Kids and Guns

Last Sunday, I was an accomplice to my seven-and-a-half-year-old children buying guns. I drove them to the place of purchase, advised which ones ones suited their budget and supplemented their funds. Not REAL guns OBVIOUSLY. But guns all the same. 

In my defence, they bought them with their pocket and tooth fairy money. The rule in our house is that the children can spend this money on whatever they want - the crappiest toys in a euro shop, a two litre bottle of sugary drinks, whatever.  In other words *whisper* turn a blind eye.  Anyway, surely a bottle of 'sivvy' drinks is more dangerous than a pretend gun ??

Guns have always given me the shivers.  As a child growing up on a farm, you seen what happened to dogs that chased (and killed) sheep, and it wasn't pleasant. I had the unenviable job of cleaning my father's rifle. Even though it was split in two, I was always afraid that I'd blow the head off myself as I cleaned the barrel with a cloth. I'm getting a shiver now remembering it. 

When I was pregnant with my twinnies, I bought '2 for 3' books, including the novel 'We Need to Talk About Kevin'.  Without giving the story away, it's fair to say that poor old Kevin didn't fare out the best. The book is a series of letters from Kev's mother to his father wondering where it all went wrong. Was it nature ? Or nurture ? Or a bit of both ? It's the stuff that a book club could love.  But probably/definitely not what a hormonal first time Mam should read. I should have stuck

with 'A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian'.

Preggers Me was intent on being a peace loving Momma and that Poppy Cottage would be a gun free zone. (It was also intended to be a sugar free zone ... Ah, bless, I was quare innocent once !).

Roll on a few years and someone bought Leon a gun as a present.  I winced as he unwrapped it.  But I could see the delight in his face. There was no way I could chuck it in the bin. But even if I did, he would improvise.  He has used his finger, a crutch and a stick as weapons of mass destruction.  I must say, I was rather impressed at the machine gun that he made out of Lego recently.  A feat of engineering.  'Just don't point it at me son !'

When afore mentioned son was tiny, he fell in love with horses (Well actually, a donkey. Called Jimmy. That lives in his Nana's garden). That fascination led him to love Cowboy and Indian films (Only John Wayne though. He was never a Clint fan).  I tried to be enthusiastic, but also felt the need to stand in front of the TV and explain to my boy that the Native Indians were being misrepresented. He just yawned and asked me to 'get out of the way'.  Every cowboy needs his holster and it would be nothing without a gun. So, guns were aplenty in Poppy Cottage.  Despite my reservations, I LOVED the sulphurous smell of the spent caps.  Aaaaaahhh !

Getting back to last Sunday, little man was intent on buying a Nerf gun and had, in advance, persuaded his sister to invest in a Nerf Rebelle gun - guns designed specifically for girls ... Not sure I like this ... I suggested that we look at other toys, but they were having none of it.  

We purchased, rather annoyingly to the queue behind us, with a hape of small change, supplemented by me.  

The children could barely wait to get to the car to open their purchases.  I helped them unwrap the many layers of child proof packaging.  Mya had actually bought a cross bow rather than a gun and needed help setting it up.  It looked pretty darn cool.  Tattoo designs n all. I perched it on my shoulder and fired in the car, trying to avoid the dog and the children.  Woo hoo ! That was pretty awesome !! Did I just say 'awesome' ? In an American accent ?

'Mam', Mya said. 

'What ??!!', sez I. 

'Can I have my cross bow back ? Please ?'

'I'm just checking it out Mya ... Making sure that it's okay'.

The dog dived for cover under the seat.  

'Mam ... Can I have my Nerf Rebelle back ? Please ?' 

'Sorry Mya, were you talking to me ?' 

... I channel the Guns 'n' Roses Terminator tune and embrace my inner Linda Hamilton.  I'm hooked.  

Would Anyone Read A Blog Post About Having The Flu ?

I've been itching to write something for the last few nights, but I've hit a bit of a blank.  The problem is that all I have thought about for the last ten days or so, is the flu.  It has consumed my waking hours and even my sleeping ones.  But who would want to read about the flu ?  Never mind think about it ?  Well tough, I've got the flu, I'm cranky and I don't have a life, so here I go.

