Sunday 29 June 2014

Mary Kennedy's Knees


Those of us of a certain age will remember Live at Three on RTE. It was on in the afternoons when I came home from school just before Blockbusters and Countdown. Both these programmes provided background noise when I was doing my homework (hey – don't judge my parents – those programmes were about numbers and letters !!) My Granny Russell who lived with us provided a running commentary to the programme.  But she had a bit of a 'set' on Thelma Mansfield, one of the presenters. She never stopped giving out about her.  'Would you look at that one ?' 'Wouldn't you think that one would something with her hair?' Myself and my mam would share a secret smile and say nothing, both thinking that Thelma was rather glam, with lovely blonde hair.  Compared to her co-host, Derek Davis she was practically a supermodel.  His only saving grace was his lovely Nordie accent.



Fast forward to 2013, and myself and my mam were chatting about Nationwide, on RTE, or to be specific Mary Kennedy and her dress sense. I watch it regularly, as there if often arts and cultural initiatives featured (that's my story and I'm sticking to it).  Myself and Gok Wan, I mean, my Mam, agreed that Mary was dressing 'a bit young' and that her skirts were too short, showing off her middle aged knees. I smiled to myself, thinking that I was indeed, turning into my Granny Russell.

Fast forward to New Years Eve 2013, I was trying on my new guna deas for my cousin's wedding the following day. I was mighty pleased with myself, getting the dress, during a lunchtime dash at work the previous day. I had the bag, shoes, wrap, hairdo – sorted. I put on my sparkly guna and looked admiringly in the mirror. Then horror of horrors, I looked down and there for all to see ... was Mary Kennedy knees (MKK)... !! It's ironic that it has taken me 20 years to be comfortable in my adult skin, only to find the said skin wrinkled around my knees.



My plans for flesh coloured tights to complete the ensemble were abandoned. I needed to act quickly, to come up with a solution to the travesty. Cerise pink opaque tights, I thought. A quick try-on with previously mentioned guna, and I was sorted.  Cinders Ella could go to the ball/ wedding.

We headed off to the wedding the next day, scrubbed and polished. We were only gorgeous. At the reception I met a distant relation that I hadn't met in about 25 years.  I thought he would say how lovely it was to see me after all of these years, but instead, the first words out of his mouth were that my Grandad Owenie Russell would turn in his grave if he seen my tights. Sadly, I never got to meet my Grandad as he passed away shortly before I was born, but he is always remembered by all who knew him with fondness and respect.  He would have been been keen on women 'retaining your modesty' and I guess my tights didn't do that.  But in my defence, my cerise pink opaque tights saved the guests from my MKK.  


Friday 27 June 2014

SIX YEARS AND NINE MONTHS

Today was my six-year-and-nine-month-old twins last day in Senior Infants.  When they return to school in the autumn, they will make the big leap across the wall, into First Class, with a new teacher.  'The Principal's Class'.  Very grown up.  The unwritten rule, defined by the First Class pupils in the school, is that they will be too grown up for parents to bring them into the classroom each morning, to unpack their school bags, look at their work on the walls and kiss them goodbye.  My heart !

I had great intentions when they were born on Hallowe'en night in 2007.  I was going to write a diary, marking all of their milestones.  I didn't.  I just about recorded their injections.  I have a rough idea when they started to walk and I'm sure that they were toilet trained at some stage.  At the time, I read about someone who wrote a letter every year to her children at Christmas, and put it away for them to read when they were adults.  Brilliant idea I thought !  ... I didn't do that either ...

What I did do though, was to record what my children did and said on Facebook.  Little anecdotes here and there, 'twinnieism's.  I often meet people who say 'so THESE are the pair !' and look at my children as if they know them, through my updates.  The pair look at me as if to say 'who is this random adult smiling at us ?' Maybe my children will sue me for damages for this when they are older.  Maybe I will be dead before they get a chance to ...

In hindsight though, I'm sorry that I didn't also record the stories elsewhere.  Maybe someday when I am REALLY bored, I must trawl through 4 years of so of FB posts and extract my twinnieisms.   As they get older, I know that the antics will decrease.  I want to archive this very special time in the lives of my little people and maybe I will write that book ... maybe.

In the meantime though, I have been thinking about them as they leave Senior Infants.  I reflected on the worries that I had about my twinnies starting school.  Would they make friends ?  Would the learning style suit them ? Will they be lonely ? Would they love learning ? Would they be happy ?

