Grin and Tonic

Sandwich filling

Posted on May 15, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

This morning I sat at my mum’s house eating breakfast. This no longer is a solitary, selfless affair. I turned to my right and spooned a mouthful of porridge into my baby, turned to my left and spooned a mouthful of Special K into my mum, and finally took up my own spoon and fed myself. One for Ruby, one for mum, one for me. These are indeed my ‘sandwhich years’ – so called because we are stuck in the middle of caring for elderly parents and young children, in my case looking after a recent baby and two small girls and my mum who was struck down by a devastating stroke. And when I’m pulled this way and that, I often amuse myself with the thoughts of what kind of sandwich I am today.

Most days I feel like a limp ham and butter – drab, boring and left on the shelf in a 24 hour garage, a little saggy and wilted and nearly out of date. Occassionally I spruce myself up, get inspired and turn out a rather saucy (but still not very exoctic) chicken and mayo. If I manage to really get myself together and prune bits of myself, I may even be a chicken and avocado. On days when I feel some sense of achievement, when more To-Do’s are ticked than added to on my never-ending list, I am a double decker club perhaps. With a bit of sweet chilli dressing on the side.

One of the first blogs I ever wrote was about my mum making a tuna sandwich and my astonishment at the length of time it took her. She was always telling me to slow down, and often when I’m running around like a headless chicken I think of that blog and what it led to. It was spotted by a magazine who printed it, and so began a good working relationship, which continues now. The vast majority of my blogs and my published articles have not been about the filling, but about the bread that supports me – my mum and my children. I may be the taste inside (boring or exotic) but they have been the strength on the outside, keeping me together.

I may be in my sandwich years, caring for my loved ones at either end of the age spectrum, but they have been and are my bookends, my bread, my boundaries, my inspiration, my proudest parts, my best parts, the parts I write about, the parts I need. What kind of sandwich am I today? I hope a very well made, slowly made tuna sandwich to make my mum proud.

Posted in Uncategorized | 4 Comments

It’s the small things

Posted on May 10, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Poppy was born tiny and drew gasps of gorgeousness with her small, compact, perfect form. She was snug, sweet, and sassy. Clothes draped her little figure with concern, always a year at least in size below her actual age…. as I was shocked the other day to realise, Ruby at 6 months was comfortably wearing an outfit Poppy wore for a photo on the wall when she was 13 months old. But cutesy became concern when we realised small and sweet was one thing, but too tiny to get on a toilet aged 3, too small to get a bike for her birthday, too small to get up on the bed aged nearly four was actually a very big thing instead. Other things made us worry too – her popensity to go to the loo a lot, and constant complaints of a sore tummy.
We took her to an Endocrinologist who confirmed our fears – she barely makes it onto the centile chart, and is way below the range she should fit into as our daughter. Big needles went into her wee arms and blood was taken for nurmerous tests. An X ray was taken of her left wrist which told us that despite the fact she will be 4 next week, she has the bone age of a two and a half year old. Apparently this is good. She may be four and look two and a half, but she has the potential to grow. The not so good news is that something is delaying or stopping her development. She is ‘failing to thrive’.
That ‘something’ appears to be Gluten. Ghastly gluton apparently is poisoning her – although she has to have a biopsy to confirm but it ticks all the boxes. So, for starters that’s bread, pasta, cereals, chocolate, biscuits, cakes, processed foods, sweets, and pretty much most things except fresh fruit and veg (which thankfully she relishes). Once she’s confirmed to have Coeliac disease she begins a life-long avoidance of all mainstream foods. Frankly I’ll do whatever it takes to give her the best diet I can, but all I can think about it eating out, going abroad and worst for her – having to avoid buns, cake, crisps and pasta at parties and forever question what she eats. But, if it gets her healthy and well again, we’ll do what we have to. Unfortunately we’ve been told it’ll take upto 12 months to get the biopsy done. Twelve months during which we have to continue to poison her, continue to watch her pain, continue to flush away her nutrition down the toilet with her poo as her body can’t process it properly with gluten in her system. Twelve months? Are they mad? Needless to say, we’ll be taking her abroad if we have to. She’s small and sweet, and snug and sassy and smiley and sensational. She has character ten times her height, and no matter what happens now with her size, she’ll always, always, always be our perfect package.

Posted in coeliac, gluten, small stature | 6 Comments

Scooter Girls

Posted on May 4, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Growing up happens in stages. Little steps lead to giant discoveries, incremental instalments ignite monumental growth. Take the walk to school. Last year when Daisy started playschool, this involved two toddlers and one double buggy ride a mile and a half down the road. As the year progressed, Daisy walked to the lights before getting in the pram, while Poppy reigned supreme in her heightened position in the buggy like Lady Muck, her sloth a convenient decoy for my annoyance at her slowness. By the summer term though, I had Poppy (kicking and screaming most of the way it has to be said) walking to the lights, and Daisy to the main junction, about a mile. And I pushed them the last half mile, baby rocking in my tummy, already in the swing of the school routine before she was even born.