I thought I was the smart gal, getting a flu vaccine last autumn.  I was after getting a lecture from the nurse in my GP's surgery about not getting my bloods checked regularly enough.  'You should get the jab, you know.  Your immune system is low'.  'Right', sez I, sleeve rolled up.  My arm swelled Popeye-esque for a week and I had the familiar, achey feeling.  And then I forgot about it.  Until ...  Easter weekend ! 

Myself and the twinnies headed on a road trip to visit friends and family in Sligo and Mayo on Holy Thursday.  Bags packed with new clothes for the kids.  Goodies at the ready.  Delighted with myself I was.  I'd further plans for hitting Wexford and maybe even Cork.  And then it hit me between the eyes last Saturday.  Influenza.  In Mayo.  In my friend's house.  Oh Holy Harry.  It seems that the strain of flu in the vaccine that I had was a different strain than the one currently doing the rounds.  Brilliant ! 

The car journey road back to Kildare was an endurance test. `I bought cough sweets, cough bottle and pain killers in Roscommon and knocked them back in the car, cough bottle straight from the bottle.  The twinnies realized that I was proper sick and willed me along, saying 'it will be okay Mam', in the same affirming way as I speak to them when they are sick.

I took to the bed when we arrived home and pretty much stayed there until Wednesday.  Sleeping Beauty wouldn't get a look in with me.  I could barely stay awake long enough to go to the toilet.  Easter Sunday, the Bank Holiday and the fabulous weather passed me by.  My favorite time of the year, a lovely time for children and I didn't give a monkeys.  In fact, I couldn't bear the light, so I skulked around looking for the darkest, coolest room in the house.  I looked at Facebook status updates enviously.  The whole country was out and about having way too much fun.  

All that I was interested in was how many hours was it until I could take more drugs to ease my temperature.   Even when I was lying on my back, and defying gravity, my nose streamed.  In the end, I plugged my nostrils with two tissues.  I looked like a woman possessed.

I went back to work on Thursday, probably a few days too early.  On Monday I was still spluttering when I arrived at a site visit at a school with 17 artists.  One of those meetings that would more work to rearrange than to go ahead with.  The friendly builder who I had met on a previous visit acknowledged that I didn't sound very well.  'I was the same myself …  I was sick for two days'.  'TWO days ?', says I,  'I wouldn't call THAT the flu.  I was barely able to walk for FIVE days'.  I realised that I was getting competitive about who was sicker.  Me or him.  It was ME, obviously, but I did feel a little silly.  Sorry Tommy.  

I 'think' that I'm usually a pretty good soldier when I'm sick.  Well, not this time.  The flu has turned me into a self pitying moany git.  If you ask me how I am, expect a five minute lecture, focusing on awfulness of it all.  Don't expect any optimism.  And certainly, don't expect me to ask you how you are doing.  You are obviously not as sick as me.  Or as cranky.  So don't bother.  

Bless my little twinnies.  They were good as gold, despite having THE most uneventful school holidays to date.  They could have torn the ass out of eating Easter Eggs while I slept, but they didn't.  Leon was my regular 'do you need an Actimel ?' supplier and Mya sought out extra packets of tissues for me.  I just wished that they were old enough to make me hot drinks and perhaps, give me piggy backs to the loo.   You really need an adult gofer when you are sick.  I must remember to have one on site next time.

Despite all of this, I did manage to get myself together to get dressed every day, to bring the children to the local hotel for hot food, and to break the monotony of the of walls.  I felt like an alien in a Sci Fi film, whose sole aim in life was to cough on the punters in the hotel and infect them with my lethal virus.  Especially the beautiful people going to the Rugby Club dinner dance.  At least I took the tissues out of my nostrils.  

Any positives to this flu craic ? 

1.  I guess that I could consider it as a honey and lemon detox.  I didn't touch any chocolate over Easter.  It is such a joy to get my appetite back.  I demolished a bowl of Rice Krispies at the weekend.  I could have been in a 5 Star restaurant.  

2.  Not that I do it THAT often, but I haven't been able to/can't shout at the kids.  I've had to resort to alternative forms of communication.  There has been a lot of hand gestures.  A fortnight long game of charades.   They think it's hilarious.  

3.  I usually treat myself to some new clothes for Easter.  I probably saved myself a fortune … if you don't add up the meds … and the medicinal trips to the hotel.  Think of the diesel money that I saved too ! 

I am 90% better now and I've got two days to be 100%.  Or preferably 110%.  I'm off on a gals night out on Saturday for my friend Dolores's 40th.  I doubt very much if anyone will want to hear my sceal.  I've bored the pants off myself as it is.    

