The Theory Of Everything

First published on 'MS and Me' blog, 14th May 2015

I recently made a pact with a friend to go to see as many of this years Oscar winning films as possible, which were being screened at the arts centre where I work. With that in mind, we went to see biopic, 'The Theory of Everything' last week. I knew the film was about Stephen Hawking, the theoretical physicist and cosmologist, but didn't think about it much more than that. It was more a case of how quickly I could dash home from work, collect my children, pick up my friend and most importantly, get back to the arts centre in good time for a pre-screening glass of vino. 

Early in the film, Hawking (Eddie Redmayne) is presented as a wirey young academic in Cambridge University. He soon began to walk awkwardly, to drag his leg and then on one occasion, fell heavily on his face. I felt that slap in the face as much as he did. Then I felt the needle of his lumbar puncture, during the following medical investigations. The tears rolled down my face, as I related Hawking to my own early tests for MS. Darn it, I wasn't expecting that. I just wanted to see a film.

Hawking was his diagnosed with ALS, a form of Motor Neuron Disease (MND) around his 21st birthday. He was told that he had two years to live. At this stage, he had met a girlfriend, Jane (Felicity Jones), whom he married soon after and went on to have three children.  

It was apparent in the film that Jane's role as carer was central to Hawking academic and publishing career, which went from strength to strength. Meanwhile, his health and physical state rapidly deteriorated. The film provided glimpses into Jane's role as carer, but it left me thinking about all that wasn't explored in the film. That awful word 'burden' crept into my mind - the thing that I never want to become. 

There was a very moving scene where Hawking tried to climb the stairs to his infant son and couldn't. More tears. I needed tissues, but had none. Darn it again. Just as well I was wearing a scarf. 'Why are you crying Mam?’ my children whispered.  I had hoped that they wouldn't notice me, in the darkness. I found it hard to whisper an explanation. Were the tears for Stephen or for me? Fear for what might be? Or maybe it was a universal sob for the curse of chronic illness? Maybe a combination of all.  

Overall, it is an uplifting film about Hawking's truly extraordinary achievement, against the odds. It also provides lots of food for thought about the role of a carer. In Hawking's case, he later employed a carer, who went on to become his second wife, which has been subject to controversy. But this film really focuses on his earlier life, based on Jane's memoir Travelling to Infinity: My Life with Stephen. I'm sure that the mundane reality was not as beautiful, but the film has a strong aesthetic, with dreamy cinematography. Jane's 1970's fashion made me want to root out all of my guna deas's from the wardrobe. The acting is super and the transformation in Hawking throughout the film is poignant. The film also provides a crash course for dummies (moi) on Hawking's theories. I feel like I know science stuff now. 

I just wasn't prepared for how I would relate the film to my own health situation. If I was, I would have brought a multi pack of tissues. To state the obvious, I'm not Stephen Hawking.  I don't have MND. I dig holes in the garden, but I don't 'do' black ones.  I'm not a millionaire and am unlikely to be any time soon. If my health did deteriorate, I'd never be able to buy the care and support services that he can access. As a newly single person, I don't even have a 'Jane'. But I never want to be in the position to need a Jane.  I'd prefer a Tarzan anyway. Preferably with more clothes on.

As we left the cinema, my little girl said, 'Mam, you look like a panda', noticing my mascara streaked face. My boy laughed. We all laughed.  

Go see this film. Just remember to pack your hankies!

Just Say Yes

Latest blog post  :  Just Say Yes

I won't be voting in the Marriage Equality referendum.  Not that I don't want to.  I really do.  My  fuzzy brain didn't realise that I will be out of the country on the day.   I'm raging with myself, as I'm a firm believer that everyone has an obligation to get off their butts and vote.  And that my vote counts. 

