Sunday 22 May 2016

My Empty Nest

It seems like my personal circumstances are as changeable as the weather these days.  I guess that’s the nature of most relationship breakups.  This weekend is a biggie for me as it’s my first weekend, in what seems like forever, without my children.  For the foreseeable future, I will have every second weekend to myself, sans enfants.  I’m pleased for them and relieved for all involved that we are at this stage, but bloody hell, when it actually comes, it’s a shock to the system. 

What to do with myself? 


Those that know stuff say that I need to tend to my ‘self-care’.  The phrase suggests ‘slow down’, ‘relax’, but all I can see is a long list of jobs that would be easier to tend to, without the assistance of two eager eight year olds.  

My 1.1 acre garden is a jungle.  Sipping tea, while watching the grass grow out of control does little for my stress levels.  I decided to tackle some of the most jungle-esque areas this morning.  I decided to mow until I ran out of petrol.  Nature saved me from myself when the skies opened, with rain, hailstones, thunder and lightning.  It’s way too wet to cut any more grass now and the soft rain and heat will trigger another growth spurt.  Fan flipping-fastic.  

I’ve just looked out on the garden, in all of its post-rain greenness.  It looks so pretty now.  I'll pat myself on the back for what I have achieved.  Enough hard work for one day.

I went on a night out on Friday and to a show in Dublin city yesterday afternoon.  There was alcohol, coffee, grown up jokes, food in a non-child friendly restaurant.  No pressure, no timetable.  No sad faces asking me to hurry up, or for salt and vinegar crisps in an establishment that only has cheese and onion.  

I got quite excited at the thought of such freedom two weekends out of four.  But simultaneously, I can see that I am transferring my anxiety about the children onto my dog and found myself fretting, hoping that he is okay, thinking that ‘I really should get home’.  The turbo boost button will take some time to release.

On a practical level, it’s so much easier to feed just myself, without the pressure of preparing balanced meals for two children who never seem to want to eat the same thing at the same time.  As I write, I am having a fried egg for lunch, with toasted naan bread and an apple for dessert.  There's so little washing up !  I may never cook again, on my solo weekends.  The way I’m planning and plotting, there just won’t be time.

In the last year, on Saturday evenings, My Boy has administered an injection into my thigh.  I find it very tricky to do it myself, partly because the device isn’t very user friendly, but also because I know it’s going to hurt.  My Boy has a knack and has it done before I have time to wince.  This weekend, I felt a bit sorry for myself, futtering with the device, all on my lonesome.  But I did it.

‘See Hudson’, I said to my dog.  ‘I CAN do this’.  He acknowledged my achievement, wagging his loyal tail, on his over sized bum.  This new arrangement is suiting him well so far.  He had the longest walk in ages yesterday and I’ll treat him to the same today.  His ass and my bingo wings will soon be kicked into shape.

I’ve had whole two days with no announcements about any else’s bowel movements.  Nor did anyone pass any notice of mine.  There was no beating on the door when I was in the shower and no one passed comments about my wardrobe choices, wobbly bits, wrinkles or bodily hair.

I read (some of) yesterday’s newspapers and some of the previous fortnights too.  I’m catching up on writing and ideas for writing.  I’ve the enthusiasm to start two paintings for ridiculously overdue wedding presents.  I’m looking forward to spending time with my Mam.  Treating her for all of her kindnesses.  A days shopping.  An overnight stay in a hotel. 

In the middle of all of this activity, I am missing my darling children.  It’s the background noise, the awareness of them pottering around with me, the constant third eye that you have as a parent, knowing where they are and what they are up to.  Kissing a grazed elbow, stroking their soft hair.  The incessant questions.  The house is so quiet without them.  

This new beginning for all of us is daunting and exciting.  I’ve five hours left before I collect the children.  I guess that I should make the most of it.


Wednesday 18 May 2016

Eurovision

Were ye watching it ? Were ye ?  

Like most things in my life, my children made me do it. 

Yip. 

We watched the Eurovision.  Well, most of the final on Saturday night anyway.

