Grin and Tonic

Change is as good as a rest… who are they kidding?

Posted on September 2, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Life is all about phases. Once I was the burning-the-candle-at-both-ends-highly-motivated-successful-career-girl, and then I became the sleep-deprived-slobber-covered-breeding-feeding-weary-worn-stay-at-home-mum. And now, lo and behold, I’m a PART-TIME WRITER!!

Ok, actually the full title is Full-time-mum-and-maker-of-my-husband’s-sandwhiches-and-housekeeper-and-part-time-writer, but when I’m asked I might just stick to the last part. A new phase in our lives begins, and although I mourn the loss of what we had, I run full speed ahead to a new life. For three years my toddler has been mine and we have been free, but this week she began playschool five mornings a week. I have cared for my baby constantly for the precious 15 months of her life, but now I will have a childminder to look after her three mornings a week. I’m scared and I’m a little sad. But, I am going to write. I can hardly contain my joy. I burst little sniggers from my mouth. My mind jumps from list to adoringly-written list to decide what shall be my first task. Now I no longer have to cram all my work into the silent hours of lunchtime sleeps, or the dark hours of night. I feel new life breathing into my fuzzy brain. It’s only ten hours a week, but they are MY ten hours. Mine all mine. Ten hours! How many words can I write in ten hours? How many emails can I send? How many blogs can I read? How many blogs can I write? How many articles can I devise, and pitch and write and send? How much money can I earn? Ok, the answer to the last question is probably not very much, but who cares? Who cares when I have ten whole glorious, gluttonous, gorgeous hours to write? My ‘business plan’ shines out like gold on my pin-board and I check and re-check my breakdown of hours.

I love being a mum. It’s everything I thought and 1000 times more. But I miss me. And for ten whole hours I will get me again. But maybe not this week…. Instead of a week of words, I’m having a week of weeping – and that’s just me. Tears at the playschool door (mine are hidden, my daughter’s are streaming down her face as she clutches frantically to my skirt). Back at home, the new childminder is patiently trying to persuade my wobbler to stop burying her head in my lap as she squeals at the indignation of meeting someone new. Everyone is in uproar at the new changes to our life. Better change that title to Full-time-mum-and-wiper-of-tears-and-emotional-wreck-and-maker-of-my-husband’s-sandwhiches-and-maker-of-my-toddler’s-sandwhiches-and-housekeeper-and-part-part-time-writer. Change is as good as rest they say? They obviously didn’t have kids.

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There’s always a rainbow on a rainy day…

Posted on August 28, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Like almost everything bad I’ve experienced in life, there is inevitably some good somewhere hidden in all the crap. It happens with the little things. It happens with the big things. Take the little bad things. The other day I was literally in the middle of texting my husband that I was having the worst day of motherhood to date – my toddler having thrown the mother of all tantrums in Tesco exposing me to the butt of all those looks of sympathy / ‘what a bad mother she is’ and I was now trying to feed said toddler and rebellious baby who was point blank refusing to eat anything I waved in the vicinity of her mouth, when, between me threatening to either abandon them in the café and go for a drink or cry, a lovely woman came up to me and said, “What beautiful girls you have, and so good to sit there quietly.” I looked at her as if she’d sprouted a snout and begun to fly. My girls? Good? And I looked at them and there they were, being all beautiful and good and gorgeous. She changed the course of the day for all three of us.

It’s like when you are confronted with the hugest, smelliest, mind-of-its-own poo-ey nappy and you look up to check it’s not actually a large sewer infested alien on the change mat and you get the smile to melt your heart and a gurgle of delight that makes you laugh in your soul. It’s like when my mum lost her handbag recently while looking after my girls. I felt guilty, she was distraught and our annoyance hung in the air and spoiled our day. And then there was a knock on the door. And there was a woman and there was my mum’s handbag and we smiled at how good people can be.

And then there’s the big things. My recent miscarriage was traumatic and terrible and terrifying, and also testament to the incredible spirit of love and friendship that surrounds me. My mum stroked my hair, my friends called and gave me hugs. People – so many people, sent me flowers. Others bought me chocolates. And people I’ve never even met wrote to me and sent me their love. Women shared their own stories of loss and I knew someone out there understood. In the midst of loss, I felt loved. Thank you all.

Posted in miscarriage, motherhood, thanks | 1 Comment

Miscarriage of Justice

Posted on August 19, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

The last of the summer butterflies dance in the garden, fragile and beautiful.