Hope you didn't catch anything from me via the WWW.

Fifty Shades

A work colleague gave me a copy of 'Fifty Shades of Grey', the erotic romance novel by EL James two years ago. Apparently, her husband bought it for get 'for the laugh' in an airport on holidays. I don't know how the holiday went, or what his motives really were, but she came back with a glorious tan and an unopened copy of 'Fifty'.

I put it on my shelf of other unread books, destined to spend the rest of it's days there, before being donated to a charity shop.

I've been in bed for the last two days with a woeful flu. Today, Easter Sunday, I'm like a divil. I'm finding it hard to get my temperature under control. Tonsils like golf balls. Aching all over.  I've no interest in eating Easter Eggs, or anything else.  I'm restless. I have a look at the Sunday Times papers and am quite impressed with myself. I read an article about Lou Reed and flick through the Style mag, which makes me grumpy, envious and washed up. With streaming eyes, I'm far from
a pretty sight.

What to do ... I look at the 'Great Unread' shelf.  'Fifty Shades' will do. Despite the ever reliable guys at work saying that 'it's a pile of shite', I delve in. Maybe I'm more open to it because of the hype around the recent movie release, which despite regular 'we must go and see it' from my friends, we didn't.

Also, I fancy the pants off Jamie Doran, even if he regularly scared the life out of me on 'The Fall'. After watching an episode, I was often afraid to walk by curtain less windows incase he was there watching.

And, I LOVE the Ellie Goulding song from the sound track of the aforementioned film.  Actually, I just love Ellie Goulding. I love her voice and her look. I want to be her. If she lived closer, I could be her stalker, although maybe not to 'The Fall' extremes. 'Love Me Like You Do' is such a beautiful song that it's hard to imagine the film being anything but a fairy tale.

I wipe the dust off and open up.  The intro doesn't do much for me and I'm feeling impatient. I flick through, looking for the 'sex bits'. As I flick, the dialogue bores me to tears. It's so contrived, I'm morto for you Christian. At the outset, he gives his new mot, the virginal Anastasia a list of rules from him the 'Dominant' to her the 'Submissive'. The only rule that I am interested in is that Christian wants to 'lavish money on you. Let me buy you some clothes'.  Hmmm ... I think back to that £280 utility styled Marc Jacobs skirt in the Style magazine earlier. I briefly toy with the idea of being the 'Submissive'. Then simultaneously, my eyes water and my nose starts to run. Where are the goddamn tissues. I'm back in the real world. I resume my search for the 'sex bits'. I find the first big encounter between Christian and Anastasia.

I realise that I got more of a thrill out of Jilly Coopers racy horsey novels that I stumbled across as a teenager.     It too was 'lady porn', but I loved the English upper class turn of phrase - it was all very 'spiffing' and 'jolly'.  I was fascinated by Jilly Copper herself when I seen her on TV.  This posh lady with an attractive gap in her teeth wrote that ?  I don't really give 'Fifty Shades' a chance.  I'm too sick and tired. Hardly the best combination for such a racy read.

The only thing I really like about 'Fifty Shades' is the way it came about in the first place.  It started out as 'fan fiction', where the author developed her own fictional writing online, developing story lines based on the Twilight, the vampire fantasy novels. Look at where it brought her ! Fair play to you EL James.  See, no hard feelings.  Oops, excuse the pun ...

I flick to the last five pages. Anastasia leaves yer man Christian. I'm glad. He was a pain in the ass.  Another pun. Maybe I'm getting my mojo back.

A North Sider At Heart

Until I was old enough to know better, I thought that the boundaries of Dublin City Centre were the Phoenix Park, the Mater Hospital, Croke Park and O'Connell Bridge.  This has largely to do with the fact that I grew up in North Meath and the main thoroughfare to Dublin was via the Navan Road.   My many teenage trips to Croke Park to see Meath play.  Winning All Irelands.  The exhilaration.  

The legendary Sillan Tours, AKA, 'Roe Bus', was the only decent public transport from Kingscourt, depositing people at the church on the Navan Road, the Mater and Parnell Street.   A huge amount of shoppers and commuters from the Shercock/Kingscourt/Navan have availed of the bus into the city.  I knew that the bus had one further stop, but I didn't know then that the bus continued to a place called the 'South Side'.  I didn't know what or where the South Side was.   I had everything I needed within walking distance of Parnell Street.