The new school year started last September and fresh and frisky targets were set. Poppy now walked to the main junction, Daisy three quarters of the way, my new baby swinging in the carrycot under the pram, born but still being rocked to sleep by routine. Poppy still talked the talk and got to play Lady Muck, but only if she walked the walk first.

After Christmas, the new goals stretched before them – Daisy the whole mile and a half, and Poppy to one street past the main junction. I invented games to keep them from noticing, we watched the seasons play out in the cherry trees and gardens we passed, saying hello to the trees like old friends we’ve come to know so well.

And now, Easter holidays over, the summer term begins, and it all changes again. Daisy and Poppy now scoot the whole way, while I (jog) to keep up, Ruby no longer asleep for the commute, but reigning supreme as Lady Muck, awake and alert, eager to get out and creep those first crawling moves. In no time at all I suspect, she’ll be scooting too, and the trees will wave their branches hello in the wind as she takes her place on the walk of life.

Posted in growing up, scooters | 5 Comments

Pain and pleasure

Posted on April 24, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

We’ve just returned from our family week in Ballyvaughan in the Burren on the West Coast of Ireland. The family week we have every year with my mum and dad, my brother and his family, and me and mine. The family week mum and dad organised last summer before my mum’s stroke. The family week that no longer involves my family. Not as it was anyway.

This time last year I was there with my mum. We pottered on wild west beaches, collecting shells with the girls, enjoying choccy buns with our tea, sitting side by side with our faces to the sun. This year, her absence was present everywhere. I never knew it was possible to feel so much pain without bleeding. The pain continues, as the realisation dawns that the trauma will not end. The trauma is constant. As my three girls delighted in the company of their cousins, the house was filled with their laughter, the laugher that made my mum’s life happy. But she wasn’t there to hear it. And amidst the noise of childish chatter I would be suddenly struck down, paralysed on the spot, cup in hand, children scampering around me, lost in my loss. While the world went on around me, I was still. And in my stillness I could see her. Her blue fleece walking along the beach, her white T-shirt soothing Ruby’s screaming teeth, her sun hat tilted back as the sun scorched our skin as the view scorched our eyes with its beauty. A bloodless coup has taken place, not a mark on my body but my head and my heart beaten and bruised.

It was possibly the hardest week of my life after the two following her stroke, made more intense by the beauty of the landscape and the glorious weather, both of which my mum appreciated more than anything. People often use the phrase ‘breathtaking’ to describe a stunning view, but the beauty of the Burren is breath-giving. The expanse inflates your lungs, the beauty makes you breath deeper, sucking it in, absorbing the glory of the landscape into your bones, as if your eyes are not enough to capture it all. It gave me the strength to carry on, to enjoy the moments of pleasure as we all pottered on wild west beaches, collected shells with my girls, ate choccy buns with our tea, and sat with our faces to the sun. And feeling her with me still.

Posted in Ballyvaughan, mum, stroke | 5 Comments

Opposites attract

Posted on April 16, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

I think as a parent we spend huge amounts of time trying to see other people in our children – ourselves, our partners, our mothers. It’s like we have to find recognition in the stranger, finding a connection with this part of ourselves, yet an unknown unfurling before our eyes. Like unwrapping the christmas present under the tree before Christmas morning, or at least giving it a quick shake to guess what’s inside. The surprise is too great, the wait too long. We identify the nose, this trait, that look – “ah, she has has my mum’s eyes”. I was told “you are just like your father!” (and not in a good way!). I even do it to myself, identifying bits of me and my personality that come from someone else – a sense of security that I’m connected amidst my yearning to be unique.

And so it is with the girls. From day one, my indignation as I lay exhausted and battered, the magic moment waning as all and sundry proclaimed Daisy to be the spitting image of her dad. (Hah! She’s growing up to be the image of me! Oh the satisfaction!). Then Poppy came along and we analysed eyelashes (my mum’s), earlobes (my brother’s), her finger length (who knows?) and her belly button (her dad’s) and while bits of her belong to Daisy, me, her dad and everyone we know, Poppy would grow to be all her own and always will be. And as each developed into amazing, weird and wonderful originals, we now try and piece Ruby into the mix. Who does she look like? Who will she be like? And, like the others, it is impossible to imagine, prepostrous to ponder the depth and detail she will be. Like the others, no matter how much we unwrap or compare or sneak-a-peak or guess, she will merge unique, and complex and mesmerising.

