutes.

Make the most of them.  I intend to whenever they present themselves.

AWARE

I’m a bit of an escapist.  By that I mean I go off into a little fantasy world every now and again.  Something, a word, a sound, a smell from my childhood, a song or just a mood will transport me elsewhere.  I can become quite absorbed, forget where I am and start talking to myself.   I have fascinating chats with Ray D’Arcy where I am the guest in his studio and many’s the time one of the boys will ask who I’m talking to. 

One evening, on one of my trips, I found myself, in my head, introducing the boys to someone.  I have many cousins who are a great deal older than me. I’m not completely sure how I’m related but it’s on my maternal grandmother’s side. Two of them in particular, I will meet only very occasionally. 

They amaze me each and every time.  Both of them always get my name right.  Always.  Without fail.  They always have done.  Bearing in mind I have 6 sisters and 5 of us share the same initial. 

And what’s more they know the names of our boys too.  But for some strange reason, that particular evening in my head, I was introducing the boys to one of these ladies but also describing briefly what each of them are like. 

It went like this:  This is our eldest boy.  He is 7 and a great little artist and very good at telling stories.  The next fella is 5 and he is the Irish speaker in the family.  He is really good at it.  And this chap here is one of the most affectionate boys you will ever meet.  He is forever telling me he loves me, touching me, hugging me and asking me to bend down so he can kiss me.

Our third boy is indeed, the most affectionate child you will ever meet.  He is happy out.  He wakes up, most times, happy, if a little groggy.  He is friendly, sociable, will talk to anyone, tell you his thoughts, and still have tonnes of hugs and kisses to dole out any time of the day or night.

Mister Husband is a cuddler but it is Liam who wraps his arms round my head in the morning as I am still sleeping.  He whispers “Mammy, is it morning?  I love ya,” all in one sentence and then I get an unhurried kiss on my forehead.  His hand rubs my hair.     

I love it.  I love his openness. His readiness to show and accept affection.

And then I had my AWARE moment.  I became Alert.  Suddenly Wary.  Then I was Accepting.  I Realised something and knew I had to Educate myself.

If I am angry, annoyed, upset, stressed or in bad form, Liam will ask me “what’s wrong, Mammy?”  He will touch my leg or my arm and look at me.  I always tell him that nothing is wrong.  Of course I do.  Sometimes I say I’m just a bit tired, I’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll be grand.

Passing on that Irish Mammy myth that a cup of tea can fix everything.

Liam will say “OK, Mammy.” And then he tells me he loves me.  But this is different. 

He is trying to fix me. 

Telling me he loves me is ok.  But trying to fix me when I’m not OK is not OK.

That is not his job.  That is my job.  It is my job to fix me and make me happy again.  No-one else can do that.

And definitely not my three and a half year old son.

The Penny Dropped Over Christmas

My mother used to say a lot of things when I was growing up.  I was baffled by a lot of them but now I get it.  I totally get it.

Two of her mammy-isms are very topical so I will start with this one. 

Us:  What do you want for your birthday/Christmas?

Her:  The house to myself/peace and quiet.

As a clueless pre-teen I was absolutely thrown by her answer.  What on earth would she find to do in an empty house?  Sit there and drink tea?  Watch TV? Read a book?  She never reads.  Anything.  Peace and quiet?  Tsk. How boring is that?   Would she not ask for some new make-up, chocolates or perfume or something?

So one year, stumped, I gave her a kitchen weighing scales (I know!) and I made a Baked Alaska.  The first one I ever made.

I hadn’t a notion about quantities so I used maybe a dozen egg whites, a huge shop bought flan base and a tonne of ice-cream. 

It was huge.  I mean, massive.  Think ski slope for Barbie dolls.    The top of it got knocked off as I put it in the oven.

But it also got eaten.

The other thing she used to ask us was on Christmas morning.

Her:  Well?  What do you think?  Do you like everything? 

