Grin and Tonic

I’m a 40-ish woman. I’m pretty confident that anyone reading this in that age bracket has gone through enough matras over the years to fill a self-help book. In my teens it was all about ‘fit in, fit, fit in.’  Then in my late teens, early twenties it was all about ‘ stand out, stand out, stand out.’  Then it became less about me and all about the world, ‘escape! explore! Seize the day!’
Then my 30’s hit and it was all about being deliciously selfish – ‘be the best. Work hard, play hard.’ Then parenting arrived like a punch in the face and it was all about keeping my sanity. ‘just get throguh each day! Be a better parent tomorrow.”
Now? Now my mantra is not to have a mantra.  I’m so over with mantra’s. I’m done with the litte voice in my head always telling me how to behave, and how I should be. I’m so finished with self-imposed rules and regulations.
And as a kick-start I’m giving something up for Lent. It was going to be baking and dark chocolate and then I realised that the vista of 40 days without the central comfort compenents of my life was too appalling, I opened a packet of Bourneville chocolate and let it go.
So yes. My mantra / lent sacrifice is not to mantra. But I’ve also gone a step further and banned a word. Recently I have banned my middle sparkle from saying the word ‘but’. Everytime i ask her to do something she replies with a sentence beginning with ‘But… I’m doing something / too tired etc etc etc’. So I’ve banned the word. It was easier than banning her.
I’m considering banning rolling eyes too. And the word ‘whatever.’
So I’m now imposing a word ban on myself. I am no longer allowed to use the words “I should be doing……..” When I do something even remotely relaxing, or for myself, those words pop into my head. So now they’re banned.
So no mantra and no ‘I should be doing…..” I’m just going to be. Damn, that sounds like a mantra. Oh well. Let it be.

I’m no longer special. And it’s great!

When I first had Daisy, I became her world. Literally. Like any parent. When hubby went off to Germany while I nurtured our new baby to be, Daisy and I lived in a little bubble of love together.  When Poppy came along, it was all about keeping them apart for fear Daisy would batter her!  And I became Poppy’s world. She wouldn’t let me out of her sight for two years! But slowly something changed. They became friends, sitting side by side in their double buggy like peas in the pod. But still, for a long time, they were little selfish beings who just wanted me or daddy. But now, as Ruby has entered the fold – along with a very needy puppy! – our little bubble has expanded and enlarged, its membrane glowing with the colours of a rainbow as the sun shines and warms us.

And I watch an extraordinary thing. Alongside the wonderful connection I have with each of them, I watch how each of my children develops unbreakable relationships with each other – Daisy and Poppy, Daisy and Ruby, Poppy and Ruby. And of course Ruby and her soul-mate, Olly the dog. Now I can step back a little now and watch, mug of hot tea in hand (how many cups of tea have grown cold the last 7 years, neglected while I am pulled away again to give comfort, or respond to need?) and smile as I watch from the sidelines as they fight. bicker, hug, love, laugh, joke, tease, enourage, teach and learn from each other. I am still their world I think, but their universe is expanding and we are all satalites to each other, spinning round each other giving and getting life.

As my brother and I navigate the traumatic and emotional landscape of caring for our parents, our life together stands us in good stead as we steady and support each other (and annoy each other too!).  And so I stand back and see that the beginnings of a lifetime of connections are forming now that will help carry them all through life. And me too. Phew, this tea tastes good hot!

