An Oscar winner, a Minister, a family funeral and a celebrity chef

I've had the most amazing week and I don't know where to begin.

My newly-wed buddy Siobhan, sans hubby, came on an unexpected overnight stay last Friday.  At one stage I thought that Siobhan would marry my boy, despite the 30 something year age gap. She was blonde and bought him sweets - My boy was smitten from the start. Alas, it was no meant to be. Leon soon got over her recent marriage, when Siobhan arrived on Friday with a kids magazine with free stuff sellotaped to the cover.   I enjoyed drinking wine with my buddy, to assist the post-wedding analysis.

On Saturday afternoon, my lovely Mammy and a clatter of day trippers from the 'Cormeen Ladies Club' landed in Newbridge Silverware. Myself and Mya stood at the doorway and greeted the gang as they arrived - one Meath accent stronger than the next. Hugs and kisses from women I hadn't seen in twenty years. I walked around the Style Museum with my Mam. It's a real treat for people with a thing for classic tailoring ... As the women left for their bus, some of them gave Mya money to buy sweets. It doesn't seem that long since the same women gave me money for sweets. I resisted holding my hand out and asking if I could have some too, in a squeaky voice.
                                                                                                                                                                           

                                                                                                                                                                   The women dispatched back to Meath, myself and Mya headed  on to Riverbank for the launch of the
Kildare Biennale exhibition. My college lecturer from NCAD, Gary Granville and Glen Hansard (Oscar award winning musician and actor, in case you didn't know) were guest speakers. Glen spoke about how, as a teenager, he met one of the participating artists, Philippa Bayliss, through a chance encounter with her son and ended up living in her house for a number of years. Many years later, after his acting role, he bought a painting from her that he always admired. He spoke of how Philippa had supported him to study music and how her free spirit inspired him.
His words were uplifting and he was generous with his time.

Just after the speeches, Mya wanted to go to the toilet, rather urgently, as seven year olds do. Public toilets are always a novelty for my little ones - all those foam soap dispensers and hand driers. Mya took forever ... well ... long enough for me to miss Glen Hansard singing a tune in the gallery next door ! Damn and blast and drat and words like that ...

As the launch finished, Mya noticed that Donal Skehan, the 'Kitchen Hero' TV chef was hosting a cookery event in the theatre.  She looked up at me with her big brown eyes 'can we go Mam, please ?'. 'Seriously?', sez I, secretly thinking 'that guy is an awful eejit' on the telly.  'Seriously'. Two hours later, I was a Kitchen Hero convert. Aged 28, this guy has carved out a niche for himself, is the author of a number of cookery books and had landed a role on Swedish TV (albeit with a superly dodgy accent). Fair flipping play to him. Mya was thrilled to meet Donal afterwards and loved telling him that she bakes scones and makes soup.

I tried to explain to her on the way home what a big deal it was to win an Oscar and how amazing it was for Glen Hansard, an Irish musician, to win an award out of all of the musicians in the world. She smiled at me and opened her signed Donal Skehan cookery book 'To Leon and Mya ...'

On Sunday morning, I got a text from my Mam. It was early, so I guessed that it was bad news. Martin Russell, my father's cousin had died unexpectedly.

As children, Martin and his sister came to live with my father's family when his mother died.  As a   result, Martin was a big part of my family.  I will most remember Martin for his quiet tap-tap on our back door on a Saturday night, his penchant for my Mother's apple tart, the line of silk Daffodil Day daffs on his car dash board. The beep on his Japanese import car, when he went over the speed limit, his 'no-distance-too-long' response to any request for a lift in his car. Milky Moos and Emerald sweets, wrapped in green foil (I always ate them when Martin gave me them, even though I didn't really like the coconut blend).  He was a big fan of ladies GAA and Ian Paisley. Martin was a grea man to visit the extended Russell family. As my brother Eoin said 'He brought news, but didn't carry stories'.

My mother reminded me the other day of a time when, as young children, myself and my brother Derek teased Martin about his short stature. In really bold, giddy humour, we persisted in calling Martin a dwarf. My poor mother was torn between telling us off and ignoring us - which ever mode would make us stop. All these years later, I feel guilty and hate the thought that I had caused Martin any distress, even if I was only 7. I wondered was he subjected to similar comments over the years and if so, how he felt about it.

The great, the good and the Russell's gathered for Martin's funeral on Tuesday last. I became 'John-Russell-of-Milltown's' daughter again. I met second cousins that I hadn't seen since childhood and some whom I had never met. I was struck by the strong family resemblances, with many second cousins who could pass for siblings. The distinctive Russell mouth (in every sense), the fine Daly nose that passed me by, voices that sounded similar. At one stage, I mistook my father's first cousin (John-Russell-of-Feagh)'s son for my brother. Coincidentally, both of the lads are mechanics.