The first time I remember having an awareness of the South Side was when I went to an AC/DC concert when I was fifteen.  Myself and my friend Allen Gogarty headed up on the bus.  Somewhere along the way, we met his older sister Adeline, who seemed terribly grown up and sophisticated.  I seem to remember a bus to UCD.  I was a newbie vegetarian.  In 80's Ireland, that pretty much meant spuds and vegetables, with no meat on the plate.  Adeline, was the hostess with the mostess.  'I heard you are vegetarian ?', she said warmly.  'I know just where to bring you for food.  Somewhere that makes a lovely strudel.  Do you like strudel?', she said.  I nodded, pretending I knew what I had a clue about what she was talking about.  The strudel arrived.  Filo pastry, what must have been pine nuts, cheese and spinach.  I thought that I had died and gone to heaven.  'This South Side isn't so bad', I thought.  But after we got to see AC/DC that night, in
The Point,  I forgot that this place existed and  I retreated to familiar territory.  

When I was looking for a flat in Dublin, I naturally headed for familiar climes, that were convenient for my my new job in Finglas.  My little third floor flat, on the North Circular  Road with its yellow woodchip wall paper and brown threadbare carpet.  I loved it there.   I knew every crack on the footpath between there and Phibsboro.  It was a great location for visitors, if you could really call them visitors.  Relations en route to hospital appointments in the Mater, my brother, home from England, friends availing of the convenience location to crash on the floor, after attending gigs, neighbours from home looking for somewhere to stay for a week or two until they got set up in Dublin.  It was often as busy as a train station and I loved it.  I could write a whole series of blogs about the people who lived in the the apartments, but that's for another day.

I loved the smell and the sounds of the fruit markets in Smithfield, before the area was refurbished, getting my grocery shopping on a Satuday and going for a pint in the Sackville, hidden behind Clery's.  Mooching around the fabulously tailored Karen Millen clothes in Clery's and keeping an eye out for a Sale Rail.  Arnott's.  The Italian shoes.  The handbags ! Everyone there always seemed to be thirty years older than me, but I didn't care.   Quality stuff that was not the run of the mill.  The Bargain Basement.   Jervis Street Shopping Centre.  Top Shop.  The Point Depot.  There really was no need to go any further.   My universe was complete.  

'I usually don't set foot over the North Side of the Liffey', a friend said to me one evening.   I didn't really understand what he meant a first.  It was then that I copped that he meant that South Siders were DIFFERENT and not in a good sense.  Really ? Feck.  How had that passed me by ?  I was so caught up in my little life that I couldn't see beyond it.  I felt a bit like the last person in the classroom to find out what a virgin was.  But, in my defense, this was pre Ross O'Carroll Kelly, so I didn't have him to tip me off.  

I later got a teaching job in the secondary school in Stanhope Street in Stoneybatter, or 'No Hope Streeeeee' as the students called it.  I loved working with the students, although I wasn't too keen on the politics of the staff room.  Iy was a miracle that many of the girls made it to school at all, given the chaos in their lives.  I liked that the girls who had been labelled as 'non-academic', or worse, could flourish in my art classes.  

When I started my new job in a local authority in Kildare, my mother lamented that my stories about Council officials weren't a patch on what my students would get up to.  I left Dublin with a heavy heart, the place of my formative years, my first job, my first love, life long friendships.  I am up and down to Dublin fairly regularly now, but it's mostly work related.  It's often a matter of getting in and out of there as fast as I can.  

Last Saturday,  I attended some Dublin Film Festival events for awardees of the Cine Talent Awards for All About Eva(shameless plug).    It started with a Brunch networking event in the Merrion Hotel.  All very lovely and grown up.  I found myself with a few hours to kill before the next event.  I made my way down Grafton Street, which was jammers with shoppers and buskers.  A sunny afternoon and everyone was in good spirits.  I milled around there, soaking in the atmosphere.  

But I could hear it calling me.  

The North Side.  

As I headed up Liffey Street, past the shop with the white sateen and lace puff ball communion dresses, I felt a new sense of ease.  Arnott's was calling me.   I could feel a warmth in my throat as I walked through the doors.

Mango clothes.  How could I have forgotten how fabulous you are ?

And there they are.  The Italian shoes.  Feel that leather ! Smell.  Divine.