I’ve just walked through a riot. Ok, a riot in waiting. I always thought riots were moments of collective spontaneous combustion – a spark of anger / frustration / thuggery / protest – flared by a collective calamatous conscious of intent. But today in Belfast, I saw that in fact it is a premeditated, organised, cautious stand-off gone wrong (or gone right, depending which side of the barricade you are on.)
 A riot in waiting. The calm before the storm. The build-up before the explosion.
For weeks I’ve been watching the cowardly covered faces of youths who know nothing to the life we used to live in ‘the old days’ – spurred by the ‘craic’ of the riot rather than a passion for politics. Night after recent night I’ve watched the news with sadness, disappointment and a little shame that once again the streets I grew up in are being burned by petrol bombs and battered by bricks.
When I come up to look after my mum, I am more emmersed in the news, I shake my head in disgust at these overgrown children acting like violent petulant toddlers throwing a tantrum.
So I’m on my way to get the train back to Dublin, desperate to see my girls. My dad has driven me but I’m keen for him to get home quickly to mum, she can’t be left alone for long. So when we see a big crowd loitering (they only loiter with intent in Belfast) I immediately tell Dad to stop. I’ll walk the mile or so to go, he needs to get back to mum.
It was only when I got nearer, I realised the crowd was dense and deadly silent. Why oh why am I dragging my daughter’s luminous pink wheelie case?  I realise a few of them have balaclavas and scarves over their faces. The side streets have shadows, and small piles of bricks.
Everyone is quiet. There is no noise, apart from the flock of helicopters overhead. Just people watching being watched. Because as I drag my silly fiscia case through the crowd, my heart sinks (further). The road up ahead is blocked by a police barricade of officers dressed in full riot gear, and about 20 riot vans. Behind them half a mile away is the train station.  There was no way through.
Do I agree with the protestors? I honestly don’t know. I’m protestant but consider myself Irish. Northern Ireland is half catholic/half Irish and so I can understand why flying the Union Jack all the time upsets them. And I understand why taking it down upsets the unionists. If I had my way, I would remove all flags – apart from religion they have caused more death and destruction than anything else in history.
Anyway, regardless of what I think, any sympathy I might have had went up in the first whiff of smoke from a petrol bomb.
So I drag my bright pink children’s wheelie case through the quiet, dense crowd. I avoid a balaclava and speak to a face. How might I get to the train station? He nods to the baricade, and suggests I ask. Oh. Ok then. Sounds like a plan. I realise everyone is calm (except me). Smiling even. Just waiting.
So I drag my pink case to the line of riot police and peer into a black visor. Both sides of the barricade use a facial cover to protect them from the other. What a weird world we live in. What a bizare way to spend your Saturday afternoon.
I point pathetically to my pinkness, and nod to the train station. He nods back and steps aside. I walk through this army of black and plastic shields, past the armour plated vans, and onto an empty main road. I walk as fast as I can (OK, I ran) until I was away enough to look back. yep. They’re all still there. Waiting for the riot.
I’m at the station now. My train’s delayed due to a security alert – just like the ‘good ol’ days’. Except they weren’t that good. No matter how things change, sometimes they stay the same.

The girl on the bus.

The girl with no name.

In most cases, having no name takes away our dignity, but this time it gives some.

Gang raped and abused on a Delhi bus, then thrown naked on the street like rubbish, her dignity was stripped along with her clothes. It’s right that the world weeps for her pain and her death, but only her family and friends mourn for her. Keeping her name protects her in a way she couldn’t be protected that night.

It haunts me. How the last hour of her life was so violent and shocking and sordid and painful and lonely.  Of course I want to see a picture of her, but then I will only imagine the terrible things that happen to her more.  Better her story raises the collective conscience, and not her face. Let her mother gaze and touch her face in the photo. Let her father and brothers and sisters and friends dream of her face. She belongs to them.  But her story belongs to everyone who wants equality and justice and basic bloody behaviour and attitudes towards women.

I have three daughters, all with beautiful, funny, bold, clever faces. As their mum, I am going to do everything to make sure my girls have an equal, strong chance in life. They will know and love their name, and never be afraid to shout it loud. I hope they have courage and kindness, belief in themselves and compassion for others, confidence and charisma. I’ve no doubt the parents of that girl, who now whisper her name every moment of the day in grief, felt the same way. 

I cannot imagine, I literally cannot begin to imagine how they must feel now. A beautiful, clever girl with a lifetime of potential, tortured, abused, and murdered by 6 evil creatures who deserve to have their names said loud and clear when the verdict returns Guilty.

I hold my girls a little tighter. And I say their names a little louder. That girl should have had her name read aloud when she graduated; whispered lovingly when she fell in love; perhaps said strongly when she married; replaced by Mummy when she became a parent. Now her name won’t be said, but justice must be done, in her name.  And things must change, in her name. And those men should be punished, in her name. And tonight, girl on the bus, I will think of you, and whisper my daughter’s names.

Do you ever have one of those weekends when the volume dial is just jammed on high?

The dog barked continuously, the mini maelstrome that is Ruby moaned all day, the middle monkey over-tired cried at everything, and the older sulked and sighed (very loudly) and my own screeching reached embarrassing levels as I tried to untangle three sets of christmas lights, stabalise a tree while the dog pulled it the other way, detangle said dog from the tinsel tornado he had become, and I generally let loose my furious festive fuming.