I stood back in Kingscourt graveyard and watched on. I watched my parents, aunts and uncles, who have lost many from their inner circle in the last few years.  Their old routines broken. Now dusting themselves off, reinventing themselves and supporting each other. Martin won't knock on my parents back door anymore. My Mam won't fuss to make him tea again - 'I'm not making it for you Martin. I'm making it for myself. You'll have a cup ?'

Over the days of Martin's wake, I attended a meeting with Arts Officer colleagues and the newly appointed Minister for the Arts. At the Minister's request, we met in Ballyjamesduff. The only other time I had been in B'duff was 25 years ago. My father brought me to a meat factory where his cattle were being slaughtered. Although I didn't actually go in to the factory, it made such an impression on me, that I haven't eaten meat since.

Growing up on the right side of the Meath/Cavan border, I was brought up to consider Cavan as the poor relation, having little going on there, apart from having 365 lakes. All these years later, it appears that Cavan has come a long way. Or maybe it was grand all along and I just didn't know. The hotel where we stayed, the Farnham Estate was one of the nicest I've ever been to. The spa is amazing. I swam in the heated outdoor pool in the quiet darkness. As I looked out on the surrounding countryside, twinkling with lights, I felt like I was having an out of body experience - such was the range of events in the previous few days.

It's strange going back to work after a family funeral, where the world has continued on as if nothing had happened. I wanted to tell people about Martin and all the kindnesses he offered me over the years.  I've shed a wee tear when I drive - my time for thinking. I found myself selecting melancholic songs from CD's.

I was driving yesterday with my little girl. She asked me to put on 'the song ... You know ... The song ... The  one you played after Riverbank'. She meant 'Falling Slowly', the song written, composed and performed by Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová and for which it won the Academy Award for Best Original Song at the 80th Academy Awards.  I had played it for her in the car, when I was giving her a lecture. I didn't think she was listening to me. 'It's a good song Mam'. 'It is Mya', I said with tears rolling down my face.

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=938XY6DX02w

Five Star Treatment

Five Star Treatment

Who doesn't love free stuff ? How about winning a two night stay in Dromoland Castle, with dinner for two people ?  All for the price of a text message to Newstalk Radio (shameless plug).  It doesn't get much better than that now, does it ? Last weekend, we headed off, with the schmancy gift voucher under our oxters, children in the back seat. Dromoland kindly allowed the two children to come along for no extra charge for accommodation (more free stuff !).

It appears that I will never learn from the past and always pack at the last minute, with two over-excited children giving me the Just-a-Minute-Quiz round of questions. Mithered I was. I packed the opposite of a capsule wardrobe for myself. I wasn't exactly sure of the dress code in Dromoland, so I packed four pairs of trousers, three dresses, sparkly shoes and an even more sparkly waistcoat, and yet packed feck all tops to wear with them. And no toothbrush for me. (I confess, I used the kids brushes - don't sound so horrified. I grew the children in my tummy, a little exchange of saliva isn't going to do us any harm).

The road trip on Friday evening was wet and dark.  It was a classic 'are we there yet, are we there yet ... ?' trip. The only way to stop the questions, was to play some annoying songs on repeat. Like the one in this link ! http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jofNR_WkoCE

The stressful journey was soon forgotten as we drove up the meandering driveway. The children started to laugh with excitement as the lights of the sprawling castle appeared between the trees.  Dromoland do hospitality so well.  From the moment we arrived, we felt like the staff cared. They were willing us to enjoy our stay.

The bedroom, with two queen-sized didn't disappoint. The children almost needed a ladder to climb onto the beds.  There were two teddy bears on the beds, 'for us Mam ?, the little ones said in surprise. In the wardrobe, robes and - my favourite - slippers to take home !  Opening the wardrobe, the children said simultaneously, in true twinnie fashion, 'Look ! A microwave !' 'Eh, no darlings, it's a safe'.

Down to the bar for dinner. It was a busy spot. It was hard not to feel like an ethnic minority among the American visitors.

Back in the bedroom, staff had left chocolates for the grown ups and jellies for the children. They really felt like all their Christmas's had come at once.  Too disorganised to have thought about booking a babysitter, I was happy enough to have an early night, watching TV in my plush surroundings.  But the children were so excited, there was no chance of sleep. Jumping between the two beds, wrestling on the floor and generally making sure that I didn't see anything on TV.  They eventually dosed off at 11pm. Surely that means a lie in the following morning ? Surely ?

Ha ! 6.45 am call. 'Mam, can we go to the swimming pool now ?' 'Pretty please ?' Why is it always me that gets the 6.45 am call ?  The pool in Dromoland doesn't allow children until after 10am, which is fine ... Except for Leon, the boy with no patience. He could barely eat his rather magnificent pancakes in case the clock struck 10 and we hadn't noticed (even though the pancakes were served with Nutella).  The breakfast was pretty impressive, with lots of options for us vegetarians and healthy foodies.