Until last week, I was complacent that the 'Yes' vote would be passed overwhelmingly.  The cultural circles that I move in are overwhelmingly 'Yes' people.  I think it's fair to say that gay people who move in these circles can more open about their sexual orientation.  In these circles, real life gay people live real lives - they have jobs, eat food, wear clothes, breathe, the usual stuff.  I conclude therefore that their 'non-gay' friends are most likely to want the same rights for their friends.  

Last weekend, I did a bit of a poll, asking some of relations how they were going to vote.  Seventy-Something-Fine-Gael-Farmer said that he would be voting 'No', because he voted No in every other referendum.  'That's no way to make up your mind about THIS referendum, surely ?', sez I.  He recalled how the Lisbon Treaty referendum was initially rejected by the Irish people.  'When we said No the first time, we meant No ! But (Brian) Cowan made us do it again, til we said Yes'.  He did have a point, but grounds to vote 'No' now ? Hardly ? He wasn't for changing his mind. 

This rationale for voting 'No' is disturbing, but his vote will be as valid as anyone else's.  I am concerned that other people who don't know 'real' gay people or are homophobic to some extent will quietly vote No.  The very people that a 'No' vote won't affect their options and rights.

The first divorce referendum in Ireland was in 1986.  At the time, I remember someone remarking that if it was passed, that 'every 17 year old tramp in the country would run off to get married'.  I was 12 years old then and remember the shock I felt hearing that.  Did people not deserve a second chance ?  Who the hell would want to get married at 17 anyway ??

There was wide spread concern at the time amongst the farming community that wives would seek divorce and take 'half the farm', that had been in the family for generations.  I'd say more than one farmer reflected on his taken-for-granted wife and her contribution to making a home and a business and then voted 'No'.  A 'protect my assets' stance.  The divorce referendum was defeated.  Thankfully, in a further referendum in 1995 (when the 'No' campaign used the infamous 'Hello Divorce, Goodbye Daddy posters), it was  passed.  A few farms may have been split in two along the way, but it appears that not too many 17 year olds, tramps or otherwise, ran off to get married. 

Over the last few weeks, I've been listening to various debates on radio about the Marriage Equality campaign.  To put it mildly, the 'No' campaign have been up my nose.   Their often bizarre arguments against Marriage Equality and their views on what constitutes 'family' is insulting to so many people - The straight couple I met recently who had much wanted twins by surrogacy - The men I know who have done a wonderful job raising their children alone, after the death if their wives - My friend who used donor eggs to have her babies, after years of trying every other option with her husband - The gay couple who have fostered a son over many years and given him the opportunity of a better life - Single parents and their children reading the horrendous 'Every Child Deserves a Mother and a Father' posters on their way to school - Every gay person I know and every gay person I don't know - Me, as a human being, a mother and a stepmother.  

We are all just people getting on with life, making the best decisions that we can for whatever constitutes family to us.  

Thankfully, the grip that the Catholic Church had on our society has diminished greatly.  Given this and the general acceptance of people 'living together', I am surprised that so many people, including young people, still wish to get married.  I guess that we are a nation of romantic divils at heart.  Why deny gay people that opportunity ? Marriage sadly didn't work for me and I'm terribly about that.  But I take comfort that I live in a country where I have many options that are supported by a legal framework if I find love again.

I'm very disappointed that I can't vote in the Marriage Equality referendum.  If I did it would be a whole hearted 'Yes'.  A Yes for love.   A vote of optimism.  To say a communal 'sorry' for the hurt inflicted on gay people in Ireland over the decades.  Out of compassion for other human beings.  

If you just 'don't get' the gay marriage thing, I would respectfully suggest that just you don't marry someone of the same sex.  You don't even have to be their friend. But please don't stand in the way of other people's happiness x.

#MarRef #YesEquality #LetsMakeHistory

Referendum Results Day

For the weekend that's innit, I thought I'd write about the dangers of threesomes and their impact on Mna na hEireann.  The very Mna that were lauded by the 'No' campaign for their all round brilliantness. This Ban an Ti to be specific.