But, I do wonder how she will fit into the mix, and how she shake up the dynamic. Daisy and Poppy have had 4 years to bond and they are as close as sisters could be. People often ask if they are twins which I find odd. Despite the 18 month age difference, Daisy is blonde, Poppy is brown haired and they couldn’t be more different. In fact they are polar opposites, which is probably why they attract each other so much. Everything about them is a contradiction.

Daisy will wrap herself in her duvet, only an eye and a nostril peaking out, covered and protected, her personality cautious and fearful. Poppy won’t be covered, her legs akimbo above the duvet, exposed, her personality fearless and spontanious. Daisy loves chocolate, Poppy loves brocolli. Daisy is like summer, bright sunshine, full of song and sass. Poppy is like Spring, moody and unpredictable, full of light and dark. Daisy sleeps and picks at her food. Poppy is restless and eats with gusto. Daisy eats the jelly and savours the ice-cream, Poppy wolfs the ice-cream and slowly sucks the jelly. Daisy is skittish and needs people constantly – a little social butterfly. Poppy is methodical, happy in her own company, a social part-timer Poles apart and peas in a pod. Where will Ruby fit in the spectrum… the surprise slowly unfolds.

Posted in Uncategorized | 6 Comments

Child’s Play

Posted on April 9, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

I’ve talked about my inner child before – about the desperate diva throwing toddler-esque tantrums, spitting out my dummy when I’m faced with endless, thankless, relentless demands when all I want to do is hide under my duvet, quiet and alone. Recently my inner gargoyle has raised her ugly head (and voice) more than I care to remember (will my kids? is the question that keeps me awake some nights). The overwhelming overwhelmingness of my life right now is giving my spoilt brat inside a sustained sugar hit. All that new baby neediness, and the responsibilities of my mum’s illness has me screeching up the walls some days. And then last week on Mother’s Day I read an article by Eleanor Mills in the Sunday Times. It was about this modern generation of spoilt brats, pissed off with parenting, done in by the demands, and resentful of relentless crappy work. It got me thinking. This is what I signed up for. I wanted a busy family, a noisy household. The last six months as I’ve struggled with three under the age of 6, my mum’s voice plays over in my head, “well, you wanted three!”. It was my choice. And I wouldn’t change it. And I don’t know whether it was the article, or some level of acceptance with my mum’s situation, or the fact that at six months I’m finally getting to grips with this baby lark, but I’ve tentatively realised my inner gargoyle isn’t so petulant these days. In fact, my inner child has been having a bit of a field day of late – in a good way. I’ve been bouncing on the trampoline with gay abandon, freewheeling on my bike down the road, singing our Everything Has To Be a Song Days with gusto and generally remembering how to be a fun mum again. Oh the gargoyle is only resting no doubt, but I hope she has taken a permanent back seat. I hope I am slowly stumbling out of the haze of the last 6 months, and beginning to see life again through the eyes of a child, and the heart and maturity of a mother.

Posted in inner child, mother | 5 Comments

Flower Power

Posted on March 31, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

I’ ve always believed in flower power. I’ve always seen the beauty of life in the colour purple, and pink, and yellow and blue. Flowers uplift me almost as much as chocolate (and are better for me!) Even when we are budgeting and tightening our purse strings, I manage to slip a little bunch of bright beauty into the shopping bag. Maybe it’s because my mum always had flowers in the house: Gladioli, Alstroemeria, daffofils to hail spring, orange lillies in summer. And now as my mum lies captive in her body, my dad brings her her flowers, a little bit of life in her room every day. And when we can, we sit her up in the kitchen to watch the peep show unfold in the garden as blossoms burst out their rioting colours in the garden.

Today was one of those days that never seemed to end. Ruby has another tummy bug, so puking and pooing took up most of my time, and the girls endless energy sapped mine. So imagine how delighted I was when the doorbell rang and I was greeted with a pink fest of loveliness – this beautiful bunch of flowers from Interflora (http://www.interflora.co.uk/) courtesy of the equally lovely Rosie Scribble (http://www.rosiescribble.typepad.com/) who nominated me to receive them. Thank you, thank you, thank you. They have brightened up my kitchen, my day and my heart.

Posted in flowers, interflora, rosie scribble | 2 Comments

No-one told the kids!

Posted on March 28, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Holidays obviously mean different things to different people. To me, they mean a large glug of relaxation tinged with a little adventure, with a dollop of good food, great books and a sun glowing like a cherry on top. The emphasis there is relaxation in the form of lying indulgently in the sun after a lazy breakfast and a poolside bar. Clearly this model was established long before little people accompanied me.

My children have a very different idea of holidays. Ruby believes in getting the most of the day by starting it at 5.30 am. Ok for some, if you are allowed the blissful opportunity for several daytime naps. These are not opportunities afforded to parents. Poppy believes that holidays are about as much mummy-incorporated activity as possible – swimming, walking beside her on a pony, circus training, nature trails… you get my drift. And Daisy obviously believes holidays are an opportunity to talk and sing continuously – at volume – for 14 hours non-stop.