The other grown up brought the children to the swimming pool while I had a long bath and read the complimentary copy of Social and Personal.  Okay, I didn't actually READ it, I just looked at the beautiful people at the lovely events. Of course I didn't bring hair conditioner with me - an essential if you have two gals with manes like myself and Mya, especially when the chlorine in the swimming pool dries it out. The hotel bathroom had proper conditioner. I was beside myself.  (Did I mention that I don't get out much ?).

The pool is a little walk away from the hotel reception, but there is the option of getting a golf buggy ride there. It is no surprise that Leon and Mya opted for the jaunt. Could life get any better ?

We have elderly family friends who eat their dinner in Durty Nellies, a pub beside Bunratty Castle every day.  We took a chance that we would find them there and voila, there they were.  I joked that they would be easy to assassinate as they were such creatures of habit. An American man, who had been sitting at an adjoining table, leaned over to me as he left and told me that the look on our friends faces when we landed in had made his day.

I abandoned ideas of attending anything remotely cultural in City if Culture or visiting friends and went to TK Maxx. In my defence, I was looking for a particular birthday present (that was so nice that I wanted to keep it for myself). After a painful trawl of the toy aisles for pocket money toys, I managed to pick up a TOTAL BARGAIN tailored top for myself (and totally justified, given my sparse top packing).

Back to Dromoland for dinner. The top I bought in TK Maxx had a small rip (hence the bargain price, I guess). Of course, the bedroom had a sewing kit, so I was soon zipping myself into the new purchase. Leon was a little anxious about dinner as the dining room looked quite formal, but the staff were so nice to little people that he soon forgot about that. Meals arriving under silver cloches had their eyes on sticks. The brown bread ice-cream was a highlight for myself and Mya.  I'd like a bowl of it now actually ... The castle presented huge adventuring opportunities for the children, such as a mini golf putting area and an outdoor chess set.

I made it to the leisure centre on Sunday morning. The jacuzzi was to die for and I was sorry that I hadn't given it a go on Saturday to ease my persistence back pain.  Of course, with lil uns, most of the time there was spend with the water babies. 'Look at me Mam, look at me !'

Dromoland is a great place for just lounging around, on huge sofas you could get lost in and nooks and crannies to hide in. My sister in law joined us on Sunday and we did just that. The grounds are fabulous and thankfully the weather was mild enough for a long stroll. The go carts on the tennis courts had all the little visitors very excited.

My overall impression of Dromoland was very positive. The 15% service charge which was added onto all bills seemed very steep though and put you off tipping staff personally, which I would prefer to do. Having said that though, the service was super. The staff made the children feel very important and all of their little requests were accommodated.  I came away feeling refreshed and relaxed - two words that I don't associate with me.

We stopped on the way home for something to eat in the Barack Obama Plaza. After being in the Dromoland, feel the love experience, it as surreal an experience as the name of the place suggests. Queues of people, all on the way to somewhere else,waiting for fast food in a huge, bright, shiny space. Our order took forever as the staff couldn't find me. Eh, I'm the one in the huge fluffy blue cardigan ... I'm so glad that I made an impression ...

Back to reality with a bang.

Thanks Dromoland for a fabulous weekend. It really is the little things that count ....

Mid Term Break

I'm still working on the mastery of preparing for Mid Term Break. I'll probably have it sussed just in time for the children's college graduation.  This years Hallowe'en break took me on the hop, with the Bank Holiday falling the week before Hallowe'en.  The Public Service got super value out of my pay packet in the weeks running up to the hols, with a work rate equivalent to a Duracell bunny.

As a previous blog post suggests, Dress Up Day, the day that school breaks up for the holidays, brings it's own stresses. My boy wanted to dress up as an 'army man'. A trip to the Army Supply Shop in the Curragh Camp and I was sorted. The look on his face when I produced a 'real' army jacket was priceless.

My girl wanted to dress as a 'zombie mummy'. I rubbed my hands with glee. A chance for me to get creative, or so I thought. On Dress Up morning, there was a hissy fit (hers and mine) over bandage application. Apparently I did it wrong. In the end, she went off looking like a 1980's George Michael. The only scary part of her ensemble was the look of thunder on her face.

Getting back to productive Public Servants, the Arts Service team have been SO busy all year that we managed to have our 2013 Christmas do as the Bank Holiday approached.  It was worth the wait and was a great excuse to have a grown up night out in the Big Smoke.  We even managed not to talk about work ... Most of the time ... More importantly though, 'what was said on tour stayed on tour'.