Like a butterfly, my little baby was not destined for a long life. It’s time was measured in weeks, like a butterfly. And like a butterfly, she caught my breath as she danced and dipped into my dreams, fluttering and fragile… on her way out as soon as she began.

The moment I saw the scan I knew it was over. I knew my dream had died.

And like all things parenting, so little was in my control. Several days later, my body went into labour. I cried out in pain, I bent myself double and with the same horrific ease that you came to me, you slipped from my body, and fluttered away.

I still don’t know how to grieve for you. I still don’t know how to recognise you and live my life without you.

But for some reason, every time I see a butterfly I think of you and smile. And so it seems, you have shown me yourself. We already have two beautiful flowergirls, Daisy and Poppy. And just as our house jingles to the jangle of their laughter, so our garden sways in the splendid colours of red and pink and white and purple as daisies and poppies dance in the breeze. And I see a beautiful butterfly dance among them and I know you will always be with them. And I with you. My flutter butterfly.

Posted in baby, death, miscarriage, parenting | 8 Comments

The Two’s – Terrible or terrific?

Posted on August 6, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

They’ve been so awful, for so long, for so many people, that the phrase ‘terrible twos’ has become fearfully familiar phraseology in the dictionary of parenthood, along with ‘teething toddler’ and ‘temper tantrums’.

So why are they so terrible? Why do they fill even the most stalwart of parents with dread and throw normally competent mums and dads into incompetent messes? And can we see through the mist of terror to appreciate the terrific theatre the Year of the Two can give us?

The main reason the Terrible Twos are just that, is because our little precious smiling amenable wobblers have now become little precocious screaming ambivalent warriors; tearaway terrors who have all the exuberance for exploration, all the indignation for independence and all the delight for discovery, but none of the fear or restraint yet required to keep a parent’s sanity intact. The second reason is of course our little babies have now become mere bundles of emotion. Extreme emotion is always difficult to handle and with the Terrible Twos there is nothing done unless it is extreme – extreme upset, extreme anger, extreme frustration, extreme unhappiness, and extreme jealously. And that’s just you. Your beloved has more emotion building up inside than their little bodies can contain so it explodes like a gas, hot air and pressure escaping in a teary tirade of tantrum.

Our toddlers have also discovered a vital piece of human physiology – willpower. And once they’ve got their little brains around that minefield, they ain’t letting go of it anytime soon. I bet I’m not the only parent who hears “I do it!” a hundred times a day. And with willpower comes another important lesson – for both of you. Testing of boundaries. They have to push you and push you and push you, and by doing so (if they haven’t pushed you over the edge of sanity) they will learn valuable lessons of life – right and wrong, good and bad, safe and dangerous.

A lot of tantrums are borne out of frustration – and again I mean the kids here! On the cusp of communicating, they know what they want and they know what they like, but it’s not always that easy to make you understand.
It’s also one of the trickiest ages to discipline. They’re got all of the ingredients for bad behaviour – energy, enthusiasm, temper, and willpower, but none of the reasoning and rationale needed for easy obedience. Let’s face it – the naughty step is a game to them, reward charts are meaningless because they can’t count their stars, and good old fashioned begging is a poor last resort. But the main reason the terrible twos are so hard is the plain fact that they are getting smarter and much harder to fool! Up until now you can tell as many little white lies as gets you through the day – it’s broken!; there are none left!; I promise we’ll go tomorrow!. Now they know that it just needs a new battery, that there are plenty left – and of course they remember your promises the next day. After promising my little girl she could have an ice-cream if she went to bed quietly, her first words the next morning were “ice-cream!” They were also her second, third, fourth and fifty-fifth.

Is it all bad though? If you catch us on a good moment, most mums of two year olds will smile warmly and claim it to be such a wonderful age! They are bursting with energy and enthusiasm for everything around them – so the exuberance can be a bit overwhelming for everyone, but who can resist laughing with joy as they splash through puddles, roll down hills, and bounce on the bed all with enchanting squeals of delight. It is only now, after months of being a ‘baby’ – all toothy grins and immobility – that their half-hidden personality is bursting through as they make jokes, perform to captive audiences and know just how to get you grinning despite yourself. Best of all, because their communication is developing the connection between you is increasing and there is no drug in the world to beat the feeling of love and elation when you teach your little one to do something for the first time and they look to you for approval, clapping their hands with joy and your eyes engage in the moment … it’s magical. For me the most amazing thing about this time is the incredible amount they are learning every day – new words, new understandings, new excitements.

So how do we cope? How do we minimise our desperation and maximise our delight when our bundles of joy become bundles of emotional overloads?