Mya Moo Moo
Mya had jaundice when she was born.  She spent her first few days in a 'Billy Blanket', in her nappy, with arms spread, so that her body was exposed to UV rays.  The hospital staff warned me not to take her out of the blanket, except for feeds.  I was really anxious that I wouldn't bond with my little girl.  Looking back now, that seems ridiculous.



Aged only 6 years and nine months, I already ask her advice.  I love having girlie chats with her in the car.  It reminds me of my own childhood relationship with my mother.  Probably seen as the quiet one of the pair, she has a wicked sense of humour and we often are in tears of laughter.

With a strong visual awareness, she has a very distinctive sense of style. Her 'look' is shorts and tights and occasionally giving in to wearing party dresses, usually with runners.  She doesn't like to wear her hair tied up.  She was disgusted when I dyed my hair recently, as our hair colour was no longer the same and we didn't look 'like twins' anymore.

She is sensitive, considered and particular.   She is also very short.  Her wee figure is like that of a Shetland Pony.  But as she reminded me recently, ' I am the smallest in my class, but I'm also really fast'.

She loves cuddles.  Particularly if she can have a pinch at the loose (ish) skin on my neck.  This goes back to when I breast fed her and she pinched me while feeding.  When she progressed to a sippy cup, her hands moved upwards to my neck, for comfort.  Sometimes in the middle of the night in bed, I can see a shadowy finger and thumb making it's way towards my neck and feel her little body squishing in beside me.  I asked her recently what she would do if my neck fell off.  She said that she would pinch the dog's neck instead.  Good to know I'm so easily replaced.


Academic learning came easily to Mya.  But what I liked about her school report was her kindness and willingness to help others.  She has a natural mothering instinct.  I could say that she is a 'typical' girl.  But how did that happen ?  I didn't treat my children any differently.  I resisted the pink girlie route, which is hard to do when you are surrounded by a pinkathon in clothes and toys for little girls.

Similarly, I didn't encourage my boy to behave in a stereotypical masculine way.  It was unlikely that you would hear me say 'hey Leon, go over there and get your dog in a head lock'.  It appears to be in his nature.  Oh dear ...

Leon, my boy
When he was born, Leon was really skinny.  I remember the first glimpse I got of him. Wirey arms and legs everywhere, roaring his head off.  We called him Spider Fear.  He is still roaring and shouting all these years later.  Although both the twinnies were 6lb 3ozs when they were born, lots of people told me that my babies were the 'smallest they had ever seen'.  It made me feel guilty for not eating more when I was heavily pregnant.  Truth is though, I couldn't fit any more food in.  I was all full of baby. Once Leon got over the initial few days though, he didn't stopped growing.



I could say that Leon couldn't give a monkey's about clothes, but he does.  He just loves manky clothes and shoes,  preferably two years old, with the appearance of being mangled by a lawnmover.  He isn't happy until he has a hole gouged in them.  I sometimes feel like putting a sign around his neck, saying 'No charitable donations required.  Full wardrobe of unworn clothes at home'.  His latest 'thing' is to tie elastic bands around trousers legs that do not have cuffs around the end.  I hope that he can retain that individuality when he gets older and be prepared to stand out, to stand up.

He is a highly sensory little boy.  He is drawn to texture and smell.  If anything new comes into the house, he will have a good feel and a sniff while he checks it out.  He likes being 'cosy'.  Part of his cosy regime is to sleep on a flattened out cardboard box, under his duvet.  I changed his sheets recently and he was devastated when I suggested that we might loose the cardboard.  No siree.

Leon is very technically minded.  I can almost hear the cogs in his brain cranking up, wondering what can he find out next.  His obsession with the Titanic is longstanding.  In Junior Infants, he regularly asked me when he would get 'Student of the Week'.  It was fitting that he got this much coveted award for his 3D model of the Titanic, made out of cereal boxes, the obligatory toilet roll inserts and yoghurt cartons.  His lovely teacher got him to bring his model into the other classes to show it off.  I was so pleased for my boy and pleased that his teacher nurtured him and recognised his achievement.

Learning to read phonetically didn't come to Leon immediately.  But then it just clicked and his curiosity for words and sounds was unleashed.  I looked through the 'history' on the search bar on this laptop and could see Leon's spelling attempts to find car crashes, costumes of his favourite characters and episodes of Top Gear, and I wanted to laugh out loud.  It looks like Leon will grow into a big strapping lad.  I will always want him to sit on my knee for a cuddle.  Or maybe I can sit on his.