A big Bank Holiday happening for me was the wedding of my journo friend Siobhan to Mr Mc in Rathsallagh House Hotel. A quirky country house, dripping with paintings, it's the sort of place that makes you feel like you have had a hug. I was so thrilled for the funky bride, who did it her way.  Having said that, I haven't quite forgiven her for ditching Athy for Cork a few years ago, with Mr Mc hot on her heels. I used to love to see her lil blue sports car pulling up outside.

I took a mad notion that I wanted to upgrade my car a week ago. It's a lovely leather interior seven seater, with two major flaws.
1. e1,200 car tax a year and
2. Impossible to find car parts, as it is an unusual model in Ireland.
With an expensive NTC looming, I fell out of love with my heated seats and built in DVD player and thought that I like the sound of 'saloon'.

I took a chance and phoned the Credit Union to see if they would consider topping up my current loan. I half expected to hear hysterical laughter on the phone, but no, the Fruit (wo)Man from Del Monte (Kingscourt) said yes.  I adopted an American twang as I said to myself, 'well I'll be darned'.

When second hand car shopping, I would highly recommend commandeering a mechanic. In my case, my brother Robert. I was sent in first, the innocent abroad, pretending that I knew what I was talking about, before the bro rubber stamped the purchase. I'm rather pleased with my Ford Mondeo. I even manage to get an MH reg plate. Result.  I'm just not too sure where I'll put my dog, who is the the size of a small horse. I guess I can always buy a trailer, with the savings on the car tax.

All the car dealings took place in Meath/Cavan, so I got to hang out in my parents house for a few days.  At this stage, I should be pampering my Mam, but she is the one who brings me tea and homemade bread in bed,  encouraging me to lie on, while the children raid her fridge.  Still, I did plant 140 Spring bulbs in the garden for her, with a little help from the children. Something to look forward to next year.

I've long since stopped beating myself up about not visiting friends and the many, many relations when I am home.  I do my best, but sometimes I just need to hang out with me Ma.

Of course a major highlight was Hallowe'en. The children were invited to a party on Thursday, to line their stomachs with sugar for the following day. They were beside themselves with excitement ( or was that an E number rush ?)

October 31st is my children's birthday. My sweet, darling children turned a big seven this year.  I must say, I felt emotional about their birthday, so proud of all of their little achievements, but mostly just for being themselves. I something feel physical pain in my chest when I think about how much I love them.

I only felt a little bit guilty for fecking off to the Guthrie Gufa Film seminar in Cavan on the day of their birthday. In fairness, myself and the squids had spent more time together in the past week than we had in months. The conference was great and we got fed really well by Richard Corrigan, in his new hotel the Virginia Park Lodge.  I'd love to go back there again - another place where you felt like someone had given you a hug. (FYI, there was no hugging on the day - it wasn't that kind of conference).

All that and still I was home in time for Trick or Treating. Sensibly, I drank wine in a friends house, while other grown ups chaperoned the children and their friends around the houses. This year, they were thrilled to be joined by their big sister Zara and niece Sienna, all the way from Sligo.  It was very cute listening to Mya talking to Sienna about 'my big sister'. Sienna was a little put out. She told Mya that 'my Mum is only a LITTLE BIT your sister because she has a different Mum than you'.  Don't you just love kids ?

The following day, Leon and Mya and a clatter of their friends celebrated their birthday by going to a play for children in Riverbank Arts Centre.  The afternoon went great and the lil uns seemed to enjoy the play and good afterwards.  But trying to be the hostess with the mostest is tricky - trying to strike a balance between entertainment, supervising the children, while chatting to the parents (more tea anyone ?).  Worrying about paid parking, an Irish Water protest march, late arrivals, I didn't really relax until the last child went home. Phew ! That's it for another year.

Opening the presents was great fun. The children's eyes were on sticks. There was late night and early morning Lego making /arts and crafts making ... They both wanted me to help them simultaneously ... Neither having any patience.  Easier said than done, let me tell you.

By Sunday evening, the pair of them were so full of sweets and left over birthday brownies, that they practically begged me for cheese on toast and hummus and carrot sticks. It was a super Mid Term break, but we were all glad that it was almost over.

I couldn't write about Mid Term Break without mentioning the poem by Seamus Heaney. It's one of my favourites. Have a little listen to this, read by the man himself
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=uF0U0pVK0bk

Mind Yer Head

Being Well/ Well Being

There is a lot in the media lately about mental health. Last week was World Mental Health Day. It is timely then, that this weekend, as part of the Kildare Readers Festival, there will be a panel discussion about representations of mental health in film and literature. The panel consists of Prof Jim Lucey, medical director of St Patrick's Mental Health Services, author Carol Colley, actor Mary Mc Evoy and film maker Cathal Black.
http://kildare.ie/Library/ReadersFestival/Schedule/Schedule-SaturdayOctober18th/

At the same time, a cracking Irish feature film 'Patrick's Day' is doing the rounds of the American film festivals, having won Best Feature during the Galway Film Fleadh this summer.   According to IMDB, Patrick's Day looks at 'When a young man with mental health issues becomes intimate with a suicidal flight attendant, his obsessive mother enlists a dysfunctional cop to separate them'.