We have to let them win occasionally – there have to be some ‘yes’s’ amid the torrent of no’s. We have to become Masters of Deception – up the mental agility to deceive to achieve. We have to understand their frustrations and try and put ours aside a little. They are learning, they are on the bottom rung of the command chain, constantly being told what to do, what not to do, being pulled and pushed this way and that. Let them be the boss (when it suits us!!), make some choices, and decide what cereal to have for breakfast. Help them up the first rung to becoming a little person in their own right. Be strong and firm though and make sure their boundaries are clear and consistently kept. We won’t be doing anyone any favours (especially them) by giving in to them all the time. They have to learn what is acceptable and unacceptable behaviour – that’s our job. We are parents first, and friends second.

Finally we have to find the humour in everything they do. Even in the midst of a temper burst, they can be a one-person entertainment show. It’s not going to last forever… so take a deep breath, and take it all in. Before we know it they’ll be moody teenagers and we’ll be wishing they were two again!

Like all things in motherhood, it’s a little terrible and a lot terrific. Enjoy it when we can. It will only last a year. For every time our toddlers throw a tantrum there’ll be plenty of other times they’ll make us laugh – often at the same time!

Published in Modern Mum, Summer 2008
(c) AKG 2008

Posted in motherhood, terrible twos | 1 Comment

Change as good as a rest?

Posted on July 28, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

It takes a week to pack. The holiday lasts a week. It takes a week to unpack, wash, dry, iron and put away all the junk. The ratios just don’t add up…

Luckily we have a spare room. It’s called “Nanna’s room” but she is banished from visiting prior to a holiday as her room is transferred to the ‘packing chamber’. I used to work for UNICEF – travelled to war-torn countries and packed the night before. It was easy. Iraq? Long sleeves and flip flops. Sierra Leone? Short sleeves and sports bra (very bumpy roads). In my previous life I travelled the world for two years with one rucksack slung over my back. It held all the knickers I needed and one saggy bra kept all my bits in check for all 674 days. Now? A week’s holiday on the west coast of Ireland requires military precision and 104 lists.

Not exactly war torn but it certainly has its fair share of bumpy roads, and with the arctic / tropical summers we have, it’s like packing for two different holidays. Oh, and throw in two kids and a busy husband and I need a logistical plan of epic proportions to remember everything – washing and ironing has to be planned days in advance, medical kit, clips, books, toys, buckets and spades, swimming gear (hot and cold weather dependent), potty, toilet seat, pink toilet paper, nappies, pack lunch for the journey, favourite snacks, favourite spoons, favourite dishes etc etc etc. One saggy bra no longer fits the bill I’m afraid – two kids later I need a structural engineering masterpiece.

And two things happen.

Ten minutes into the journey my husband asks if I packed the kid’s DVD. I deflate in frustration. The one thing I forget out of the 4729 things I remembered and it’s the first thing that’s required.

And every holiday I pack my ‘me bag’. Stuffed with my writing magazines, my books, my writing notebooks that in a moment of mammary maladjustment I think I’ll get the time to enjoy, the bag remains forlornly and depressingly untouched, like the beach bag on a two week holiday of rain.

But then two other things happen.

I fall in love with my family all over again as we play together for endless sun drenched / rain drenched days, and I rejuvenate enough to know that this exhausting time of young babies is time finite. I’ll keep packing my ‘me bag’ and one day, on one holiday I’ll open it. That’ll be the day my kids can entertain themselves – and a little part of me will rejoice and a little part of me will weep.

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the original women writers

Posted on July 8, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

I’ve been feeling a little daunted of late. Giving up my high flying career to look after my girls seems to have morphed into a full-time child-rearing job, combined with a (very) part-time writing career, swamped by the domestic drudgery of housekeeper, cook, cleaner and general slave to everyone else’s wishes.

As I fight a loosing battle for some time to call my own (having long given up on a room of my own, a desk of my own, a moment of my own), I’m afraid writing has taken the biggest hit. As I lie under the duvet desperately grasping another ten minutes of rest, I console myself that I’m not leaping out of bed earlier than my sleeping angels to write, by the fact that I’m a hectic mother of two under three and exhaustion has won the day. I pat myself on the back for getting through the day without causing anyone any actual physical harm, and meeting my magazine deadlines. I shrug my shoulders at the long list of writing I should / could / would be doing if only I had the time / childcare / energy – my blog (once daily, then weekly, now sporadic), other blogs, my diary, my novel.