Today, the end of term is a day for lots of parents to breathe a sigh of relief, gasp in anticipation of the coming weeks, but also to reflect on the achievements of their little people over the last year.  I did all that do.  But most of all, I felt a wee pain in my heart because I just love these two quirky, distinctive little people so much.  Here's to lots more twinnie isms x








Wednesday 25 June 2014

Bite Sized Pieces

This article first appeared on 'MS and Me' blog on Thursday June 5th 2014 

http://ms-society.ie/pages/community/ms-and-me

It was hard to know where to begin with this months topic of'access', as I don't have any physical access issues. There are, however, other things that get in my way. You could call it restricted access (to my life). I'm thinking particularly of the times when fatigue, nausea and migrane gets the better of me and I have to take to bed, with no light, no sound, no movement. This usually happens on a Saturday when my children are expecting to be out and about. So, I would say that MS limits my access to fun. If MS was a person, I would describe him as a sulky, spolied teenager determined to cause a fuss on family occasions, when you least want it.
If I were to grill down further, my biggest access 'issue' is access to information, but not in a way that you would think. In what you might call a First World Problem of the internet generation, I sometimes feel that I have too much information about MS.
When I first became ill, the little piece of research that I did on 'optic neuritis' before any further initial investigations, suggested that I had MS. This softened the shock when my neurologist in Beaumont Hospital first mentioned 'lesions on my brain', 'lumbar puncture' and the other science bits. During my few days in hospital (and on my follow on appointments) the neurology team spoke to myself and my family respectfully and in simple language. I listened intently, but most of it didn't sink in.
I was actually admitted to hospital around World MS Day in May 2011 (Happy MS Anniversary to me !!). As a result, there was an information stand in the hospital foyer, but it was the last place that I wanted to be. When I came home from hospital, I felt that I should be reading about all things MS. But again, I found it hard to digest what I was reading. I spoke informally to family and friends who had expertise in nutrition and exercise relating to MS and chronic illness. Although I could see merit with some suggestions, I just wasn't able to come up with a plan.
Pre MS I was pretty anti-medication, barely taking a pain killer. I surprised myself then, when my MS diagnosis was confirmed, how quickly I agreed to take weekly interferon injections. I had all of the academic and scientific literature, which I read over and over, but did not absorb. If I was sitting a Leaving Cert paper about the science behind the interferons I'd fail miserably. I surprised (and disappointed) myself how passively I agreed to take the Big Boy drugs. The drugs were recommended by my neurologist, who I trust and respect. Truth is though, the reason I agreed so readily was that I am afraid not to. I want to be as healthy as I can for myself and my family and I feel that those damned injections, much and all as I hate them, will help me to stay well. 
It is generally agreed that you can assist your MS wellbeing by reviewing your diet, looking at dietary supplements and alternative therapies, taking time for rest and relaxation, but also taking regular exercise, avoiding stress, looking at the work/life balance, drinking more water. None of this is rocket science, but I have felt completely overwhelmed by it all, with a sense of urgency to do it all.  It can be tricky.  Feeling exhausted and feeling I should rest but also feeling guilty about having no exercise and stressed about finding more quality time for the children - A girl can't win !
I find that person-to-person interactions have been the most useful to me. There is an excellent MS Nurse telephone support service in Beamont Hospital – The nurses are at the end of a phone and always make you feel that you have been listened to. The local MS Ireland support service has been invaluable to me, initially to reassure me that I wasn't going mad and to talk me through the initial few months. Later, meeting fellow MSers in coffee mornings was fun but most importantly was a great source of information and tips. One of the best pieces of advice was to incorporate turmeric into my diet. My joint pain levels have significantly reduced as a result of taking a daily dose. I would higly recommend it.
I realise now that some of my inability to digest and retain information about MS was part of the shock of the diagnosis and coming to terms with it in my own head. I've taken the pressure off myself to be a walking encyclopedia on MS. I'm taking my time. It's not as if there is any rush - I will probably have my whole life with MS. Having said that, it is reassuring to know that I can access additional information and support when I need it. I'll access it when I can, in manageable bite sized pieces!

Monday 23 June 2014

BAKED IN ALCOHOL

Myself and my little girl Mya were Home Alone tonight. A friend called over earlier and asked what were we going to do for the evening together.  He suggested that we do a 'spot of baking'.  Mya's eyes lit up.  She said, 'yes Mam, let's make something for the School Sale tomorrow'.  I couldn't say no to her little face.  Besides, the Sale is to raise money for charity.  Also, I'm particularly pliable these days, being all emotional at the thought of my two babies leaving Senior Infants in a few days - Imagine !!