The pair of them were hooked from the start.  Everything about the show was bizarre – ideal viewing for two curious eight year olds.  The outfits, complete with their own light fittings.  Many ensembles looking like they might give friction burns.  Big hair, that might spontaneously combust.  The lighting and set design was pretty amazing, in an enormous space that made you feel that all of the residents of the EU could fit in. The live audience had arm bands with lights on, making them all twinkly and, according to my children, ‘awesome’. 

My boy said ‘eh Mam, there’s lots of … you know …’ pointing his head downwards, awkwardly.  ‘It’s okay Leon.  You can say BREASTS and yes, there’s lots of them.’  Right there in our faces. 

Thankfully, my boy is more interested in geography than breasts, He was fascinated by the multilingual speakers and he had a succession of quick-fire questions about the origins of accents all thought the show.  I would have needed a globe, a PhD in  Linguistics and a translator to keep up.  I spoofed my way through the conversation on European geography, but couldn’t quite explain why Australia was represented, but not other countries. 

I thought their interest would wane through the show, but the opposite happened, once the voting started.  The new score system (whereby the traditional vote from participating countries took place first and the telephone votes were added on subsequently) meant that the scores changed very quickly and the overall winner (Ukraine) appeared as a dark horse at the final hour.  It was a bit like a penalty in extra time.

Nicky Byrne and the Irish entry didn’t make it through to the final from the semi-finals on Thursday.  It was a shame really as the tune, ‘Sunlight’, seemed as good as any other Eurovision ditty on the night.

I am convinced that OTHER FORCES were at play.

I fear that Europe may have used the Eurovision as a ‘protest vote’ of sorts, to punish us for Ireland’s flahoolock spending in the past, knowing that Nicky Byrne is son-in-law of former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern.   Picture them, sitting in France thinking, ‘We will soften their cough.  This will show them.  Zero points'.  Usually a dapper dresser, Nicky’s jacket didn’t help the case at all.  It all just looked, well, too 'autumnal' for my liking.  Who wants to look at something so unseasonal in the heat in May?  Maybe, by some weird osmosis, science thing going on, Nicky has absorbed his father-in-law's liking for dodgy jackets ?

As a child, we tuned into the Eurovision religiously.  Although it was on in the background, no-one really paid attention until Ireland and England’s entries were played.  Then we tuned out again until the voting.  Our main aim was that Ireland would score higher than England.  If England gave us a lower score than we gave them, we would shake our fists at the televisions. 

My favourite Eurovision memory is of when Nicole, from Germany won the competition.  It was 1982 and I was in First Class.  The song was ‘A Little Peace’.  As far as I remember, she sang the song initially in German, but when she won the competition, her encore was in German and English (This may not be accurate, but it’s how I remember it).  She was only 17 when she won, with big hair and a guitar.  I had a major girl crush. 

The following week, our class teacher Mrs Tinnelly, obviously as taken by the lovely Nicole as me, got the class to learn the song off by heart.  ‘We are feaaa-thers oooon the breeeezzzze.  Siiiinnngg with meeee, my song of peeeaacce’.  Remember? 

You can listen to it here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o67vWrkWUAQ

… And of course there was Johnny Logan, crying in his white suit when he won in 1980 (or was that Alex Higgins when he won the World Snooker Championships? Or did they both cry ?) …

… And Linda Martin’s magnificent hair and one padded shoulder …

… And even though they were English, the girls from Buck’s Fizz whipping off their long skirts.  Europe gasped as Cheryl Baker and the other one revealed their mini skirts. 

We made new memories last Saturday night, us three pass-remarkable-couch-potatoes.  I’d highly recommend watching the Eurovision next year, but only with children.  If you haven’t any of your own, borrow some for the occasion and embrace your inner cheese.

(Janey, that's a lot of 'big hair' references in one little blog)

Friday 6 May 2016

We've Got Dead Goldfish

The last time that my daughter screamed that loudly was last summer when I knocked a mug of scalding black tea into her lap.  My poor little darling.  So, when I heard ‘that’ scream last night, I instantly thought that she had been burned.  To my relief, she was fine.  Although I can’t say the same for the fishie floating in the fish tank.  George was dead as, well, a dead goldfish.  More screams followed as we discovered a second corpse.  ‘Oh Nooooo, not Goldie toooooooooooooooooo’, she cried.  I looked for the third fish, Whitey.  There he was, swimming away happily, unaware of the drama unfolding around him (actually, unfolding around HER, Mya insists that Whitey is a girl).  

