I Am Glad

As another day draws to a close and I chase my boys up the stairs and into their beds, hoping they’ll stay there, I am glad.

Glad that all I have to deal with is the boring minutiae of every day life such as school runs, homework, uniforms, and meals, cooking and cleaning.  Thankful that I don’t have anything more serious than that to contend with.

What troubles me and my family can be sorted and is being sorted.  But for others it goes on.  Never really goes away.  It’s always there in the background, insidious and evil.  

We never know what the person we chatted to in the supermarket is going through.  What they are going home to or what they are escaping from.

Always be a little kinder than necessary. 

As our world grows ever bigger, louder, competitive and busy, we are all still trying to get 

through the same day.

Each with our own troubles and difficulties.

Say hello.  Smile.  Tell that harassed looking mother in the school yard or supermarket that she is doing a great job.  Buy that suspended coffee in your local café. 

Try not to judge. 

It’s a funny old world filled with even funnier people.  Sometimes it’s so funny it can reduce you to tears.

But we’re in it.  And we’re in it together. 

There’s room for us all. 

Move over.  Push up.

Your problems could be worse. 

Mine too. 

Clocking Off!

pic: escapethroughalens.blogspot.com

Someone once told me their mother used to “clock off” at 10pm each night without fail.  If he or any of his siblings had the audacity to approach her after this time, they were given short shrift.  He said she stuck to her guns; she neither would nor could not be moved.  Whatever it was they needed or couldn’t find, they were on their own.

I was both horrified and aghast.

10pm!  Cripes. I’m dragging my sorry arse up to bed at 10pm not winding down for the night. 

No siree.  My clocking off period is 8pm and I fully intend to stick to it over the years.

Kids will keep taking and talking and finding ways to entrap me and snare me back into their little world. 

If they want to have a vital conversation about a rock or Terraria (Minecraft or some such) I will nod enthusiastically at a more palatable hour such as 6pm. 

I have my own very important stuff to be getting on with thank you kindly and it is of utmost importance that they know that.

One of my absolute pet peeves (and I have a few) is people who are constantly late or keep me waiting as they faff around looking for their keys/wallet or bag. 

It irks me greatly that they seem to be of the opinion my time is not important.

Which is why I covet those two hours between the hours of 8 and 10pm.  I am most selfish about them. 

And here’s the moan.  I’ll get the disclaimer bit out of the way first.

I love my kids.  I wouldn’t be without them.  I am so glad at this stage in my life when I am fast approaching the beginning of the end of my child bearing days that I will never wake up and go shit! I’ve left it too late and now I might not be able to have kids.

This was a factor all of those moons ago when starting a family was imminent.  And low and behold, once I started I found it hard to stop.

But stop I did.

Kids will take it out of ya, let me tell you.  I feel great at the moment.  I know who I am and what I want in life and am at that great *old* age where I don’t particularly give a shit if I’m not cool or in with the crowd or what people think about me.  I don’t fear missing out on anything anymore. Chances are it probably wasn’t all that great anyway.

But I do completely and utterly feel like the best years of my life are slipping by.  I regularly project 10 years into the future when the boys are of an age where they can look after themselves.  The oldest will be 19 and hopefully even living somewhere else.

Yes.  I am that mother.

See that bit about *old* age and not caring about what others think of me. 

But I also have to remind myself that I too will be 10 years older and that puts me firmly in my fifties.

I actually had to pause a moment before I could type that.  All of the other milestone birthdays didn’t cost me a thought but I will struggle with the big five oh. 

I am already struggling with it.

Back to my original gripe.  Will I be able to run almost 10k when I am in my fifties like I can today?  (Finally!)  Will I have any interest left or energy to do things?

Will I still be writing?  God, I hope so.  In fact I hope what I am doing today is putting down groundwork for proper writing down the line.  You know that old fantasy – turn your hobby into your job and you’ll never work a day in your life again.