Back on the street, a young woman is shouting 'Straaawwwbrieees, two for three euroooooo'.  I looked at her, to see if she was one of my past pupils.  She wasn't.  

Pity I hadn't time for a pint in The Sackville.  Next time.  

An early morning date with God

Last Sunday morning there was a mass in Philipstown, near Ardee, Co Louth for my aunt Aine, my Mam's sits who died two years ago.  My aunt that bought me to get my ears pierced as a child, who gave me her left over navy eye shadow and hand-me-down clothes as a teenager.  In return, I gave her my time.  

The mass was at 9.30am.  I wanted to leave Athy at 7.50am to arrive in good time.  I was full of great intensions to be organised in advance, to just hop out of bed and get on the road.  But I wasn't too well on Saturday, so none of the intentions were realised.  

I set the alarm for 6.40am, hoping to have a leisurely ten minute shower before I woke the children.  

5.30am  I'm wide awake, anxious about the day ahead.  I dose off, eventually.

7.20am  I finally drag myself out of bed.  A five minute shower I thought, but by the time I washed my mop of hair, it's 7.35am.  Shite.  No hair straightener today.

The kids were hard to stir.  They complain about having to go to mass, a very rare event in our house.  
'It's SOOOOO boring Mam.  Why do we HAVE to GOOOOO ??'  
'Because we do.  For Aine'.
'Oh'.  They liked Aine.  They don't protest much more.   

I carried Mya up to the sitting room to get dressed, multi-tasking, by giving her a cuddle along the way.  She said she wanted to get dressed on my bed instead.  A swift turn around, tying not to whack her leg off the door.  'Guys, I'm in a REAL hurry.  I need you to get dressed as quickly as possible'.  

My sensory boy is hard to buy clothes for, refusing to wear new clothes if he doesn't like the feel of them.  He has a thing for beige skinny jeans and has four pairs that look pretty much identical.  I marched him around Penney's the day before, determined that he wouldn't go to the mass wearing the same 'good' clothes that he wears and washes, wears and washes.  

  

'Will you wear this ?'

A quick feel. 

'No'

'Oh look at this Leon, isn't that cool ?'

'No, I don't like it'.

'This one ?'  'THIS ONE ?' 'This ?' 'Leon, please ?'

Eureka.  We made a number of purchases and none of it is beige.  

The following morning, I had Leon's new outfit laid out.  'Get dressed Leon.  I'm in a hurry'.  

Despite having a wardrobe to die for, my little woman is happiest in a slim fitting t-shirt and black leggings. Today, I insist on a a little red polka dot guna deas.  Mya agrees.   'Stange', I think, but I don't question it.  I relish the rare moment.  Guna deas needs a belt.  I spotted a thin leopard patterned one.  

'That doesn't match !' she says.  

'I know it doesn't Mya, it contrasts with it'.  

'What does contrast mean ?' 

'Bloody hell ! … It means that it's the opposite, but that it looks nice with something, you know ?'

'Oh', she said, nodding.  

She got it.  We have a Fashion Moment.  Me and my gal.  Aine would have approved.

We hoic on her tights.  Now fully awake, she speaks in a high pitched voice and tells me stories from school.  I nod and laugh, but I'm only half listening.  Time is ticking on.

While I was accessorising Mya, I thought that Leon was dressed, but instead, the seven year old is reading the Irish Times weekend supplement.  Roisin Ingle's column to be precise.  Normally, I would actively encourage him to read, but not this morning. 

It's 7.50am  There is a heavy frost outside.  I run out and defrost the car.

'Does anyone want breakfast ?'

Silence.

'Does anyone want breakfast ? … 'Hello ?'

Two grumpy heads tell me to stop asking questions and that no, they don't want breakfast.

'Are you sure ?  It's a long drive'.

'Mam, stop talking'.

7.55am.  Flip, look at the time

I throw on a dress that I haven't worn in a log time.  It feels a bit tight and looks too short.  I breath in and pull it down.  No time for a style dilemma today.

I threaten the children that I am not stopping in the motor way if they need to go to the toilet.  I make wild threats (the sort of thing that you said you would never escort to BC before children) to encourage them to go to the toilet.

After not eating anything for two days, I suddenly feel hungry and put two slices of toast on.  I look forward to eating them in the car, with my cup of green tea.