It wasn’t a total wipe out.  (And no smart comments about ‘Two Outta Three Ain’t Bad’, thank you.  This is serious, okay ?)

I can’t say that the death of George came as a surprise.  In the last few months, he had developed a fibrous growth on his back.  It looked like some sort of tumour.  Mya wanted me to bring the goldfish to the vet.  I actually did a google search on ‘can you bring a goldfish to the vet?’.  And actually, you can.  In some places.  There were photographs of life saving operations on goldfish.  I-kid-you-not.  Fees were in the region of e300. Yikes !  I didn't bother to investigate if my vet carried out such procedures.

The children told me that I was a big meanie for not bringing George to the vet to have this growth investigated.  They couldn’t see the rationale in me bringing Hudson, our dog to the vet, but not our goldfish.   I couldn’t bring myself to say to them that I love our dog, but that I wasn’t that pushed about George or his mates.  I mean, they are nice to look at, but let’s face it, not much craic. And no, I wasn’t spending e300 on him.  Call the ISPCA if you want.  I stand over my decision.

In fact, such is my love for my dog that I actually prefer cleaning up dog vomit/poo than cleaning the fish tank.  While I’m here - Did I tell ye about how Hudson, unknown to me, recently gorging himself on multiple butter sachets – the ones in gold foil wrapping ?  I only discovered his binge when I found a puddle of melted butter/crumpled tin foil the following morning ?  The children hopped in delighted behind me as I cleared it up in my pyjamas  ‘Is it poo or vomit Mam ?’ they asked amid hoots of laughter, ‘It’s SOOOoooooo disgusting.’ 

In case you think I’m a callous fish-hating bitch, my goldfish with the growth, actually looked quite happy.  He was a good colour, he hadn’t lost weight and his scales and eyes looked good.  (I watch A-Day-In-The-Zoo type programmes, so obviously I speak with some authority here).  In goldfish years, they were a 'good age' when they died.

It was a shock all the same when poor George finally carked it yesterday alongside his buddy.  That has happened before, where two fish die around the same time.  Maybe the first body releases some toxins or something that the second one digests ? Or maybe it was just bad timing.   I am pretty sure that they were alive when I fed them yesterday morning.  I think.

My little woman cried for a good hour about her fishies last night.  There were lots of cuddles.  Lots and lots.  We fished the corpses out of the tank and had a good look at them.
 
I tried to console her. ‘But don’t they look happy Mya ?’

She had a good look at the lifeless bodies.  ‘Not really Mam’.  More tears.

Shite, bad choice of words.   I meant to say something along the lines that it that it didn't look like they had suffered. But she was right.  They didn’t look happy.  They just looked dead.

‘But weren’t they lucky that they had such a good life here in Poppy Cottage ?  Look how long they lived for.  And how big they grew.  They had a good life.’

She nodded.  We were getting places.  She touched them tentatively.  We had a look at the growth on George’s back.  For the wee size of him, it was big.

‘Can I see their teeth Mam?’

‘I don’t think they have teeth’.

‘Well, can you check ?’

Darn, I don’t like jobs like that.  With appropriate respect for a dead fish, I picked up George and pressed his cheeks gently.  His little mouth opened.  No teeth to be seen.  It was kinda mad how his mouth opened all the same.

‘Can we get new fish Mam?’

‘Should we not have a mourning period Mya ? At least until we get over the funeral ?’ or at least until rigor mortis 

‘But look at Whitey.  He is so lonely there without his friends’.

Fair point.

We will go fish shopping as soon as the funeral is over.

A joint funeral service with immediate burial afterwards will take place this morning in Poppy Cottage at 11am.  Sugary refreshment will be served afterwards.
 
Please keep us in your thoughts.


RIP Goldie and George