I had a busy day yesterday.  Like many people, I woke with excitement and anticipation about the outcome of the Marriage Referendum referendum.  And like many other people, I spent the day with spontaneous sobbing.  The twinnies expressed concern at first, but soon started to roll their eyes at the appearance of the tears and me repeating what a momentous day it was. 'Here she goes again', I could hear them think, 'She is on her soap box again'.  They both agreed that I shouldn't start crying in Lidl, fearing that I'd make a show of them in front of someone they know.

I brought the pair of them to a work related dinner in the Keadeen Hotel in Newbridge, the hotel described by Leon as 'the one where we caught the chickenpox'. (A few years ago, at a similar dinner, Leon was unwell and woke the next morning covered in spots, with Mya following suite a few hours later).

It was late when we got home.  'It's almost midnight kids !', I said urging them into their beds.  'Please don't mention the 'M' word Mam', said Leon.  I had forgotten about his fear of being awake when the ghouls and goblins came out at the witching hour - I blame Michael Jackson's Thriller video that he seen last year.  'It's ages away yet', I said reassuringly, 'you will be well asleep', turning the alarm clock away for fear that he would see how close it actually was.

The pair of them begged to sleep in my bed, which is usually a no-no. Definitely a no-no in my injection nights as I tend to sleep restlessly.  But last night, despite it being one of those nights, I let them in.  They were delighted with themselves, insisting that I lay in the middle of them, so that they could both hug me.  It was more like strangulation.  

One of them wanted the light on, the other off.  Me, I just wanted to look through Twitter and Facebook for referendum news.  No chance.  They both pimped over my shoulder for photos of cute cats/dogs/babies (which have been sadly lacking on d'internet over the last few days).  Phone put away, we had a wrestling match with the duvet.  The children complained that they were too hot/cold.  Mya said her her feet were   'too hot', but that her head was 'too cold'.  Leon likes an old back scratch and I did the needful til my fingers hurt.  'More Mam, please', he said.  'You will have no skin left on your back soon !'. 'I don't care Mam', sez he, purring like a cat. They both flung their legs around me and then jostled over whose idea it was first and who should therefore claim more of my leg.  They rowed over whose body parts were straying over to the other persons 'side'.  The arguments were as rigorous as the Marriage Referendum debate and made as much sense as the 'No' side.  

The usual Mammy disciplinary words had no impact on the two overtired little people.  I resorted to bribery.  'I'll give you both 50 cents if you don't say another word and do to sleep'.  I expected to be bargaining upwards for sometime, but no, 50 cents was acceptable.  They remembered the 'paper money' that my friends father had given them earlier.  They were quids in.  They were also wrecked.  Finally, the pace of their breath changed and they were asleep. 

I resurrected my phone, reduced the brightness and had a scroll through  the happenings of the day.  I had no more tears left.  I had to concentrate on avoiding kicks, spontaneous swipes/digs from a stray hand/ elbow and wrestling for a section of the duvet.  'Is that a cat Mam ?', said Mya, not asleep after all.  I closed my phone, leaving Panti Bliss and the sea of rainbows for another day.

Health Warning : Cooking With Children

I (usually) love cooking with my children.  I (usually) love cooking lasagne with my children.  I love the idea that, from a young age, my children understand the basics of cooking.  If I popped my clogs tomorrow, they would have a few useful cookery tips under their belts/elasticised waists, such as adding a teaspoon of sugar per tin of tomatoes to make a decent tomato sauce.

Over the last winter, we got in the lovely habit of cooking together on a Sunday night, as 'The Voice of Ireland' was coming on.  It was the same menu every week. Veggie spinach lasagne and scones for the children's lunch the following day. (This was also a lesson in how to make effective use of my oven - Good to know that I did take something away from my Home Economics classes in school.  Mrs Mc Cabe, I've done you proud).