Leon has his head under the sink.  He pulls out a flask.  The boy who doesn't drink tea  asks, 'Can we make tea Mam ? We can have a picnic in the car',.02 he says enthusiastically, his little face lit up.  I feel a pang of guilt as I say, 'No Leon, get in the car' and I escort him to the door.  'I can give you juice instead ?' 'I don't want juice'. 

8.00 am  Two children in the car.  

8.02 am Toast buttered, I grab juice cartons, throw blankets in, to keep the kids cosy ,lock the house and hop into the car.

'Mam, that toast smells nice.  Can I have it ?'

'Of course son'.  

I'm actually starving now.  I run back into the house and grab two two slices of left over pizza.  

8.07am   We are off.  Finally.  My dog looks at me with sad eyes, as I reverse out the gate.  'Later, Hudson, later.  I promise', feeling that I've neglected him lately.

It's a largely uneventful journey.  Two cosy kids playing games on their tablets.  They protest when I turn on the radio.  I turn the radio off.  Anything for an easy life.  The cold pizza goes down okay, but the green tea is an odd companion.  

'I want a juice Mam'.  

I blast on the heat in the car and 'blow dry' my hair.  The kids complain that they are too warm.  They want the 'hot heat' turned off.  I glance in the mirror and see that my hair looks like Mick Wallace TD's.

9.18am  I panic as I see the signs for Drogheda and curse myself for not consulting with AA route planner to find out exactly how long the trip will take.     

9.27am  I take the turn off for Dunleer/Collon and I'm on familiar turf.  The Sunday visits to my Mam's family.  I start to feel at ease, but warn the children to run as soon as  I park the car.

9.31am  I park at the church.  I slap on a bit of the customary ed lipstick.  I try to tame my Mick Wallace hair into a pony tail and pull down my too-short skirt.  I didn't do too bad after all.

Everyone is standing as the priest does his introductory rites, in his border county accent.  Familiar faces in the congregation.  Cousins, cousins children, aunts, second cousins.  My Mam.  My brother and his children.  My children smile shyly as they recognise them, knowing they will have fun playing together later on.  The cool air, the texture of the wood, the light in the church, all brings me back to childhood weekends with Aine and my Nana Bride.   

I didn't do too bad after all.  Aine would have appreciated the effort.

My Irish Mammy

For Mother's Day

I'm sure that mammies world wide are brilliant, but my experience is limited the the Guaranteed Irish ones.  My Mam, Kay.  The Salt of the Earth variety.

I have never seen anything like the Irish Mammy for producing vast quantities of food at short notice. Growing up on a farm, my father could appear in the door with a number of men who had helped him out, or perhaps were just passing through.  All strapping lads.  All hungry.  From out of nowhere, Kay could produce a Loaves and the Fishes type feast.  Her home made brown bread is legendary.  If you came on the right day, you could get a slice of her apple tart or an iced bun.

The Irish Mammy was the original 'cute hoore'.  The main skill here is to plant ideas in others (often males, adult, living in the same house, usually married for years) and let them think that the idea is theirs.  I've seen Kay in action over the years.  Smooth as you like.  Before you know it, the male adult is telling you about this great idea that he had.  Kay is in the kitchen,  her shoulders shaking, having a little laugh to herself.

Kay wore an apron around the house for many years (and may in fact have worn it to mass under her coat on one occasion).  The apron was presented as a practical solution for keeping one's clothes clean in a busy kitchen.  However, it was actually worn to store the intercepted post that my mother collected from the postman.  If the letter was franked from 'O'Carolan College', it was a (fairly regular) invitation from the school Principal to discuss one of my two younger brothers.  Is it any wonder that Kay turned grey ?

When I was younger, I was the painter/decorator/gardener for my parents.  I would book holidays from work to do some work around their house, while Kay provided around the clock refreshments. But when I bought my own house, with an unwieldy garden and then my twinnies arrived, I found that I didn't have as much energy for doing things in Milltown.  Maybe it was my MS creeping up on me.  Since my diagnosis, Kay has cranked up her Irish Mamminess.  She brings me a cuppa and her brown bread in bed, while she minds the children.  Having a lie-on in Milltown, listening to the river across the road, the background hum of the farmyard, I feel safe.  Loved.  At home.  I'm a ten year old again.