I seen the film recently, at an IFTA screening in Dublin. I thought of my own two seven year old children. I wondered how and when I will let them go as adults ?  I guess that they will decide this for themselves. It's the natural order of things.  But a child with mental health issues may not have this choice of when to move on and spread their wings.

At a Q & A session after the screening of Patrick's Day, the Writer/Director Terry Mc Mahon and Producer Tim Palmer spoke about the dilemma of getting distribution for the film, because of its 'difficult' content.  Yet Dr. Ivor Browne, Prof Emeritus of psychiatry at UCD and former Chief Psychiatrist of the Eastern Healthboard spoke passionately about the importance of this film. He said that people needed to see it. I agree.

The film shows treatments including electric shock treatment being administered.  Think One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Except it isn't a 1975 film. It's modern day Ireland.  It's Dublin and Kildare and probably other places too.

It explored (a lack of) intimacy, sexuality, choice and how that could impact on the wellbeing of a person, who is already considered 'unwell'. It made you rethink your own thoughts about mental health stuff. You judged the over protective mother, but you wondered what you would do in her shoes.  Hopefully the film will be on general release in Ireland very soon.  Moe Dunford's acting is superb. You need to go and see it.

I met some 'new' people with MS recently.  When us MSers get together, we often compare symptoms, medication, therapies and tips (before launching into gossip/craic/nonMS stuff, incase you think we are all boring gits). I was quite surprised with what I had heard from two women, around my age, who were recently diagnosed. They were both taking the same inter muscular drug as I take. They were also both taking anti-depressants, that seemed to be prescribed at the same time as the other drug, to counteract possible side effects like depression. I was surprised that 1. Medical Professionals had prescribed the anti-depressants so readily and 2. That the women hadn't tried other methods to protect their mental health before opting for anti depressants, which could become a life long habit, alongside the other meds.

It would be remiss of medical professionals to not talk about depression when someone is diagnosed with MS, as many people with MS have depression.  Some treatments can also cause, or exacerbate feelings of depression (a double whammy, huh ?).  In my own case, I don't think I have depression proper.  If I did, would I be brave enough to name it here ? If I did, would you look at me differently ?  What I do get though, is what I can best describe as feelings of 'being overwhelmed'.  It can come across me anytime, but usually if I have fatigue.  If I look back, I've probably had such feelings for most of adult life.  It was a relief when, after my diagnosis, that I could align these feelings to MS. With this new found self awareness, I could really tune in to how I was feeling.  These feelings have also become more frequent since I started taking the big-boy-drugs. I can almost visualise these feelings coming over me like a dark cloud.  By tuning into it though, I can also acknowledge that the dark cloud will pass. This may sound like a simple thing, but it really has helped me.  It seems to me that taking anti-depressants to counteract these feelings, could lead me on a 'there was an old lady who swallowed a fly' spiral, where I just keep taking drugs to counteract the other drugs and it could go on and on.  I don't think that my liver would thank me for it either.

Getting back to the medical professionals - I wonder how many of them prescribe exercise, or taking up a hobby to combat depression ? My own experience has been one where exercise in particular, was encouraged by my neurologist, GP and MS support team, key to living with MS.  I cannot emphasis the importance of my daily trot with my doggy (even if I banjaxed my knee running during the summer). I find gardening and writing (this blog) very beneficial too.

Through Kildare County Council's Arts and Wellbeing programme, we have established a Creative Well programme. This programme promotes well being and quality arts experiences to support mental health. Given our resources, the programmes can only be offered to small numbers of individuals.  The finely tuned programme is currently being delivered by visual artists Dominic Thorpe and Emma Finucane.  The HSE locally have been very supportive of this work and the benefits to individuals are starting to be recognised by the medical profession. http://www.kildare.ie/ArtsService/PressReleases/TheCreativeWell-Naas.html

Meanwhile, Kildare's library service have established a 'Shelf Help' service, also with the HSE and other partners.  The idea is that your GP, or other medical professional, can refer you to a series of books, available to borrow free of charge on a whole range of topics including bereavement, post natal depression and suicide. http://kildare.ie/Library/SpecialProjects/ShelfHelp/

I'm not that naive to think that serious mental health difficulties can always be treated by such initiatives.  It's fantastic though, that in Kildare alone, the medical profession are taking note of alternatives to, or as complimentary to, standard prescriptions for pills.  It's baby steps, but in the right direction.

Come along on Saturday afternoon to Riverbank Arts Centre to the discussion about mental health depictions in literature and film. It will be an open and frank discussion. It's good to talk.