The fresh scones were so nice that they often got eaten straight away, with melted butter and jam, necessitating that I made a second batch later on.  The children would start out helping me, but gravitate towards the TV as 'The Voice' progressed.  The pair of them would shout regular updates into the kitchen, as I chopped, stirred and sweated in the kitchen.

The children were like divils this morning, in rough form, hurting each other with their wrestling/headlock shenanigans, while I tried in vain to read yesterday's and last weekends newspapers.   I gave up on the newspapers and did a bit of gardening, while they destroyed each other with water balloons.  Harmless fun ... Until you see the mucky wet path from the kitchen sink.  And discarded bits of tiny balloons over the garden.  Oh Holy Harry.

 I suggested that we make a veggie lasagne to calm things down.  'Cool Mam, yeah !', they said.

'We can make a rhubarb tart OR a crumble too ? Which ?', I suggested, recalling the efficient use of the oven that Mrs Mc Cabe would be proud of, and the bag of rhubarb we harvested in their Nana's the day before.  A true Nigella moment.  'Why don't you make an APPLE tart ?' said Leon, with a grumpy head on him.  My patience already tested, I silently gnashed my teeth, thinking 'What part of RHUBARB don't you UNDERSTAND ?', the Lorrie Morgan song ringing in my head.

Troops assembled,  Leon opened the mozzarella, while Mya had the job of chopping down the tins of tomatoes into tiny pieces, with a scissors (another handy tip !).  Meanwhile, I fried off the garlic.  Only then did I notice that Leon had climbed up on a high stool, found a bicycle pump from nowhere and was pumping it into his mouth.  'Darling child, would you kindly refrain from that unhygienic and potentially dangerous act', said I, (or words to that effect).  I burnt the goddamn garlic.  The bitter burnt taste would destroy the lasagne.  Back to the chopping board. 'Darn it anyway', said I, (or words to that effect).

Meanwhile, Mya wanted to open a new tomato purée tube - one of the sealed ones, that you turn the cap around and use the reverse to pierce the seal.  You would think the purée was a new toy.  The children practically wrestled each other to the ground, fighting over who would break the seal.  Leon won this round, as he was a newbie seal-piercer.

Mya gave a good squirt of purée into the chopped tomatoes and proceeded to have a good old lick of the tube, then handed it to her brother.  I cringed, suggesting that wasn't the most hygienic of activities. 'But it's delicious Mam !', with a cheeky, red paste, toothless grin.  'A bit of vitamin C anyway', I relented.


White sauce is always a bit tricky to make, especially on a gas cooker.  I was whisking like goodo, to ensure the sauce was nice and smooth as it thickened.  As I whisked, Leon took a notion to empty the crumb tray from underneath the toaster, leaving a trail of crumbs all over the counter and floor,  'Son, what are you at ? And why NOW ?!', I cried.  'Just getting some crumbs for the hens', he said angelically, 'I thought that they would like a snack'.  Another toothless face grinned at me.  I swept up the crumbs, already soggy from the water-ballooned floor, the dog stuck in the middle of it.  If the HSE called by, I'd be like one of those restaurants that gets their name in newspapers for lack of hygiene.

Meanwhile, my white sauce was a big congealed mess.  'Oh blast', said I (or words to that effect), as I tried to retrieve the mess.

There wasn't much left to do, except assemble the various components of the lasagne.  Thankfully, my children decided to abandon me, to watch videos on their tablets in the bedroom, with the curtains closed.  I usually don't encourage this vampire like activity during the day, but today, I let them off.  I quickly made a rhubarb tart, as quickly as you can make a tart, for fear they they might come back to 'help' me.

Cooking and baking in the oven, I cleaned up the water/flour/tomato bombed kitchen.