The School Sale is an annual event, organised by the outgoing sixth class pupils.  Pupils also bring in old toys to sell in the toy sale.  I was delighted with that last year - having a right good clear out of unwanted toys.  Little did I know that they would arrive home from the Sale, with another bag of junk to replace the toys that they had donated.

Based on my lovely bonding opportunity this evening, I would offer some words of caution to emotionally charged parents setting out on such endeavours .....

1.  Don't drink two huge glasses of wine before you start baking.
I did tonight ...  Oh dear ...  The last time I felt this hot/dehydrated was on a Good Friday in Dublin many years ago, with my friend Marie.  We went for pizza and were delighted with ourselves getting wine in the restaurant.  I don't care what anyone says about drinking on Good Friday - it is without a doubt, THE most delicious drink you will ever have.  Myself and Marie had booked sun beds after the meal (It was a LONG time ago, okay ?).  Just as the cover went down on the sunbed, I noticed the warning sign ''Do not use a sunbed if you have consumed alcohol''.  Too late now, methinks ...

It is impossible to rush a six year old in the throes of making pastry.  If there is a God up/down there, maybe she is punishing me now for my (many) Good Friday sins.

2. Check your ingredients.
I didn't.  Well, I checked that we had butter and flour to make pastry.  I just didn't check that we had 'jam' for the jam tarts.  Having already consumed above mentioned glasses of vino, I couldn't drive to get any more.  So we used the remnants of three jars of jam - apple, blackcurrant and strawberry, some homemade and a little runny.  The baked tarts looked a bit miserable.  I had a (rare) brainwave.  I rooted out some icing sugar and snipped the corner off a plastic page.  I felt like a genius.  Mya had a ball decorating the lean looking tarts with icing.  They actually started to look edible.




3. Check the weather forecast.  
If it is roasting outside, it's going to be damn hot in the kitchen.  And it gets hotter.  Pastry is not a good
baking option in this heat, especially when it is being man handled by a 6 year old with sweaty paws.  I remembered my Home Economics teacher in secondary school when we made Rough Puff Pastry.  We chilled all of the utensils, the margarine and the water.  Mrs Mc Cabe would not have been impressed with the slithery mess today.   She told us to be 'lightfingered' with the pastry.  Mya's handling was more akin to two wrestlers in a headlock.

4. Everything looks better on a cake stand.  
I'm not sure if anyone will but the jam tarts tomorrow.  We made 22 of them - two got burned and we had to eat four, for quality assurance purposes.  If we are lucky,  they might make e5 for charity.  But more importantly, I will have saved face with the other mammies, who will think that because our tarts are on a cake stand, that my daughter and I are, in fact,  culinary masters.  The Great Irish Bake Off will seek us out.



5. If you are going to take photos of your kitchen, take the bloody tea towels off the radiator and otherwise, give the appearance of a tidy kitchen/being a Domestic Goddess.  You never know who is looking.  Last year, I posted a photo of the kids in a paddling pool in the garden on Facebook.  Two people contacted me later to ask where I got the paint for my garden furniture.  Who'd have thought !!

6.  Don't start baking at 8.30pm.  
Obviously .....

7. Keep enough icing to decorate your face later with a moustache



No explanation required ...





Thursday 19 June 2014

REBRANDING

It takes me a bit of time to come around to technology.  I usually give out about it, resist it and then embrace it and maybe, get obsessed by it.  I set up a Twitter account, finally, yesterday.  My main motivation was to use it as a way to further promote work related events and projects.  And if I am honest, to try and plug my blog, my other recent techno development.  I'm still finding my way around Twitter, still figuring out the hash tag and how best to get the information to the people you want to read it.   Twitter asks you to describe yourself.  I decided to call myself a 'Creative Professional'.  How grown up does that sound ? I recently read that description in a flyer promoting an upcoming conference in Carlow for 'Creative Professionals'.  'That's me, that is' sez I.  So I posted it on Twitter.  Then the self doubt started.  I could hear them (the silent readers/tweeters, or whatever you call them) 'Who does your wan think she is ?'

I've always felt a bit uncomfortable with my job title, 'Arts Officer'.  I think it sounds like I should be wearing a Garda/traffic warden style uniform, going around inspecting Crimes Against Culture.  There are many such CAC atrocities, e.g. dodgy murals featuring Bart Simpson, knitted landscapes crafted in cheap wool, displayed alongside artworks from Ireland's finest visual artists and well meaning Tidy Towns groups 'decorating' a piece of public sculpture with a sea of bedding plants.  