@BlogAwardsIE

Myself and the lovely Aoife Kirwan represented the 9 strong 'MS and Me' bloggers team at the Bloggers Awards Ireland last weekend.  Only in the first year of our blog, we were nominated for Best Group Blog and Best Overall Blog.

In the run up to the awards, I didn't have much time to think about it all.  But on the morning of the awards, I found myself getting a little teary. Okay, a lot teary. I felt honoured to be representing the team with Aoife.  I reflected on the strange journey that I have been on health wise in the last few years, that somehow led me to start blogging, for my own blog and for the MS Society. In my small way, I hope that my writings help someone and that I am giving something back to the MS Society that has been good to me. In return, I get a real buzz out of writing and love to read the words of others, that I can relate to and make me feel a little less crazy.

Roll on 6pm. I still hadn't decided what to wear, but decided that I wasn't doing the 80's themed dress. The odd time I go out, I want to wear a proper guna. Legging it out the door a half hour later, I wondered if my fake tan would appear any time soon and cursed myself for not letting my nail varnish dry.  I landed in the Westgrove Hotel, in Clane and I felt like I had arrived. The party was in full swing, with lots of 80's gear, but thankfully lots of people in regular guna deas's. Aoife hadn't yet arrived, so I stood on my own for a while, a little self conscious. Before long, I was chatting away to fellow bloggers, comparing notes and plugging our blogs. A diverse bunch of people, but all equally committed to writing about stuff and posting it on the WWW.

A funny thing happened then. I've always been pretty open about my MS and have written and spoken publically about it. I'm very proud to be part of the blogging team.  But that night, when I said that I wrote for 'MS and Me', I was revealing something that I'd rather not, to people that I had just met. You can see by the way that people react to you that they aren't sure what to think, perhaps thinking that 'she doesn't look sick'. That night, I just wanted to be a girl in a dress at an awards night who writes stuff. Of course, I gave my personal blog a plug wherever I could   (http://poppycottagediaries.blogspot.ie ) if you are interested).  My personal blog was also nominated in the Awards long list, which I was chuffed about.

Once we were settled at our table, I got over that feeling. We shared with the guys from http://www.isitabicycle.com and the rather fobulus gal from http://hautesofabulous.blogspot.ie . The organisers had gone to a lot of effort to dress the tables 80's esque and with really decent goodie bags (dontcha just love free bits and bobs !!).  There was something like 170 finalists, between all of the categories.

Our host Bunny, was a drag queen with a very enviable waistline and a spectacular 'do (which I wouldn't like to see near a naked flame).  A Nordie Presbyterian, he wasn't letting us blogging Southern Catholic types away with much. The craic was great. If I had one complaint, it would be that I was starving all night, waiting on the food, which was served between award presentations.  It was largely my own fault for not eating earlier, while battling with the wardrobe/nail-varnish/children/dog. Still, the Glenisk yoghurt dessert cocktail thingies were worth the wait and I horsed into them.

Throughout the night, we were encouraged to tweet and use social media. It was the type of thing that I usually tut at - people glued to their phone during a meal. But here, I was part of a bigger thing, kindred spirits committed to sharing their stuff, whatever it was on t'internet.

The MS and Me blog didn't win any awards on the night, but it really didn't matter. A cliche I know, but it really felt like we were winners already. Hopefully the nomination will raise awareness of this wonderful resource for people with MS and their families.  For me personally, the awards made me realise how big this blogging thing is.  It was an affirmation that 'yes, you can' - provided that you have access to basic technology and the confidence to press 'submit'.  I feel more comfortable about this new world that I have entered, quite by accident.  Me, just a girl in a dress, who writes stuff.

SUGAR BABY

I've been accumulating a nice bit of the baggage throughout my life.  Part of this baggage includes a fear about sugar.  Yes, the white, granular stuff.  The divil's fare on earth. Two key happenings spring to mind.
                                                      
1.  Loosing way too many adult teeth at the hands of a pliers-happy dentist, before I even left primary school.  Generous Me thinks that it was a different time and that the dentists' rationale was 'pull 'em out now, save hassle later'.  Cynical Me wonders how much more the dentist got paid for an extraction than a filling ?   I don't remember radio features about the dangers of sugars then, like you hear about the evils of fructose in fruit juice now.  I was very partial to a sugar and butter sarnie when I was a kid.  It was best served at an impromptu picnic with a clatter of other children, on squidgy, fresh, white sliced pan.                                                             Nutritional value : Zero. Childhood  satisfaction : High                                                                                          
2. A few very unhappy years in late teens/early twenties when I was overweight.  I was lonely and felt like a fish out of water when I started college in Galway and I comfort ate.  Although I'm more of a savoury kinda gal, I ate sweet things that I didn't even like. It made me even more miserable.  My circle of girlfriends were skinny Minnie's.  I hid in shapeless, baggy clothes while others had discovered their figures and labels.  Older women commenting that I was a 'grand sturdy girl'.'Hefty'.
                                                       
As a result of these two experiences, I am concerned (obsessed ?) with my children's intake of sugar. Once their baby teeth appeared, night time drinks of milk were a no-no.  I could imagine the lactose, working away while they slept, rotting their brand new pearly whites.  More recently, I have been known to get resistant six year olds into a headlock just to give their molars a good scrub.