I want that.  Even in my fifties.  I have grand old thoughts about going to bed at 3 and 4am (I used to in my twenties before I gave the whole thing up) because I am caught up in something and trying to finish it. 

Not snatching a useless ten minutes here and there before I am dragged off to do something.

I am feeling very frustrated at the moment because I simply cannot get the head space in which to do my stuff.  I have been given another opportunity to branch out and try something else and pesky mundane things like cooking and school runs and washing and homework and all of that minutiae shite is in the way.

I know there are many of me out there.  I see it every day.  People swallowed alive by life.  

Life is good, life is pretty good but at the moment it just doesn’t feel like mine.

Thank you if you are still reading. I don’t mean to drag you down.   I’m just letting off a little steam.

I toyed long and hard about posting this one.  And then I received some very welcoming words recently from someone who says she has been here too and how the future only brings better things.  More fabulous things.  It came in the midst of other people admitting their own frustrations about their own lack of headspace and time away from the kids.  So here it is.  I’ve published it.  Go easy on me.  These are my genuine thoughts and I can’t help the way I feel when I am caught up in a funk.  It will pass the way it always does.  Again, thank you for reading.

I found this article by Sarah Caden of the Irish Independent somewhat reassuring if you care to have a read.  Seems like we all go through feelings of doubt and uncertainty at times.

I Only Have Two Hands

I AM VERY fond of telling my boys there are four of them and only one of me.  I may look like there is plenty of me to go round but I still only have one pair of hands, one set of ears and I can only move so fast.

In the mornings, for example, I make pancakes for the boy’s breakfast.  They usually have one each and I make them one at a time.  Even if I did possess two pans, I still can’t see myself taking both out of a morning.  Oldest Boy gets his first.  He’s always the hungriest.  By the time I’m handing him his second, someone else is looking for their first.

“How come I’m not getting one?”

“You will.  I only have two hands.  Give me a chance, please.”

Smallest Boy likes to have “a person” present when he visits the bathroom.  I’m not sure if he likes the company or lacks the confidence to go by his own self.  Of which he is very capable.  But sometimes the mess he makes due to leaving it to the last minute is not worth it, so I accompany him when he asks.  It is when I am tending to him in the bathroom I hear,

“Where’s my dinner?   I’m hungry!”

“I’ll be with you in a minute.  Can’t you see I’m a bit busy?  I only have two hands.  Give me a chance, please.” 

Bed time with kids probably plays out the same way in every household.  There are pyjamas to be found, maybe a child needs a hand getting off a pair of jeans and pulling on a pyjama top.  Then the toothbrushes need to be sorted.  I try to give them all different colours – we use two types of toothpaste so anything that sorts out the who’s who of toothbrushes helps.  I start brushing teeth.

“Where’s my water bottle?  I can’t go to bed without my water bottle.”

“It’s on the counter top.  Open your eyes.”

“They are open.  And it’s not there.  Where is it?”

“I only have two hands.  Give me a chance!”

The boy’s favourite treat is a pile of jellies with a Malteser or two thrown in to mix it up.  I divide them into little piles of four.  I hand the nearest two kids their share. 

“Hey!  That’s not fair!  How come I don’t get any?”

“You are getting some.  I only have two hands.  Can you wait a moment, please?”

I’m sitting down at the computer or having a quiet cup of tea.  Smallest Boy comes up to me with his sock for a cuddle.  I lift him up onto my knee and he snuggles in.  We sit in quiet companionship.  I sip my tea or type with one hand.    

A short while later another of the boys wanders over and wraps his arm around my shoulder.  I get a kiss on my cheek.

I put down my cup or stop typing and holding onto Smallest Boy with one hand I wrap my free one around his big brother to return the hug.

The three of us sit in quiet companionship.

I only have two hands but it looks like there is plenty of me to go round after all.

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!

mysticalnumbers.com

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'

gopixpic.com

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

lilyobriens.ie

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.