That is not to say that I am the world's leading expert on Culture.  Far from it.  In my current role of the last 14 years, I've been working alongside professional artists.  Although I studied art in college for many years, it is only now that I would actually feel comfortable saying that I 'make art', because I do, having recently re immersed myself in it.  For years I called myself a 'lapsed artist'.  With a glass of wine for courage, I may even go so far as to say that I AM an artist.  Going by the Visual Artists of Ireland guidelines, I've no business considering myself a professional artist.  In fact, if an artists presented an application for grant aid to me, I wouldn't give myself a grant.  I would turn me down nicely though.  I'd be encouraging and say that my work was 'worthy of merit', or words to that effect.  

I was a bit morto recently when I updated my profile on Linkedin.  I never really use it, but again, I was thinking that I should use it to promote some of our key projects at work.  So I added that I had worked as 'Producer and Location Manager' on 'All about Eva', a film project.  Except that I did uploaded it wrong and Linkedin sent an email to the whole of the WWW telling them that I had a new job.  I tried to undo it, but it was too late.  People are still congratulating me on my new job.  Proud and all as I am of the film, I had that cringey feeling - 'yer wan works on one film and thinks she is a producer' !

All of these identity crises are a walk in the park when I think back to when I became a mother, almost 7 years ago.  Overnight I went from career woman to Stay At Home Mom.  The lack of grown up company was tough.  I spent most of that first winter on my own.  Day time television did my head in.  I loved my children.  I missed the challenges of work.  I tried to dress the way I did BC (before children).  You never know when visitors would come .... But heels are a bit impractical when you are wrestling with two infants on the floor.  I had to alter my day wear, but I NEVER resorted to the dreaded tracksuits.  In my opinion, tracksuits could be added to the list of Crimes Against Culture list, which should only be worn for exercise, or cleaning drains.  Track suits have brought about the decline of the much coveted 'Yummy Mummy'.  If I had advice to new mums, I would say, squeeze yourself into the jeans, C section stitches n all.  Your waist line will thank you later.  When my babies were 9 months old, I headed back to work.  (Did my best to be)Yummy Mummy became Working Momma.  I felt a bit guilty, but to be honest, not that guilty.  

I was diagnosed with MS four years ago.  I hate when people say that I 'suffer' from MS, because that suggests I am a 'sufferer'.  What a horrible description for any illness.  'Sick Chick' doesn't suit me.  I'd prefer to say that I get on with it, battle it, stick two fingers up at it -  All fighting talk.  I was delighted to be ask to write/talk about MS in the media.  I've embraced my new role as 'Citizen Journalist', drawing attention to and creating awareness around the illness.   My only worry about that though, is that I could get absorbed with the illness, or defined by it.  

Despite my frequent posts and stories on Facebook, I've resisted writing a blog-proper for a long time.  I was afraid that I jinx it and would run out of things to say.  But I found that I was loosing track of my writings on Facebook and gave it a go, as a way to archive my ramblings.  I'm comfortable saying that I am a Blogger, but could not say that I am a writer.  That is more scary than saying I am an artist.  

And now I'm 40.  It's Fabulous being Forty apparently.  I am in my 40's.  How the hell did that happen ??? Truth is though, it does feel fabulous, even it I don't look it.  I've got the confidence to do so many things, to embrace them to.  To 'go public' as an artist and a blogger.  The tattoo, nose piercing and dramatic haircut are looking more likely.  Now to master Twitter.  BRING IT ON

  


FATHER'S DAY

Us Irish may not be the best at expressing emotion, especially when it comes to family. You are more likely to have a moment with a fella in tears in a pub over a missed penalty, than hear him tell his daughter he loves her. But I'm not sure that matters. I'd have that kind of relationship with my Dad. In fact, he doesn't like being called Dad, preferring Daddy. But at 40 years of age, that sounds a little juvenile.

Russell men are a distinct breed, who probably should be subject to scientific analysis. The DNA is fierce strong, fierce. I look at family photographs and can see the characteristics through my Dad's first cousins and their children. Leon is the cut of my Dad as a young lad. Given my boy's impish ways, I'd say that he has inherited my Dad's personality too.

During 'the occasional' argument with my then husband told me 'you are just like your father'. When I was younger, I may have taken this to be an insult, but now I think, 'Aw shucks, you think I am determined, opinionated and with a strong work ethic and a great head of hair. Thanks for noticing, even now, in the middle of a row !'.