Dinner ready, I felt the need to light candles, to create a sense of Bank Holiday occasion.  The bubbly, cheesy lasagne looked damn good.  It was 'mega yum', according to Mya.  I was inclined to agree, especially when accompanied by a large glass of vino, gulped down too quickly, before the lasagne had even cooled.  Leon was less impressed, as he wanted to eat it on his knee in the darkened bedroom, playing with his tablet.  'Over my dead body', said I, 'we are having a quality-time dinner together, whether you like it or not!' 'I just want a biscuit', said sulky boy, 'your lasagne is rubbish'.

Eventually (various threats later), he conceded and ate the lasagne, stabbing it with his fork.  But he couldn't deny it's yumminess, no matter how cranky he was.  Clean  plates all round.  And enough left over for a meal tomorrow.  Result.

'Rhubarb tart anyone ?'

Bank Holiday Weekends : A Time to Relax (Not)

It would be fair to say that I don't always make life easy for myself.  This Bank Holiday weekend is a good example of this. 

I spent my entire Easter weekend in bed with the dreaded flu and my poor bambinos didn't get up to much as a result.  So I was determined that we have lots of adventures this weekend.

Afore mentioned bambinos wanted to sleep with me on Friday night.  Given that they aren't really bambinos, but leggy 7 year olds, sleeping with them isn't much (any) fun. They both wanted to sleep beside me, so that meant that I was stuck in the middle of them. Inevitably, one of them kicked the duvet off and I was frozen. I hoiked the duvet back on, but later woke in a sweat from Sweaty Betty cuddling up to me.  In the morning, I hoped that the children would snooze, long enough for me to have something that resembled a lie in. Ha ! Murphy's Law sez that no parents shalt not have a lie in, and most definitely not on a Bank Holiday weekend.   Failing that, I hoped that they would quietly play on their tablets beside me while I snoozed. No chance ! The children were in 'that humour', where they were 'accidentally' sticking their elbow in each other and jostling in the bed, while giving me a running commentary.  Just 15 minutes on my own ... please ... ', I begged. In the end, it was just easier to get up.  

The coffee table in my sitting room has been banjaxed for months.  I always liked it's curvaceous glass top and shelf and it worked well in my compact sitting room. My little boy sometimes sat on it.  I explained to him that the frame was too light for that, even though it looked quite robust.  Bang ! Table leg buckled.  Wee man on the floor, unhurt.  'Sorry Mam ...'.  The  table was left aside and a (manky) tea chest put in it's place.   On Bank Holiday Saturday morning, like a woman possessed, I decided that, as a matter of urgency that the table suddenly needed to be fixed.   With the assistance of BookFace, Athy Men's Shed said they would have a look at it, before lunch.  Deadly.  In the pouring rain, I manhandled the table into the car, nearly breaking another leg in the process.  As I drove off with the children, I realised that I had forgotten the broken table leg.  Unfortunately, the nice Men Shed guys couldn't fix my table.  Their female dog came over to say hello to me and there was a bit of banter about letting a bitch into the Shed.  Good craic, but my table was still legless.  

I brought ninety-two-and-three-quarters-year-old relative shopping on Saturday afternoon, after bringing my children and their friend to a birthday party.   It was hellish. The three, normally well behaved children were hyped up after the birthday party and started wrestling on the floor.  Meanwhile, ninety-two-and-three-quarters-year-old relative became Mrs Doyle, asking me if I wanted anything in the shop.  'Apple tart ? Carrot cake ? Biscuits ? Something for the children ?'.  'A rhubarb tart would be lovely thanks', I said.  'Ice cream ? Crisps ?  I've never eaten a crisp in my life you know'.  I was only half listening as I could hear (but not see) my daughter bellowing a primal roar.  If Mr Super Valu Man asked if she was mine, I couldn't deny my doppelgänger Mini Me.  We were almost at the check out.  'Stay calm', I muttered to myself.  I wanted (needed) a bottle of wine to bring to a friend later.  Ninety -two-and-three-quarters-year-old relative had insisted on pushing the trolley ... Straight into the display of vino, breaking two bottles.  For the first time since we arrived in the shop, the three children were quiet.  'It was her !', I said to Mr Super Valu Man, pointing at ninety-two-and-three-quarters-year-old relative.  I wasn't taking the rap for this one ! Thankfully, no one asked us to fork out the e40 for the wine.  