Me:  Yeah.  It’s great.  (In my head I was thinking:  why is she asking us that like it would be her fault if Santy fucked up?)  For the record, Santy never fucked up.  Never.

Now years later, that seemingly mental birthday request of getting the house to herself makes perfect sense. 

And the fog has also lifted on the “do you like everything?” enquiry.

Somehow when you are laying out the DS consoles, boxes of Lego, books, magazines, bits and pieces for your kids on Christmas Eve, five hundred euros worth at least, it looks less. 

A lot less.

It looks mean.

Everything is swallowed up by the leather armchair.  Books sliding down the back of it and refusing to be propped up in an attempt to make everything look “more.”

Will they like it?  Are they too young for DS consoles even if there is always a crazy rush and an inevitable fight for Mister Husband’s phone when he comes home in the evenings?

Will Oldest Boy be disappointed because he got a mini Bop It instead of the full grown one?  Will the dog take a bite out of the space hopper before mid-day?  

Will they fight over their books?  Will they like their laminated cinema tickets with instructions for me to take them to see Rise of the Guardians over the holidays?

What about the nifty little lights that Velcro to their finger and have three settings?  The ones I smuggled out of The Art and Hobby Shop that very day because they wanted them?   

Would they remember them and be delighted that Santy “knew?”

I know now why my mother asked us those questions on Christmas morning because for the second year in a row, I found myself asking our lads the same ones.

Now I know.

Happy Birthday Iarla

New Year’s Day, 2008

Morning Time

Woke up this morning before the alarm, which usually goes off at 7am shouting “mammy, get me!”  Something has woken me up and after I pat my 40 week and 5 day old bump, I know what it was: a very mild, but distinctive period like cramp.  I’d had one or two in the days shortly after Christmas but I’d been walking regularly and that was when they usually happened. Yep!  There it is again.  Another quick rub and half hour later I feel nothing more.  Just as well as our 22 month old alarm clock is shouting for me to come “get him.”

So we get up, Mister Husband, Screecher Creature Only Child and I, and start our day as normal.  Shortly after, the cramps return and continue throughout the morning.  In the midst of them I manage to do a bit of housework.  My first “nesting” sensations!!

  

I am very calm and relaxed, and begin to feel excited.  I had been induced with our first son and am delighted that labour is starting naturally this time round.  I am looking forward to a natural birth and have been practicing hypno-birthing from about the sixth month of my very healthy and normal pregnancy.

During the final trimester I upped my listening to relaxation cd’s, read and reread a couple of very inspirational and confidence boosting books and in general, my chick lit and murder mysteries were replaced with all things natural birth related. I logged on to Rollercoaster, an Irish parenting and pregnancy website site several times a day and read all the positive birth stories I could get my hands on. I drank Raspberry Leaf Tea and took reflexology sessions for the last month. 

Mid Morning

The cramps have stopped but am not worried.  I have been visiting the bathroom all morning and I know this is another sign that I am in labour. 

Send a quick text to my sister who has been on standby for babysitting.  Tell her “something is definitely up” but not to mention it to anyone just yet. 

Decide to go for a little walk with Screecher Creature Only Child to give Mister Husband a chance to catch up on some work at home.  Can’t go too far due to my frequent need to wee.

 

Eventually, Screecher Creature Only Child decides he’s had enough as we reach the end of our housing estate and I find myself carrying him the short, but very cumbersome distance home. 

Afternoon

Mister Husband has taken our boy for a drive to encourage him to take a nap so I get my earphones and settle down to listen to some of my hypno-birthing tapes. As usual, they are so relaxing and soothing, I fall asleep. Wake up at 4pm with the same reason I woke up at 6.30am.  The cramps have returned. There is a noticeable difference; they are stronger and sharper – still perfectly manageable but I need to use my breathing this time.