But hey, let’s not get picky. Whatever the expectations of the holiday, we were together as a family for 10 glorious (slightly exhausting!) days… and there was a large glowing sun like a cherry on top. As often happens, when the crappy domestic drudgery is removed and we just get to hang out together, it’s like falling in love all over again. The girls continue to amaze and impress me, and Ruby’s little personality makes itself more and more known.

The last six months have virtually undone me. But a bit of sun, a change of scene and lots of (did I mention exhausting?) kid’s laughter has given me the first bit of recovery. It didn’t make the pain go away – the middle of the holiday marked six months since Mum’s stroke, and there was a painful first morning home when the phone stared at me waiting for me to ring her and tell her all our adventures knowing that no-one will ever want to hear those stories as much as she would have.

But. But. The blanket that a life of being loved by her has wrapped round me continues to keep me warm. And this holiday knitted togther more threads in the life experiences of my girls, weaving wonders and adventures into the fabric of our love. The story continues as I open my arms and bring them under my blanket too.

Posted in Uncategorized | 5 Comments

ungodly ways

Posted on March 12, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

It’s at times like these, I wished I believed in a god. Then I could shout and rant at him / her / it for the horribleness of my life right now. I do believe in the power of prayer (postive thought anyway), the spirituality of goodness and the shock and awe of nature. She / he / it should be admired, praised, recognised everywhere, and of course as we’ve seen in the last couple of days, respected.

But I can hardly blame the wind and the rain for my current troubles. Forgetting the fact my mum had a massive stroke that devastated her life – and mine, and the fact I am struggling with a new baby, let me list just a little of the crap that the universe has thrown my way the last 5 months that have left me feeling shattered:

mastitus – twice
gum infections – twice
snowed in – twice
chest infections – you got it, twice times 3 girls
a week in hospital with my baby on oxygen and a feeding tube
car breakdown in pouring rain and two kids and baby in car
a leaking roof
10 nights out of 165 with 6 hours sleep (the rest were far less)
weeks with the girls, weekends with my mum

and now…. to cap it all… the baby has a vomitting and diarrhea bug. I had to abandon my visit to mum as I was so busy wiping up Ruby’s vomit I had no time to sit with her. So at this point in the game, I’d be shouting up at it / her / him to GIVE ME A BREAK!

I have always been rather optimistic. Definitely a half-glass full girl. I am struggling at this stage to find anything in the glass at all. I even find it hard to believe that something won’t happen to stop us going on holiday tomorrow – to Morocco (yes I know, but we booked pre- facebook revolutions!). So instead I will say instead, I’m off on holiday tomorrow for ten days togetherness with my family – volcanic ash / uprising and rebellion / sick children notwithstanding.

But just when I think my life cannot get any worse – and I have felt this so many times recently and then it did – I turn on the news and know I am lucky. I may feel at times that my ground is shaking beneath my feet, but for those poor people in Japan yesterday for whom it really did they had no escape. I may feel swept away by the magnitude of the challenges facing me at the moment, but for those poor people who were swept away by the sheer force of nature they had no chance of ever overcoming it. My life is hard at the moment – harder than I ever thought possible – but there is no-one to blame. It is just life, in all it’s wonderful and cruel forms. And while there are days I struggle to get through, I am reminded by these terrible events in Japan that at least there will be another day for me. And I wish I believed in a god so I could thank her / it / him.

Posted in god | 5 Comments

Dying to live

Posted on March 7, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

I’m going to die.

I’ve only just really realised this. It never seemed like a real possibility before. But, I’m going to die and that knowledge has a massive impact on how I want to live.

The suddeness of my mum’s – what shall I call it? – demise? life’s end? shocked me to my core. One minute she is talking to me on the phone, laughing and telling me she loves me, and then goes to read to my daughters and put them to bed. An hour later, it’s all over. Her life as we all knew it. One minute she was involved in every aspect of my life, and the next, she became someone who doesn’t know my name.

Now that I know my death is not only a possibility but a definite, I want to make sure I’m really living. I want to be with my girls every day of their lives although I know (I hope) I won’t. So I have to make the days I do have, count. I want to write the bloody novel that is haunting me at night. I want to stop being tired and start being energetic. I want to eat as much chocolate as I can and still be a size ten (OK, that’s just fantasy I know, but part of living is dreaming surely?)

Admittedly at the moment I already feel half dead – sleep might be something we can do when we’re dead, but lack of it makes living pretty hard. BUT, Ruby has slept through for the last three nights, so I’m holding my breath in the belief that we might finally be seeing the light…
I’m dying, but I’m also living. And maybe one of the things I will take from the last five months is that every day I’m living, I’m appreciating the fact that I’m dying – and that is inspiring me to live better.