The older I get, the more that I appreciate what my father has passed on to me, without even realising. A love of the land, although his is more agricultural, mine gardening. A strong sense of family and home. I was reared in my father's home place, so our house was where family gathered. Aunts, uncles, clatters of cousins, second and third cousins, priests home from abroad. Living a two hours drive from home now, it is rare (but wonderful) if family come to visit. I wouldn't say that I ever get homesick, but I love coming across someone with that distinctive Meath-Cavan-Monaghan-Louth borders accent. Listening to Hector on the radio gives me a warm fuzzy feeling.

I think that 'regret' is a waste of time and I do regret that my father-in-law Des didn't get to meet my children. He died on August 1st,  The day that the twins were born, my mother-in-law, May took Mya's hands and kissed them, saying that she had her grandfathers hands. She often takes Mya's hands now and kisses her stubby little fingers. It's a lovely connection to have. My father-in-law was a radio officer in the British Merchant Navy in the 1940's. He told me lots of stories about that time, but unfortunately, I didn't record what he said. All these years later, my boy is obsessed with the Titanic. He has watched the film (the one with Leonardo ...) endless times. He brings home library books about ships regularly and constantly asks me questions that I can't answer. I wish that Des was around to answer his questions. I could imagine the pride he would have in my wee boy.

I know my Dad is proud of me. I don't remember him telling me that and it's unlikely that he will now. But other people have said things that my Dad told them about me. Sometimes things that I wasn't aware that he knew of. He has been very generous in supporting me in my education and setting myself up in life.

I can see his pride in his eight gorgeous grandchildren, who all love Grandad John's antics. It's lovely seeing your Dad with your children. Enjoying your children in a more relaxed way that you do yourself, being so caught up in the day-to day. It feels like you are giving something back to them.

I had a typical teenage relationship with my Dad. Lots of Hate and very little Love. He told me that I 'caused more trouble than any of the rest of them', although I never did anything too mad. I pretty much left home when I went to college in Galway. I moved home with my tail between my legs, aged 26, after a long-term relationship broke down. I was totally heart broken. I'm not sure what I expected my Dad to say. Maybe 'I told you so'. But all that he said was 'so, there was a fall out in the camp then?' and said no more.

I won't see my Dad today, but I will see him next weekend. The kids will have a card and a pressie for him. There won't be much fuss. I'll print this piece out and give it to him. We probably won't discuss it. But that's fine. Sometimes things don't need to be said.




Sunday 8 June 2014

In My Face

According to Wikepedia, the notion of personal space was introduced in 1966 by anthropologist Edward T. Hall, who created the concept of proxemics. In his book, The Hidden Dimension, he describes the subjective dimensions that surround each person and the physical distances they try to keep from other people, according to subtle cultural rules.  According to him, a person's personal space (and the corresponding physical comfort zone) is highly variable and difficult to measure.  Estimates for an average Westerner, place it at about 60 cm on either side, 70 cm in front and 40 cm.  For me though, personal space is more of a psychological thing that involves being in my face.

I'd say that personal space as a concept came into Ireland around the time that cappuccinos, paninis and spray tan arrived. I don't remember it coming and I don't remember when I first realised that I wanted it. I'd say if I asked my mother, or any women rearing children in the 70's/80's if they craved 'personal space', they would say that they wouldn't have minded an attic conversion, or an extension, but that the much desired double glazed windows got priority. I wonder if women of that generation thought about 'me time', or were they just too goddamn busy minding a clatter of children, on a budget, with little help from the fathers of said offspring ?

I wonder if no one ever mentioned this notion of personal space to me in the first place, would I be aware that I wanted it?  Well, it's there now and I want it.  Funnily enough though, I wasn't aware that I craved that space until my children arrived six and a half years ago.  In the early days, as soon as they feel asleep (at the same time – woo hoo !!), I used that precious time, like the last 5 minutes on Masterchef, when the chefs run around like mad yokes to pull it all together and make everything gorgeous. I was too busy and over exhausted to really think about 'me time'.


Once you visit the labour ward, your dignity goes out the window.  It is a good indicator of what's to come.  There is no point locking the toilet door, because they will hammer it down. No part of your body, or bodily function is without scrutiny. Little people are great at pointing out all of your blemishes, ones that you thought weren't that visible – after all, their eye sight is far better than yours. We have a rule in our house – that nothing that anyone in the house, either little people or grown ups, do in the bathroom is to be discussed at school. I hope, for the most part, that the kids stick to this rule ... Having said that ... I have heard a few tales about what classmates daddies do, so you never know ….