Late Afternoon / Early Evening

Still lots of visits to the bathroom and at about 5pm there is a lot of water released - this makes me suspect that my waters have gone.    Mister Husband is anxious at this stage for me to ring the hospital and let them know what is happening as it is looking very likely that I will be going in that evening.  So I do. 

Things are really speeding up now. I have to stop and breathe really deeply each time.  It’s almost as if my body was delaying the progress of labour until I acknowledged out loud that I am having contractions.  But I am still not going anywhere until our boy is tucked up in bed.  This gives me another two hours before I intend to leave for the hospital.  I throw my heat pack in the microwave and concentrate on the contractions. 

Evening

It’s 7pm now and I am under a lot of pressure!  I’ve already contacted my sister and told her at about 6 o’clock that there is still time but she had better hurry up just in case!! 

At last! Twenty five minutes later I kiss Conor quickly as he is about to be put into his cot.  I hold back tears knowing the next time I see him he will be a big brother.  I feel very emotional.

We are in the car and on our way.  The drive to Kilkenny is very difficult.  It is extremely uncomfortable having to remain seated.  My eyes are closed and I am blowing very loud and long raspberries in a double effort to distract me and prevent my jaw from clenching. 

Are we here?  We are!  We are! It is 8pm and Mister Husband has parked in the ambulance bay which is marked Strictly No Parking.  I’m Warning You. You’ll Be Towed Away!  Or something similar.  Mister Husband’s language is colourful as I point this out to him when he opens the door for me. I have to wait for a strong contraction to pass before I can get out of the car.  We bypass admissions (Yes, I admit I’m in labour!) and go straight up to the labour ward. They are surprised at how close together the contractions are coming.

Things start to feel extremely urgent and suddenly - how the fuck did I do that? - I am in my nightie.  I have no urge to push but Jesus I’d better be nearly ready to!

What?  2 cms!  Say again?  You are joking me!  Tell me you’re messing!

To say I am disappointed is an understatement!!  I am on the bed being monitored and finding it very, very difficult.  What I really want is to get up off that bed when the contractions are happening.  I cannot just lie here! I need to be standing up!  Moving!  Walking!  Anything!

Another examination at which seems like only minutes later. 

Ok 5cms now.  That’s better.  I climb off the bed and put my arms around Mister Husband and kind of low into his neck.  It helps a lot. 

And now I know it’s only ten minutes later. I feel this incredible urge to push.  The contractions have stopped.  There is a big build up of pressure and a funny sense of relief. 

I am being helped back up onto the bed.  The midwives are amazing.  Mister Husband is amazing.  This is amazing.  There are no shouts to push.  Just gentle encouragement.  There is a lot of hard work and hand squeezing and the odd request from me for a thigh rub as my muscles seize up. 

Within an hour and a half of arriving at the hospital, I am being handed our second little boy.   
It is 9.30pm New Year’s Night and our 7lb 10oz son is receiving his first kiss and cuddle from his tired but elated mammy.

Introduction is short but incredibly sweet and he is taken from me to be weighed in and looked over.  In no time at all he is back in my arms again and I am putting him to my breast. 

Where is everyone?  It is just myself, Mister Husband and our baby.  The three of us together to count toes and fingers.  Our new son’s eye contact is long and deep. It is an hour and a half later and our little boy is still awake, alert and unwavering in his eye contact still.

The tea and toast are pretty good too!

 

It is after midnight and we are back on the ward.  Mister Husband has gone home to a Chinese and a glass of wine and I cannot wait for the morning when we are re-united as a family or four instead of three. 

I didn’t give birth in my driveway.  I didn’t have a traumatic or scary birth.  There are no funny stories about the car breaking down, about us taking a wrong turn, getting a puncture or being stopped for speeding on the way.  I didn’t use colourful language in the throes of labour.  But this is my special and amazing birth story, one which is unique to me and my family and we couldn't wait to do it all over again.   

Happy birthday Iarla Dooley.  This is your story.  You were five years old yesterday!!