But now I must confess to being shamed. I’m reading a book called Can Any Mother Help Me?, about a group of women in the 1930’s who were isolated and bored and stressed from marriage and motherhood. In those days women gave up their jobs when they married and raising a handful of kids by yourself was the norm. One day a lonely woman wrote an ad in The Nursery Times asking if any other mother could help her. She was desperately lonely and isolated, and needed creative interaction. She got so many replies from so many women around the country they decided to set up their own secret magazine. They all took anonymous names and wrote articles about their lives. Taking them through their child-rearing years, through the second world war, through marriage breakdowns and life’s highs and lows, these women found solace in their writing and their friendships. The magazine – called CCC (Co-Operative Correspondence Club) – lasted for over 55 years.

Their lives where often harsh, and many had been educated but forced to become nothing more than domestic drudges after marriage. They endured bringing up their children alone and in austere circumstances during the war and they fought their own battles to find identity, creativity, and achievement. They were brave, funny, witty, enduring, strong and smart. They worked much longer and much harder than I do, and they still found time to write. For 55 years these women literally wrote the story of their lives, weaving a weapon against boredom, domestic drudgery, marriage and motherhood. Life gave them something to write about, and their writing gave their life meaning.

So, it’s 5.30am. I’m writing. And it feels wonderful.

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Re-Learning the Lessons of Life

Posted on June 30, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

This morning my one year old taught me a valuable lesson of life. I lay in my lazy Sunday bed reading my book while Daisy and Poppy played in the curtains. Their combined giggles and glees were like an ice-cream on hot day… all you need.

Then they made their way over to my wardrobe to pull out my shoes. One by one they were inspected and thrown to the side while the next discovery was made. Then Daisy asked me to pull out the mini step-ladder from under my bed so she could reach the other shoes. The ones I deliberately keep up high away from grubby hands. But it’s Sunday, and she said please without prompting, so I pull it out and set it up, and grubby hands paw my red suede heels. Lesson 1: it’s always worth an ask. The answer might just be yes.

Once Daisy lost interest, Poppy then assesses the step-ladder. It only has two steps but she’s never climbed one before. Climbing is a very new skill, and I could see the step-ladder was going to be a practise ground. And so I watch from the cover of my duvet. She tries to climb them like stairs but they’re too narrow. Eventually she realises she can do it if she holds onto the sides to pull her up. After several attempts she ascends the first step, and contemplates the second. She climbs down. This takes a degree of tricky footwork but she gets there. She then practises the first step over and over again. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Coos of self-appreciation accompany her efforts. She then tries the second step. Unsure. Unsteady. She wobbles. I clench my hands in restraint and stay behind the confines of my bed. This is her lesson to herself. She makes it. Squeals in delight to herself. She looks down at the floor anxiously and begins her descent. She gets it wrong, has to climb back up. Tries again. Four attempts later she gets it. For the next 15 minutes she climbs up two steps, and climbs down two steps, practising her new skill over and over again. She doesn’t give up and she doesn’t give in. Each time she assesses the space between the steps and the step and floor. Her feet just touch. It’s a tough climb but she does it over and over again. As my pride swamps me I realise she’s given me Lesson 2: try, try and try again. At last you will succeed. Practise, practise, practise, at last you will perfect.

She’s one and she knows that instinctively. I’m 38 and I’ve long forgotten it. There are things I want to achieve but I keep giving up at the first wobble. I look at her and I see that I must try and try and try. I must keep trying until I succeed.

I thought I would be the teacher, but this is a relationship. We both give and we both take. She will keep teaching me and I will keep trying. One step at a time.

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Home is where the heart is

Posted on June 24, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Having a lazy morning with the girls. We’ve read books in bed, with Sam the cat curled up between us as the pigeons coo outside our window. Today will be a stroll rather than a sprint. Yesterday a job opportunity came my way. A six month leap into the real world. For a brief moment I really did flirt with the ‘old me’. I could see her putting on her smart suit, I could imagine her striding off to the train, and my heart pounded a little as I saw her waltz into a room full of adults and take on the world. I ran my hand along the rail of pretty cloths that gather dust above the piles of weary-worn jeans and sweat pants in my wardrobe. Just a step away from being mummy-me and a step into business-me. And it was so tempting. Like a glistening cool pool on a hot balmy day.

But then I woke up this morning and the girls clambered under my duvet and we read Rumble in the Jungle. Daisy practised her lion roar and Poppy triumphed her first elephant trumpet. That would all be gone.

We then padded out into the garden in our pyjamas and threw water and sand on the grass and chased the cat. That would all be gone.