I love taking a shower to literally wash a Bad-Hair-Day away. To wash this feeling away, it is essential to take these showers on your own.  But it always happens that when I could most do with one of these showers, that the kids are either minging dirty, or just really want to have a shower with me. I always feel guilty and give in. It's always a bad idea. They like the water cooler than I do and always have some sort of argument. But worst of all, they take it as an opportunity to have a good old look at my 40 year old body and point out all of it's faults. Leon, ever the curious boy, bent over in the shower recently and had a good look at me, asking 'How exactly do you pee Mammy ?'

Incessant and usually unanswerable questions are a key feature of my world.  My boy has a career in interrogation in the future.  That fella never knows when to stop.  I really wish that I had more of an engineering brain, because I can't keep up.  The sooner he learns to read the better, although I have a feeling that he would still prefer to grill me.  He keeps his best questions for when it's raining, you are on a three lane roundabout and you aren't sure where you are going.  Or when I am trying to pick clothes to wear.  Okay, this doesn't sound like a mammoth task, but I just want a little bit of head space.  I used to enjoy putting together outfits.  Now, it's a matter of what's closest.  

Maybe they are suddenly overcome with love, or they are going through a phase, but lately, my children are invading that precious space, big time.  In the last two months particularly, they are have been stuck to me like glue.  Last weekend, Mya gave me a whopper of a bruise when she hit me on the chin, jumping up on me.  I literally seen stars. 

If we are out for dinner somewhere, they don't want to sit beside me, they want to sit on me. It is really tricky to eat anything with two 6 year olds on your knees. If I do manage to get them to sit beside me, they want to sit so close to me that it is hard to get a fork to my mouth. Food with any kind of sauce is a disaster.  Trying not to get sauce on Mya's hair is a challenge, so best to stick to dry food. Of course, they usually prefer my food to theirs anyway, so I don't eat much anyway. Great for the waistline though.  

When I am painting my nails, the two of them stand so close to me that I can't get the right angle to do it properly, or they get nail varnish in their hair.  Of course, they would prefer to paint my nails for me, but that never ends well.  

Same when I visit friends houses, especially those who don't have small children. The pair of them, stuck to me, making it difficult to get a cuppa to my mouth. Mya, usually a chatterbox, turns into a mouse, who likes to whisper information, which I, in turn, should tell my friend. But she usually whispers so quietly, that I can't hear a word she says. A real conversation killer ! Of course, I could leave them at home, but I'm a sucker when I see two sad faces looking at me if I say I am travelling alone.  They have mastered the puppy dog eyes look.  

That's what happened last weekend. It was my cousin Yevette's 30th birthday party in Tara, Co Meath. I was really hoping to go by myself and was looking forward to a grown up catch-up with my cousins. I told the kids that they would be bored and that they really should stay at home with their Dad.  He encouraged them to come with me, reminding them that they loved parties (Let's face it - he just fancied a night on his own). In the end, I brought them along. It was a great night, but I spent my time with the pair of them stuck to my leg, pulling and tugging at me, whispering, wanting to go to the toilet, wanting to go home.  In fairness, there was a lot of unfamiliar faces there. I could feel myself getting more and more stressed.  We were the first to leave.  

I phoned the hubby in the car.  I may have been a little emotional. I probably exaggerated how bad the children's behaviour was.  I may have blamed the hubby for making me bring them along.  He said that I made the kids sound like anti Christs.  I said 'YOU weren't there, so YOU don't know how bad it was'.  I was going to remind him how stressed he was earlier that day when he brought the kids shopping with his 92 year old mother. (Lovely and all as my Mammy-in-Law is, she is a nightmare to bring shopping.  Think Mrs Doyle in Father Ted, only in the sweet aisle of a supermarket, with two 6 year olds, with eyes on sticks, as if they never seen a sweet in their lives).  I decided not to remind him about this, as I could see how this could escalate into a Who-Is-The-Most-Stressed-Parent competition.  (For the record, I would have won !!).

Maybe because I'm a working mamma, I tend to give in to the kids and sacrifice that personal space time. But I draw the line when it comes to walking my dog.  Leon regularly tells me what a terrible parent I am because I won't bring him on my early morning rambles.  But the purpose of those rambles is exercise for myself and the mutt and not for Leon to poke at the innards of dead animals stuck to the road.   

Slowly, but surely, I am reclaiming that space.  Writing this blog has helped with that.  So has painting and drawing (although Mya would prefer to help me with that too). I attempted to read the Sunday papers in bed this morning.  I was doing well.  I actually started with the news part, rather than the magazines.  I felt very mature.  Then the kids decided to join me.  First of all, with their library books, which I had to read.  Then, they carried in the paddling pool that their Nana bought them yesterday in the supermarket (see what I mean about Mrs Doyle ??).  I had to abandon the newspapers and inflate the pool, even though it is too cold to paddle today. 