A recent TV advertisement for a well known chocolate spread shows a child eating a bowl of porridge, with a dollop of chocolate spread, sprinkled with strawberries, giving the illusion of healthiness.   A wholesome, smiling mother looks on in approval.  It drives me crazy.  What are you doing to children if we are normalising eating this way ?

I get a nervous twitch when shop assistants hand the children a lollipop, before smiling at me, saying 'you don't mind, do you ?'.  Occasionally if I was very brave, I would smile back and say that Now that you mention it - I'd prefer if you didn't, ta very much', before apologetically backing out of the shop.  I often produce food wrappers and lecture the children on the hidden sugar content of food. '33% sugar and you want honey on it ?!'.  Their eyes roll, yawns stifled and they sigh, as if to say 'she's off again !'.  The males in my house would a fierce sweet tooth.  They would devour a packet of biscuits in one sitting, and would give the Cookie Monster a run for his money.  So I think it's best to not have them in the house in the first place.  So, if you want to visit me unannounced 'tis best to BYO biscuits.    

Having said all of this, I really enjoy baking with the children.  The only problem with this is that once you bake it, you have to eat it.  I know I could freeze my baking, but then it would get lost in a sea of ice deposits.  And at the back of my mind, my Hefty Girl years are there, taunting me.

To my shame, most autumn times, I let a garden full of apples rot in the ground. I justify myself, knowing that the birds will eat some of them (and perhaps other fellas with four legs and long tails will too - eek !).  I was gathering some apples for our hens a few weeks ago and Mya, my little girl asked if we could use some apples to make an 'apple tart like we buy in the shops ?'  So much for my Farm to Fork ideals - my child thinking that apple tarts grow in shops ... Had it been that long since I made some ?

We started making pastry immediately.  'Wow Mam, that's a LOT of margarine !'.  Assembling the apple tart, the children had the job of arranging the apples and sprinkling the sugar. 'Wooooh Mam, that's a LOT of sugar', they both laughed. 'See, I TOLD you guys.  I'm not making this stuff up !', I said, feeling vindicated for my many ... many ... sugar lectures.


I was on a bit of a roll with the home baking malarkey and so we made jam, from the glut of blackberries in our garden.  Jam making with two seven year olds is not for the faint hearted.  All of that measuring, stirring, pouring.  I was terrified that the children would get a burn from hot jam, but yet I didn't want to stop their fun.  It was so satisfying to produce something lovely from a hours foraging in the ditches, even if it was a little runny.  It also was a real eye opener to the children that there was so much sugar, a full bag of the stuff, melted and hidden away.

Like most things in parenthood, my standards slip regularly and quite spectacularly.  Sometimes the children's teeth don't get brushed - usually on a night where they were at a party drinking fizzy drinks - the ultimate of all evils.

I often bring my children to work related events. They know it's open season for goodies, so that I can go about my business.  'You owe us, Mam', they seem to say as they smile over at me, while stuffing their faces.  I'm putty in their hands.

And then there is the Final Frontier.  Grand parents houses.  Places that have yoghurts with chocolate balls and buns with icing.  Exasperated, I recently said to my mother-in-law, 'May, you wouldn't have given your children a Cornetto for breakfast'. 'Oh, I would have ... if I could have afforded it at the time ...', she said almost with regret.  She smiled at me and said 'You don't mind, do you ?' as the children horsed into a 10am ice cream ...

Breast is Best

Breasts, boobs, chest, bosom, diddies, baps, puppies. And only if you must ...Tits.  There you go.  I've said it all. In this post, I am going to be writing about breasts.  Mine and other peoples.  Are you still there ? Good.                                                                                                                                          

 It's National Breastfeeding Week.  Too much time has passed for me to whip a boob out and feed my children to mark the occasion, so I thought that I would write about it instead.  Ireland has one of the lowest rates of breastfeeding in Europe.  Of course there are many reasons why women can't or don't breast feed.  And of course it is a woman's right to bottle feed.  But I believe that the breast feeding rates are largely down to women's lack of confidence.   Well educated and articulate women have told me that they would have felt too embarrassed to ever consider breast feeding.

I breast fed my lovely twinnies for 8 months, until I returned to work.  How did I feed two babies ?  It was simple really when you think about it.  Two boobs. Two babies. A lot of patience.  I ate a hell of a lot of bananas.  Strategically placed scarves to save my modesty.  With the manoeuvring required to get the babies in position, I had arm muscles like never before.  It was a special time for my babies and I.  Our time.  I found it comforting.  There were no bottles to sterilise.  No winding of babies.  It was good for my mental health and great for getting back in shape too !