We ate lunch together and Poppy finally got to grips with putting a spoon in her mouth. Daisy had a tantrum and I felt like strangling her but we got through and she chased Poppy up the stairs with squeals of giggles. I kissed them both and got a cuddle back and off they went to sleep. All that would be gone.

As they sleep I claim my private peace at the computer and write. I write my blog, I write my next magazine article. I watch the news. All that would be gone.

We teach each other. We show each other. We talk. We giggle. We share our world and that would all be gone. They also drive me up the wall, drive me to distraction and drive me to edge of sanity, but I have no doubt that would not all be gone. In fact, with a rushed morning and the dregs of their day, I’m sure that would not be gone at all.

I would gain so much by going out to work again. My sanity. My self-esteem. My identity. We could certainly do with the money. But I would loose so much more. We would loose so much more. So for now, home is where my heart is.

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Pretty in Pink

Posted on June 13, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

When I had two little girls I did think my life would be viewed through the rose-tinted glasses of princesses and girlie things. Little did I know though, just how pink it would get. I’m currently at risking of drowning in a sea of pink. My eldest daughter is two and a half. Just two and a half. I thought she would be at least five before my fashion advice was no longer required and an independent princess would emerge. But no, the Pink Revolution has arrived and it’s taking no prisoners. I’ve been punked. Or should I say, pinked.

The princess is a tough cookie and has very high pitched demands. To do a quick inventory of the latest pink accessories, we have shoes (all pink, every single pair, including wellies), pants, dresses, bags, doll’s pram, coat, clips, ribbons, pens, chalk, and blankets. And it doesn’t end there. No, no, no…. the pink pound knows no limits. Out shopping recently in the supermarket, she spotted some pink loo roll. Clutching the packet to her chest like a box of treasure, she carried it down all the aisles until the checkout. Now, while the rest of us use white, but she will only perform if there is pink to wipe up with. Her favourite poem is about a Pink Yink who likes to wink while drinking pink ink. Enough I thought! But no. If you can’t stand the pink, get out of the kitchen. At a recent picnic I asked her what sandwiches she wanted – Egg? Peanut butter? Chicken? Ham? “Pink” was the answer. Ham it was then. She will only eat pink yoghurt and drink raspberry smoothie. Surely things have gone too far when her favourite food has nothing whatsoever to do with taste??

But the thing that tickles me… well, pink… is that this is not nurture – this is pure nature. Somewhere deep inside her genetic make-up, a pink princess has burst free. I always dressed her in trousers and although I bought the odd pink item, they were outnumbered by a rainbow of greens, reds, blues, purples and orange. The pink has come from within – the pink link of genetics.

Last week a new development took place. The princess has become a warrior. She now refuses point blank to wear trousers. Only “pretty skirts” and “pretty dresses” which, of course it goes without saying, are pink.

And so I sigh and give in. I fought a good fight, but I now concede defeat. Pink is the new black. The new blue. The new red. Pink is powerful and pink has won. So I must take my pink princess and march forward enjoying the innocence of such a glorious colour….. no doubt I’ll be wanting it back when the black days of Goth descent upon us…

(c) AKG 2008

Posted in motherhood, mum, pink, toddlers | Leave a comment

Happy 1st Birthday

Posted on June 5, 2008 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

My baby is one. Last night I held you when you woke up and cried in the middle of the night… you were just hours from being one and I sat in our rocking chair in the dark holding you in my arms and wondered at the fact I had been holding you for a year. A whole glorious year. And that wonder wandered to a question I just can’t answer. What did I do before you? What did I do when I woke during the night before you and Daisy came along? How empty and lonely the dark of the night must have been. I have only held you in my arms for one year of my 38 years and I cannot for the life of me think what I did before. Holding you is so real and complete that it is hard to imagine my life had any real meaning before you and Daisy filled my arms, and my heart. A year ago I didn’t know you. I loved you of course, loved your swell in my belly, and your kicks under my ribs. But I didn’t know you. I couldn’t wait to meet you but I could never have known the beauty of you. I could never have imagined your serenity and your twinkle. I would never have thought you up, because you are beyond all expectations. I could never have imagined how special you would make me feel.

Only one year and I have become a better mum, a better person, a better woman, a better writer and all because of you. Happy 1st year my precious girl… and thank you in advance for all the wonderful years ahead… so many adventures together, so many hugs, and smiles and belly laughs. What did I do before I held you at night? I just don’t know. But I’ll hold you every night in my heart for the rest of my life.