Childhood Reading : Thoughts for the MS Readathon

‘Ambassador’ is a big word, with grand connotations, that conjures up images of butler-served trays of Ferrero Rocher.  I was honoured to be asked, along with my two children, to be an ambassador for the MS Readathon this year.  I am hoping that in a small way, that I can encourage children to read more books, to raise awareness of Multiple Sclerosis as an illness and to raise money for MS Ireland. 

That’s all fine, except for one, pretty big thing ... 

** whispers ** I haven’t been the best at reading with my children in the last while, at all, at all.  Despite my ideals and good intentions, pre parenthood and when they were babies. 

I feel that I can say it now, as I have redeemed myself somewhat over the last few months.  I chatted to staff in the MS Society in early summer about the Readathon, wrote some thoughts down and got some promotional family pics taken.  For the photo shoot, I rooted out some of my favourite books, including a battered and tattered copy of 'My Naughty Little Sister', by Dorothy Edwards.  The book is about 35 years old and looks every year of it.  It was left outside in a makeshift tent made many years ago - a heavy carpeted affair that was baking hot when dry, but sodden when wet.  I retrieved the book, mould stains and all.  The cover is ripped too, but I don’t like the idea of putting ‘new’ sellotape on it. 'My Naughty Little Sister' really should have been retired to the bin. But it has huge sentimental value for me.

Many moons ago, our First Class substitute teacher was a Mrs O'Neill.  She always brought a 'My Naughty Little Sister' book with her, which she read to the class in the afternoon as a treat.  I can still see her sitting there, her gentle, older lady voice reading.

I must have talked about the book a lot at home and my mother acquired a copy for me, 'up North', courtesy of my late aunt Moira.  I was speechless when I got my very own copy, which, as the current state of the book suggests, was read over and over.

A compendium of the ‘My Naughty Little Sister’ book series was published a few years ago, bound in a fancy red hard back.  I excitedly bought a copy for my nieces that Christmas, writing a personal note inside the front cover.  I can't say that the gifts were received as enthusiastically as when I got my copy, but they hadn't had The Mrs O'Neill Experience.

When my copy appeared again over the summer, I asked the children if they would like to hear a story.  They were enchanted by this manky thing that I had held onto and loved seeing my marks on the pages.  ‘Why did you draw a line under that sentence?’ they asked, as if I did it yesterday.  I told them about Mrs O’Neill.  They listened to the first story and wanted to hear another and another.  We were soon back into the night time reading ritual.  That lovely quiet time.

Funny, on rereading the stories after so many years, I was a bit disappointed that ‘My Naughty Little Sister’, wasn’t actually that naughty and her friend ‘Bad Harry’ wasn’t a bad fella either, if you leave aside the trifle-eating incident ... and eating the work men’s lunch that time.  When I reread them now, I have had little flashbacks to when I read them originally.  Some of the story lines now made me feel uneasy, for instance, My Naughty Little Sister going to visit her grown up friend Mr Blakey, the shoe mender friend and sleeping under his counter.  The writing style now seems antiquated and yet the children loved the stories.  I’ve read them over and over with them.  It’s been a lovely experience for all of us.

So ! To kick off our Readathon, we are going to lovingly put away my jaded copy and invest in the red hardback compendium of ‘My Naughty Little Sister’ books.  It includes lots of stories that I have never read.  I can only hope that we are making similar memories and that the children can find it in their hearts to someday forgive me for the silly voices I make when reading aloud.

The MS Readathon runs from October 9^th to November 9^th.  We are looking for sponsors.  Every little helps ...

September, One Big Contradiction

SCHOOL
I (and I know that I’m not alone) spent the last few days of the summer holidays looking forward to getting back into the school routine. Then September hits and I find myself yearns for the Halloween Break.

It didn’t take long before permanent stains appeared on the once crisp polo shirts – Rules about ‘you must change your uniforms’ long broken.

The lunch supplies in the fridge seem to melt as soon as you shut the door (or is it just that the pesky kids want feeding outside of school hours too? )

The school jumper that was lovingly hand washed and conditioned so that super-sensory boy could have a nice sniff during the week, is still wet come Monday morning.

THE EVENINGS DRAWING IN
I lament the passing of the long summer evenings, especially this year’s weather just didn’t lend itself to late nights outdoors. Of course, that may be because I don’t have a social life that involves late nights ? Darn it. I think that’s it. I can’t blame the weather.

The lament is juxtaposed with an open-armed-welcome that is Children Going To Bed At A Reasonable Hour.  A few months reprieve from the protests ‘but it’s bright Mam, it CAN’T be bed time !!’, protests delivered with such passion that you feel like the worst mother in the world.