'Breasts' isn't a word that we are too comfortable with in Ireland.  Until I decided to breastfeed my children seven years ago, the only time I would have uttered the word 'breast' would have been in relation to 'breast cancer', whispered in hushed tones and only then because there was no substitute word for such a serious illness.  I don't think that I'm not alone in this awkwardness.

As a nation, we aren't good at talking about women's bodies generally, especially the parts that can be associated with sexual activity.   I think that much of this is rooted in tradition.  We all know of our shameful history in the treatment of unmarried mothers, not that long ago.  Even married women weren't saved from the shame of 'doing the bold thing'.  'Churching' refers to a religious blessing that women were given following recovery from childbirth.  It is thought to have derived from the Jewish purification practice, where the sin of childbirth was washed away.  People considered the purification as important as it allowed the 'unclean' woman to reenter the church in a state of grace.  It was dropped by the Catholic Church after the second Vatican Council of 1967-65.  It doesn't seem that there was any similar ceremony for men who carried out the dirty deed.

Formula milk was introduced in Ireland in the mid to late 1950's.  A pricey commodity, it soon became associated with wealth.  Breast feeding was considered as an activity for the poor.  Breast feeding was ditched, in a similar way that ceramic bathtubs were ripped out in favour of avocado green plastic.  One of my friends breastfed her daughter about 25 years ago, much to her Mother-in Law's disgust.   A woman with notions like Mrs Bucket/Bouquet in the comedy series 'Keeping Up Appearances', she would announce 'here comes the cow' when my friend called to visit, infant in arms. She actually went as far as going out to buy formula milk and bottles when my friend nipped out for a walk.  I kid you not.  The wagon.

Us women aren't really nice to each other, are we ?  Thankfully my breast feeding experiences were generally very positive.  The only negative comments  I got about breast feeding were from other women.  Women around my age.  Unsolicited comments. 'How will you cope ?', with a concerned face, as if I had a terminal illness rather than two healthy babies who I chose to feed myself.  'At least with the bottle you know how much they are getting'.  I bit my lip, looking at my children thriving before my eyes.  I found such comments hurtful.  But I never retaliated with the long list of the benefits of breast feeding.  I don't think they wanted to hear anyway.

Men on the other hand, tended to be very supportive, saying things like 'good girl yourself'.  My Dad told his GP proudly, 'all that I know is that there isn't a bottle to be seen'.    Statistics show that women who receive family support when breast feeding  have greater success.  My wide family circle were encouraging and of course thrilled with the arrivals of my twins.  It was a pat on the back that I needed.  I also had a super public health nurse who was full of practical advise.

Other statistics show that women who see others breast feeding are more likely to do so themselves.  I was very pleased that my step daughter Zara, aged in her early twenties, also breast fed her daughter. She told me that she wouldn't have considered it, had she not seen me breast feeding. I'd like to think that, in turn, she was a role model for other young mothers.
                                                                                               
Growing up on a dairy farm, I was surrounded by mammals producing milk and all that comes with it - mastitis, calves finding it hard to feed, what happened when a cow died during the birth and the rush to find beestings (colostrum) to feed the calf.  You realised the importance of a mother's milk.  How the beestings could be life or death to a young calf.  It was natures way.      

One of my earliest memories of boobs for anything other that feeding your young, was seeing pictures of Toni, 'the exotic dancer' in the Sunday World.  She was a household name along with Fr Michael Cleary and Gerry Ryan.  You would see her there in all her glory as you ate the roast spuds and mushy peas.

Toni was a housewife from Tallaght, with HUGE boobs. Apparently she had a regular slot in The Lower Deck in a pub in Portobello.  (Queue : inappropriate jokes about the top deck. Ha ha). As far as I remember, she wore a gauze top, so she wasn't actually topless, but you could still see all that Toni had to offer.  At the time, I didn't think that there was anything wrong with Toni strutting her stuff.  Maybe it was because she looked like a mammy and her chest looked like the kind of place where you would go for a snuggle if you cut your knee after falling off your bike.  I was way too innocent to think that grown men might also have had thoughts about snuggling their bald head in Toni's chest.

Compared to the Jordan's and other surgically enhanced models of today, Toni looked pretty wholesome.  It's worrying that young girls are surrounded by so many images of plastic people, only to eager to stick their booty in our faces.  It's all the more reason for us wimmin to embrace breast feeding.  Encourage young mums.  Tell them that every single feed makes a difference to them and their baby.  If  breast feeding isn't your thing, hold your tongue in front of a breast feeding mother. She might be having a bad hair day.  Talk to your daughter about breast feeding as a natural, lovely thing to do.

Reclaim the space that only us women can.