At the check out, I had set aside vino and newspaper to pay separately.  I'm not sure what happened, but the check out girl said that the cap on my vino was busted.  I had to walk, the Walk of Shame, back to get a replacement bottle.  Mr Super Valu Man was still mopping up after the other 'incident'.  I smiled, but didn't make eye contact.  I got a sniff of the wine and thought about getting down on all fours and lapping it up ... Just to calm the nerves.

I had a few much needed mojitos in my friends house that night.  The alcohol helped me to sleep, wedged between my children, clinging to me apprehensively in an unfamiliar house. 

My boy wanted new runners - the astro ones, that are half way to a football boot.  We had looked in two shops in Athy on Saturday, after the table saga.  The runners he liked were men's sizes only.  He gave me daggers looks that meant 'if you were any good of a Mammy, you would go to the factory in Vietnam and get a custom made pair for me'. 

Yesterday, with ninety-two-and-three-quarters-year-old relative on tow, we headed to Kildare Village.  WHAT WAS I THINKING ?? It was jammers.  Security guards ushered cars to an overflow car park, a short drive away.  Car parked, we got a shuttle bus to Kildare Village.  ' A little adventure for the children', I thought. 

We went to two shoe shops and encountered the same problem as the previous day - every pair of runners that Leon fancied were adult size only.  He had a face like thunder and mine wasn't much better.  Resigned 'Let's go home guys', I said.  'Nooooooo Mam, I'll get the first ones.  The ones with the pink on them'. 'You said they were for girls'. 'I didn't mean it.  I love them !'.   I queued for TWENTY minutes to pay for them.  I laughed at the madness. I could drive over effortlessly mid week, park at my leisure and saunter to the counter.  Ah, the things a Mammy does ... 

The return shuttle bus was a full on 57 seater bus.  The steps up were ridiculously high and ninety-two-and-three-quarters-year-old relative was struggling to climb the steps.  I linked her at the front and a fine young fella gave her a hoosh at the back.  'Oh no', I thought, 'how are we going to get her off again ?'.  Thankfully, the fine young fella came to our aid again.  We joked with ninety-two-and-three-quarters-year-old relative that she always managed to find a handsome young man. 

I had bought a toilet seat on Saturday while the children were partying (My glamorous life, huh ?).  I also bought One Direction duvets for the children, only to discover later that they were polyester and not cotton, as I thought.  Darn it, bed linen that gives friction burns. 

Children fed and watered last night, I set about putting on the toilet seat.  It's the sort of job that you just want to be left alone to do.  But my little girl wanted to be stuck in the middle of it.  She wants to help clean the loo first. 'Really Mya ?'.  'Yeah Mam, even though it stinks', she said with a dirty little laugh. 

I was in a very compromising position, hugging the toilet, screwing the seat into place, when Leon came charging in.  The hulk of a dog stuck his head in too.  Maybe we should have called the neighbours in and had a party to celebrate the new seat, standing room only.  'Mam, can you tighten my runners tighter ?', Leon said as he shoved his foot in my face.  I pointed out that I was kind of busy but he didn't seem to  notice. 

With all that, and other 'stuff' it's fair to say that I haven't relaxed much so far over this Bank Holiday weekend. But it's now 8.41 am on Monday and my children haven't surfaced yet.  Letting them stay up til an ungodly hour in my friends on Saturday has paid off.  I can actually hear snoring.  Heaven.  Their polyester duvets must be cosy enough. 

I've a cuppa in hand now, writing this.  I've two weekend newspapers waiting to be opened. Life is good. And my new toilet seat is fabulous, even if my coffee table isn't.