Kay in an angel, but even angels have their faults.  She has been known to say the odd expletive.  A few years ago, she tried to shoo away a stray Tom cat that was causing havoc with her own cats.  She called the cat a 'bastard' and may even have made a half hearted attempt to throw a kick (not ACTUALLY kicking the cat, no need to call the ISPCA).  My children were there at the time.  They thought that Nana Kay cursing was the funniest thing ever.  I have heard them reminiscing several times since about ''the time that Nana said the 'B' word''.  

Irish Mammies are also Queen's of the Bad Jokes.  The word 'corny' springs to mind.  Christmas cracker stuff.  Never smutty.  Never jokes with bad language - that's strictly reserved for threatening menacing cats.  Kay has fair bit of competition here from my aunts Ann and Kathleen.  Some might say that it has been their coping mechanism for living with the Russell men in Milltown.  I couldn't possibly comment.

My Mam and I got into gardening when I was a teenager.  Neither of us has a clue.  We brought her sister, my aunt Aine on our gardening journey. Bless us, we hadn't a clue.  Between us, we accumulated a lot of knowledge, to the point that we now sound like we know what we were talking about.  I loved finding a new garden centre, or garden to bring Mam and Aine to, when they came to visit me in Kildare.  On one memorable trip, I brought them to Dunshane Nursery outside of Kilcullen.  A gardener's paradise.  We left with the boot of my car jammed with plants, the three of us inpatient to get home and start planting.  Aine died two years ago, this week.  I think of her often and cherish those precious days.  It's hard watching your Mam grieve her sister and friend.  I smile when I remember a conversation about Leylandii trees in a man in a garden centre.  'You won't buy them around here.  They are filthy things missus.  Dirt catchers.  You don't want them about the place. Pure filth'.  Aine was disgusted with him and went back down to Louth to acquire the contraband trees.

A role that I have always enjoyed, is being Kay's personal shopper.  Her very own Gok Wan, without the sharp haircut.  Mam is quite happy to sit down and let me pick a selection of outfits for her to try on.  On more than one occasion, she picked the first outfit that I selected.  No messing around there.
... I was going to tell you about the time that Kay's paper bag with new underwear inside ripped open on the bus home from Dublin, but I better not.  She would kill me ...

I love seeing my Mam with her eight lovely grandchildren.  Proud as punch of her beautiful little flock.  The children, oblivious to how lucky they are to have their grandparents.  

I am regularly told that my little girl Mya is 'the cut' of me.  As well as the physical attributes, I think we have similar personalities.  She reminds me of me as a child and my relationship with my mother. It's touching to sit back now and watch her converse with my Mam, independent of me.  My Mam brushing her hair.  On the other hand, my boy Leon's main source of communicating with my mother is through his stomach.  Nana Kay's house is full of contraband, worse than the Leylandii trees.  Fizzy drinks, yoghurt with chocolate balls and other goodies at a seven year olds eye level.  I just give in.

I'm heading up to Milltown this weekend for Mother's Day.  I'll try to spoil my Mam, but knowing her, she will beat me to it and spoil me instead.

Music : The Power to Transform

Dedicated to Tony Fenton.  Music Man.  RIP

Being a busy gal, my main 'me' time is driving.  Alone.  Sans children.  Doors locked.  Heating on.  I've solved the problems of the world and have had (seldom, but wonderful) work retailed brain waves while driving.  So productive is my drive time, that I think that my employers should send me off on a long drive at least once a week.   From Broadford in North West Kildare (trying to stay within the Kildare boundary and not hit any 'Welcome to Offaly' signs) and Castledermot in South Kildare.  Who knows what revelations I would come up with ?

The other thing I love about 'childless' driving is that I can listen to what I want on the radio.  Given my job and responsibility to promote music, I do have the odd listen in to Lyric FM.  I do enjoy classical music, but I prefer to watch a live performance.  (That's my story and I'm sticking to it).  Truth is, I'm a chart music kinda gal.  Always have been.  It is the stuff of my childhood.

On Thursday nights, I pushed the Lego over to one side of the sitting room floor to dance along to 'Top of the Pops'.  Sometimes you missed a bit of Lego and stood on a piece in your socks.  Ouch.  Keith Chegwin and Mike Read, with dodgy jumpers and even dodger mullet haircuts.  I remember the hype leading up to the release of Madonna's 'Like a Prayer' video.  Madonna kissing a black Jesus.  My lasting impression of it when I seen it is that I wished that I could carry off Madonna's blonde look and that Jesus was a fine thing.   