Do you ever have one of those weeks when your head jars with the constant jangle of ‘I’m a crap parent today’ melodied with ‘you must be a better parent today’, till your head feels like splitting in two with the bickering voices?

I’ve learned a lot about minding my own mental wealth after my bout of post-natal depression last year. And I’ve written here and been published in newspapers and magazines on various issues surronding mental health, and the pressure on young people in particular. I have three daughters and so have a keen interest in what might lie ahead for them. And like most parents, I am constantly wondering about how my parenting will affect them.

So it came as a bit of a shock to read that 50% of all mental disorders will have their onset during the school-going years. This terrifies me – what my girls will experience, and how they will cope will have a profound affect on the rest of their lives.  I will play one of the most important roles in making sure they can cope, are given the mental, emotional and practical skills to cope with family life, school life, social life, friends, academia, social pressures, etc

My girls are just in primary school, but already I deal daily with issues relating to the general gymboree of schoolyard issues. I can only imagine the challenges of the years ahead. Here are the stats in Ireland:
In an average secondary school class size of 30 students, 12 will feel depressed, 7 will not feel they can talk to anyone about how they feel, 6 will think about self-harming, and 3 will.

As I had one of my mummy mania moments over the weekend, feeling put-upon, stressed, overworked, undervalued – you know, the usual – I asked my girls what would make a happy household. I was leading to a smart reply along the lines of a happy mummy makes a happy household and helping, doing as your told, not fighting yada yada yada would make me a happy mummy. I know, crap mum moment. But instead, I was stopped in my tracks. My bright little button Poppy looked at me and said simply, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world, “Love. Love makes a happy household.”
I dropped my duldrums and hugged her hard. She’s right of course. Love is the answer. I just hope its enough…..

I don’t know if I’m jinxing things so I’ll whisper the words quietly, and write them in small font so they don’t get overhead by the gods of fate….by the laws of sod….by the ire of irony. But….

I think we’re almost through it.

The end is in sight, almost touchable, almost tangible. I can almost grasp it. Almost.

Seven long years I’ve been in the deep dark depths of early parenthood…. that brutal busy, physical tussle with irrational beings, that sanity-sucking limbo of baby-rearing, that cataclysmic chaos of nappies and sleepness nights, shit and wee, vomit and wind, pureed food, refused food, spat out food, spilled food, tantrums, toilet training, screaching, screaming, double buggies in small shops, Ryanair with a baby (don’t need to say more), sixteen cars seat struggles a day, the exhaserbation (me), the exhaustion (me), the exhuberation (them) all whirled and wound togther in a wirlwind of wonderment and worry. And I’m nearly through it.

The other day, I took the dog for a walk. Daisy ran up ahead. Poppy rode her bike. And Ruby stuck her tongue between her lips and scooted with the concentration of a nobel-winning scientist on the cusp of cancer-cure. No-one whined. No-one had to be carried. No-one poo’d their pants. No-one threw themselves on the ground with a fearful ferocity for no apparent reason. It was a civilized walk in the park. I almost felt that a real person with a real family. Like on the telly.

And mealtimes have developed a promise of calm. A hint here. A glimpse there. Glimmers of possibility when all three actually sit in their seats at the same time for a full few minutes. I’m so taken aback I never quite know how to respond and I stare at them trying to find a topic of conversation that doesn’t involve the words ‘sit’, ‘eat’ or ‘aaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhh’.

We are evolving from a child management to a family participation unit. I’m excited. I’m nervous – what untold horror of hormones awaits me? But for now I’m writing my blog in peace. In peace!

The end is in sight…. and so is the beginning… a whole new phase of parenting.  Wish me luck!

Two years ago, I was horrified and harrowed by the awfulness of tending to the same needs from two people at the opposite ends of life – my mum and my newborn baby.  In the months after my mum’s stroke just days after Ruby was born, one of the hardest things was the tasks I now had to perform for her, in complete unison with my daugher. Changing her nappy, feeding her pureed food with a spoon, figuring out what she was trying to say.