CULTURE NIGHT
It’s the sixth year of Culture Night in Kildare, an (almost nationwide) event that encourages cultural bodies to open their doors to the public and provide artistic happenings free of charge. The first year, we had no idea if anyone would be interested in taking part, or attending. It could have been one big, very public flop. It wasn’t. It has grown and developed, with over 80 events taking place this year.

Yet every year, in the run up, I swear ‘NEVER AGAIN.’

I develop a queasy feeling as soon as I return from my summer holidays in early September and that feeling doesn’t leave me until it all kicks off on the third Friday in September. Once it kicks off, a different energy kicks in and I’m already planning ahead for next year. I always shed a wee tear on Culture Night, partly out of exhaustion and partly out of something beautiful that I witnessed, something that made me think ‘This was all worthwhile’.

CAR INSURANCE
Like the rest of you, my car and house insurance policies are for one year. Therefore, the renewal falls on the same date every year, in my case, mid-September. Not having insurance, and the idea of ‘not being covered’ puts the fear of God in me and yet, every year, the renewal notices in the post comes as a massive surprise to me and I’m last minute, gathering all of the bits and bobs.

Finding a bloody postage stamp for the envelope.

The last, last minute call from Nice Insurance Man to say that I forgot to send a copy of my driving licence.

BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES
Despite weeks of thinking to myself ‘I must order heating oil’, ‘I’ll never get caught out again’, I did. Last Friday. On Culture Night morning. Because of the day that was innit, my head was elsewhere and I forgot to call the oil company. I phoned on Saturday and got a nice voice message telling me that the office would reopen on Monday.

There was no special Bat Phone emergency numbers for distracted mothers, with children with sad faces and damp school uniforms. Thankfully, it wasn’t too chilly and we were out and about doing Culture Night stuff, so it wasn’t a big deal. It was lovely to feel the blast of heat when it did arrive though.

Note to self ‘I will never get caught again.’ I say it as passionately as I do when I say that I will never get involved with Culture Night again.

What do you bet that I’ll be having a déjà vu on this, this time next year ?

REGRETTING MY WARDROBE CLEAR OUT
There I was during the summer, feeling all smug, with a decluttered wardrobe. Feeling full of morals that I had donated so many nice clothes to charity. Now, I’m kinda raging.

Maybe it’s part of that Batten Down The Hatches/hibernation thing, but I’ve started to lament the handing over of woolly jumpers, even though I never really wore them in the first place. They don’t suit my ‘Bellew Shoulders’. I like the feeling of knowing they were there if I needed them. There is only one thing for it. I may re-clutter and go shopping.

Actually, I don’t think it’s September that’s the contradiction, I think that it’s me.

Why I Write What I Write

In the past weeks and months, I, like many of you have read about the horrors in Syria, or those trying to escape.  At times, I’ve stopped reading, because the human stories of real people have been too much to take in.  I’ve tried to write about it, to do it justice, but the words just aren’t coming. 

It’s not that I don’t care.  With all of my heart, I do.

I tell myself that in a world of so much sadness, that my writings about the most trivial of everyday things, hopefully delivered with a sprinkle of humour, brighten even one person’s day for ten minutes, then it’s worthwhile.  

I had a fretful sleep last night, after taking my weekly inter muscular injection (and which deserves a blog post all to itself very soon).   I did a bit of reading to settle myself and was drawn to a blog by a friend, whom I mostly knew online, although we lived within miles of each other.  This friend, Margaret Wouters, died last week.  I reread her posts where she talked openly about her various treatments for cancer, dotted among stories about family and the most fabulous photographs of her house and garden, that were worthy of a House & Home style magazine.  I’m terribly sad that she has died, having fought so hard to be well.  I regret that I didn’t get to know her better in ‘real life’, but reading her posts again made me feel inspired by her.  A wonderful archive of this woman’s life.

Because I write openly about my experiences of living with MS, one person has suggested to me that I love playing the ‘victim’ and that I thrive on the ‘pity’ that I get from other people.   When I’ve been told this, I reassure myself that it’s untrue, but at the same time, the saying ‘there’s no smoke without fire’, lingers on my mind.   On a bad day, I worry that, subconsciously, maybe that’s what I’m doing.      

On a recent post that I wrote, I described how I felt that I had lost my ‘Va Va Voom.’  It was the most revealing piece that I have written so far and I thought long and hard before I published it.   And yet, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

Writing funny stuff is easy. 

Admitting that you are struggling isn’t. 

The comments, messages and offers of help that I received after I wrote that piece were heart-warming and lovely.  In a way, it was a watershed moment for me, drawing a line under the unmentionable and moving on.  I felt empowered and determined to keep writing.

Margaret’s death notice stated "Je ne regrette rien."  I’m with her on that.  Sleep tight dear lady.