The release of Michael Jackson's thriller had similar hype.  Wow, what a video.  It scared the bejaysus out of me at the time.  All these years later, my little boy needs reassurance that the zombies 'aren't real'.  I try to reassure him, while also looking under my adult bed for monsters.

'Take Hart', the 1980's  BBC art programme for children was a weekly treat for me.  The programme featured a gallery of children's art.  I was always envious of the work and wishes that mine was included - despite the fact that I never sent anything in.  While the artwork was displayed, 'Cavatina', the classical guitar piece by Stanley Myers, played in the background.  It was only years later that I realised that the music was from a film, the theme tune from The Deer Hunter.  I have had to check myself when talking to classical music people not to describe the tune as 'Take Hart' music.  

I heard 'The Power of Love', by Frankie Goes to Hollywood recently.  It brought me back to New Year's Day in Niall and Ailbhe Carolan's sitting room in Kingscourt.  I was ten.  Their older brother's were talking about how brilliant the song was.  I didn't fully appreciate it's brilliance at the time, but remember thinking if older cousins said it, then it must be true. 

Similarly, I heard 'Frankie' a 1985 tune by Sister Sledge a few weeks ago.  I had a flashback to a chip shop in Kingscourt.  Just myself and my Dad.  The most delicious taste in the whole world.  My Dad had taken some last minute notion to watch some boxing matches in town.  Until then, I doubt I knew that either chips or boxing existed in Kingscourt.   'Frankie … do you remember me ...' on the radio.  Sweaty boys from the boxing.  I was out of my depth and felt a little scared.  

Between 1984 and 1987, MT-USA came on our screens.  It featured Vincent Hanley, moustached and wearing a heavy winter coat, walking about New York City, interviewing celebrities and introducing music videos.  Amazing stuff, like Dire Staits animated video for 'Money for Nothing'.  Other worldly stuff.   

Although I'm partial to a bit of Dolly Parton, I'm not a fan of Irish country and western music.  Occasionally though, I flick between radio stations in the car and find myself listening to songs I didn't mean to listen to, like Bridie Gallagher's 'A Mothers Love is A Blessing', with lyrics like 'For you'll never miss a mother's love 'til she's buried beneath the clay'.  Bridie, we don't need reminding !!  

On the other hand, Patsy Cline's ''Tra La La La Triangle' reminded me of my late aunt Olive, who died in her early thirties.  Way too young.  When I hear the tune, I can see her on a stage, at a family event, singing the song,  dressed in a blue dress, with matching tights.  Her long blonde hair.  She looked like a superstar to me.  

I'm not remotely religious, but a good choral version of the 'Our Father' gets me every time.  It brings me back to Sundays in Kingscourt church.  The cool air.  The tiled floor.  The scent of the carved timber.  The other worldly stained glass windows.   My Father singing.  I asked him why he didn't join the choir.  He should have.   Similarly, children singing 'Away in A Manger', or any Christmas carol for that matter.  Pass the tissues please … 

Studying Art and Design in Galway Institute of Technology brought lots of new musical experiences.  Scooby Doo on the TV.  TV turned upside down.  Pink Floyd on the stereo.  Watching the pitter patter of Scoobies paws.  Joyrider supporting Therapy? in The Point Depot on New Years Eve.  Skunk Anansie in Paris.  Enjoying being a groupie and feeling like you were somebody, but at the same time, thinking that everyone was far cooler than me.  

Moving swiftly forward.  Everyone needs a Break Up Song.  Mine was Nickelback's 2009 tune 'This Is How You Remind Me'.  The Summer That Love Broke Down.  When I left my flat in Dublin and moved back to my parents house with my tail firmly between my legs.  I commuted to my job in Newbridge, coming home to Irish Mammy Dinners to help with the healing.  That was Ryan Tubridy's heyday on 2FM, when he was fresh and new.  Song of the week, Nickelback giving it loads, while I cried in my car on the way to work.  

These days, my two seven year olds largely dictate the car airwaves.  Thankfully we have some similar likes.  We are partial to a little Ellie Goulding and love her new tune,  (aside from what anyone thinks of Fifty Shades of Grey and no, I didn't discuss that with the children !).  We drove to my parents in Meath last weekend and played John Legend's 'All of Me', blaring, on repeat.  Will the children look back on these days and remember their Mam belting out a tune, without a note in her head ?  Maybe give them a warm fuzzy feeling ? I hope so.