I'll start a new painting later on tonight.  And a shower.  Solo.  With really hot water.  Maybe even get past page 3 of the newspaper.  I'm getting there. 











Monday 2 June 2014

Baby Yobbish Comes of Age

So, me baby brudder is getting married in the morning. He started out as 'baby Yobbish', was promoted to 'Bobby' when he would still wear shorts (that ended when he was 6) and then became 'Rob'. Of course if he is in big trouble, then 'Robert' still applies. 

Like most younger brothers, he was a pain in the ass. He would always break the things that you made out of Lego, reckoning that his inventions were more important than yours. The same with anything you made out of sand. I usually made houses, with landscaped gardens. He has no hesitation in bulldozing over my mansion with his toy tractor to make a field of sand to plough - 'real work' he reckoned.


In fairness, he was a great fella for dismantling anything mechanical and making something else out of it - Mac Gyver wouldn't have a look in. Fascinated by his entrepreneurship Granny Russell would watch him and say 'God bless his hands'.



Ever the farmer, there was a very memorable event where Rob and his cousin Anthony ran up the fields after my Dad when he was spreading slurry. Dad didn't see them and turned on the spreader. The pair landed at the back door, covered from head to toe in slurry, resembling the monster that appears in Julia Donaldson's 'No Room on the Broom'. Needless to say, they were stripped at the door and scrubbed clean.

Maybe that is where his aversion to water came from. The rest of us spent many happy hours paddling in a shallow river across from our house. Rob didn't like getting wet almost as much as he didn't like wearing shorts. The wee fecker liked throwing stone to splash the paddlers though.

Things didn't get much better when he went to secondary school. We could call these 'The Mullet Years'. Like many a young lad before him, his teenage 'do was not pretty ... I'd better confess that yours truly was his hair stylist. During The Mullet Years, de mammy started wearing aprons with a pocket to hide letters from the school principal from my Dad. That is not to say that my bro was illiterate - far from it. He was quite fond of essay writing. Indeed, he had a particular perchance for including a certain teacher in essays as a tragic heroine who sometimes came to a sad end.




Transport to school was never a problem for Rob. If he missed the school bus, he caught a lift on the Gypsum freight train and hopped off in the field behind the school. It was quite a dramatic entrance, as the railway track was overlooked by some of the classrooms. Is it any wonder de mammy turned grey ?

Her many rosaries/novenas/trips to Knock paid off and the boy did well in his Leaving Cert and began his studies in Tralee to become a (very successful) diesel mechanic. It was there that he met the lovely Denise Galvin . I first met her about 13 years ago in my flat on the North Circular Road, which was a half way house for anyone going to the airport/Heuston/hospital appointments/flat hunters/day out in the big smoke. I'd like to think that Rob brought Denise to meet me to get the seal of approval, but truth be told, there is a train from Heuston to Kerry and she needed to get home for Christmas.

In true mechanic style, he had wooed Denise with a note left with her books in the college library asking 'Ms 123 KY 92' to meet 'Mr 456 MH 93' for a drink in a local bar. Despite a few false starts, they finally got it together.

I reckoned the wee woman was a keeper when she charmed the pants off my Dad. A hardened Meath GAA supporter, JR had every reason to not like anyone from The Kingdom. What sealed it for me though, as to whether this girlfriend was for keeps or not, was the fact that Denise managed to Rob to wear shorts. Air on bare legs, OMG !!! Me Ma spent ten years trying to do that.

Two gorgeous kids later and they are sealing it all with rings tomorrow. I couldn't be more happy for them. Much love lil bro Robert Russell and Denise

I haven't forgiven you for this though, using your sis to flog Russell Fastraxx. And not even a decent photo either !! You are still a pain in the ass

http://www.donedeal.ie/find/all/for-sale/Ireland/robert%20russell



POST SCRIPT
I wrote this on the eve of my brother's wedding on the May Bank Holiday weekend.   In typical Russell fashion, our way of showing affection to each other is slagging, messing and taking the mickey.  We don't do 'I love you' and sentimental stuff like that.  You might get a hug, or a punch in the arm if you are lucky.  



But on the day of my brother Robert's wedding, I could clearly see that he really loves the gal he married.  Proper grown up stuff too.  This photo says it all.  I'm made up for you guys.  Happy ever after, methinks.  Now enough of the emotional stuff.  Back to the slagging.