Two years later, and so much has changed, despite so much being the same. My mum can now talk and feed herself, albeit limited.  My daughter can now talk and feed herself, albeit limited. They are developing at the same stage.  And today, a momentous thing happened for them both.  My daughter completed her first jigsaw. And so did my mum. Ths first time either have had the concentration span, the cognitive intelligence and skills to complete a puzzle. The last few months have been like an awakening for them both. Ruby is working things out, recognizing more and more, communicating more effectively, being funny and engaged. My mum is making more sense, recognised a picture of her mother and last week said my name for the first time in two years.  We can laugh again together. Today we baked. I made the dough and rolled it out and with one hand she pressed the cutter. My mum taught me to bake, as I teach now my children. It is something we did together and today I got to do it again.   We walked the dog in the autumn sunshine as Ruby sat on mum’s knee in her wheel chair and later we had a pretend tea party. Mum and Ruby laughed and connected – something I never dreamed could have happened in those awful awful months after her stroke.  Everything with Ruby is getting easier, and things with my mum are getting better.  It’s the little things that make the biggest difference.

I love it when I write a post like my last one, as if suddenly the world has shifted on an axis and there are no troubles to be found.  Because I should know by now, when you have three kids, a job, a parent to care for, a marriage you’d quite like to keep, and a dog, troubles are never far away. Although I have to admit that after the Troubles of the last few years, it’s nice to have troubles with a little t for a while.

Working from home had it’s challenges – the constant pull of needs leaving me feeling I was making nobody happy any of the time. Every minute was allocated to at least three different functions and craziness ensued.  Now the pull is of a different kind – the constant guilt of leaving my girls, the logistics of organising meals, school pick ups and general family needs around the demanding 5 days of work in a three-day a week job.   Every minute is allocated – from 6 am when I have to get up to walk the dog before hubby goes to work, to the moment I lay my heavy head on the pillow, assuming at last this is my moment – only to have Ruby cry out. No. That moment isn’t mine either.  All my  moments are theirs.  I realise that now. And that’s ok. I’ve spent the last 7 years waiting for things to calm down. Just around the corner will be some peace. Just get through this week, and I’ll be able to do all those things like tidy the baking cupboard. Maybe next year will be easier.

Daisy turned 7 today. I think I’ve finally realised it isn’t an itch that needs scratching. It’s life.
I have kids, ergo life is hectic and full, and challenging and chaotic, glorious and gruesome, exhuasting and exhilerating. Every moment is allocated, because every moment is full.

 My beautiful, wonderful, funny, exhuberant, smart, fiesty, thorny, caring, loving, curious, creative gorgeous baby is seven. And like the day I became a mother by becoming her mother, I still feel new to this parenting process.  But I now kinow this;  I’m going to stop waiting for the ride to stop so I can step off for a moment and catch my breath. She is seven and only a few moments ago she was a baby. So I’m buckling myself in and holding on tight. I’m on this ride, and I’m not getting off.   Bring it on!

Life has changed so much in recent weeks. Speeded up, slowed down, eased off, taken off.  Since coming back from Donegal where the days rolled into each other like the sea on those glorious beaches, and the horizon was limiteless, the autumn now drags the dark skies in earlier and a new phase of life with it.

Poppy has started school with her usual confident shyness, and Daisy has bounced into her third year with a happiness that was covered in trepidation the first two years. And Ruby…. well Ruby has reached the big 2 milestone, leaving her official status as baby behind. However, she is as minxy and exhuberant as ever. This week she got into my baking cupboard (she rattles them until the locks break) and covered the puppy in Pink food colouring. Last week it was green felt tip pen, and we’re all still recovering from her covering the poor pub in nappy cream!

But the big change is me. I have a new job – the first time really working out of the house since the girls were born. We have a lovely au pair from Germany who has taken all my stress of childcare issues away, and I now wear lipstick and talk to adults three days a week.  It took a lot of time for me to come to terms with the change that would take me away from the girls, but it’s been amazing. In a good way.  I love my new job, I love the fact that for the first time I’m not working from home – it means when I stop working, I STOP WORKING!  Weirdly, I have better time with the girls now, because when I’m there now, I’m there for them.  I’m not juggling them, my gmail, my yahoo mail, my work mail, my iphone, my housework, my general life. Oh, and my marriage!

Now, I have time to be with the girls. I do my own stuff in the evening instead of finishing work deadlines. And……. one night a week, hubby and I have a date night. A DATE NIGHT!!!!  I’ve even managed to squeeze an extra au pair hour this week so we can go and walk the dog. Together. As a couple. I’ll say that word again. Together.

After 7 years of baby care, I think I’m finally into the new stage of childcare.  A new stage of work life. A new stage of marriage.

Here’s to change. And it being as good as a rest!  Coz there’s no chance of that!