Up To My Oxters In It

*Disclaimer

I utterly adore my two fabulous children.  Even their smallest achievements give me an ache in my heart.  I love them to the moon and back and tell them that frequently.  I think that being eight years of age is magical and I wish that I could keep them at this age forever, or for a couple more years anyway.  I am thankful and grateful that I can bring them up in a country where they feel safe, are well fed, warm and happy.

… HOWEVER ! … I’m struggling to be a parent, a Mammy, a good Irish non-grumpy arse Mammy, right now.  Big time. 

I don’t write to get sympathy, assurance, or advice.  I’m just getting it off my chest.  It’s just between ourselves, okay ?  I wouldn't want people thinking I was a big parent failure.

It would be foolish to think that young children could get through the separation of their parents seamlessly.  In fact, it would be odd if they didn’t react to their little worlds being turned on their heads.  It’s an experience that I wish my children didn’t have, but it has been part of their reality for the last year or so.  Yes, it happens to lots of other people.  But it’s okay when it’s OTHER.  But, MY door step ?  Yikes.  Slightly morto for myself.  How exactly did this happen ?

Listening to a child howling and in distress at night, knowing that you are at least partly responsible for this, is heart breaking.  Listening to it for two or three hours is utterly exhausting and soul destroying.  I wonder how the little person isn’t worn out the following morning, because I am, but thankfully, there seems to be little memory of the previous night’s drama on their part.  Some weeks, it was 5 nights out of 7, but it is more of a rarity now.  Having said that, I usually have a child in my bed at night now.  Ah, yes.  Rules.  Out the window.  

Out of necessity, I bring the children along on housekeeping chores and also to a lot of functions, some being more fun than others.  To make up for this, I’ve spoiled them more than usual.  In some ways, this has back fired on me.  Firstly, it’s costing me a small fortune.  And secondly, instead of their usual appreciation and thanks, I sometimes get lists of the things I didn’t do.  Maybe they have sensed a new vulnerability in me ?  I tell myself that they are tired, I’m tired, but I find it hard not to feel hurt, like they are picking on me in the playground and I have no one to run to.    

Sadly, Poppy Cottage just doesn’t seem to be ‘home’ right now and I don’t know if it will again.  When the days are longer, I’ll claim my manky house and reclaim the garden.  Maybe I’ll feel different about it then and I can get the solace I need.  For now, I’m staying away as much as I can, on the road with the two and with the mutts on tow.

Over the last few years, I’ve explained to the children that my ‘personal space’ extends the width of outstretched arms holding a broadsheet newspaper.  I’ve drawn an invisible box in the air around me to illustrate.  The children understand this concept, but in the last year, as you would be expecting them to grow more independent of me, it seems that they are never out of that space, as if huddling in from the cold.  If I had tied them both by apron strings to my hips, they couldn’t be closer.  One of the children tends to walk right in front of me, both around the house and when we are out and about, walking so close to me that I often trip over said child.  My daily morning saunter out to the bins at the back of the house requires a detailed description of where I am going and what I am doing, although it’s pretty obvious where I am off to, with a bag of rubbish in my hand.  When we are in friend’s houses, they sit on me, or stand so close to me that I can barely get a cup of tea to my mouth. 

I guess that physical closeness and reassurance that I am there is what they need right now, but, boy, is it hard work.   (It can also make drinking tea a very slow process.)

A friend presented a theory to me, about my personal space and how she felt that I had set myself up for failure from the outset – She reasoned that my children don’t appreciate the scale of a broadsheet newspaper and therefore, are more inclined towards smart phones, thus immediately presenting a reduced scale of my personal space.  It sounds like I am doomed.  I should have used a shopping centre as an analogy instead.  Darn it.

My usual routine with the children is strained.  Gentle requests become demands, which become pleas and then, sometimes, I just give up.  The eight year olds win.

‘Go to bed. Now. PLEASE.  GO to bed. Now. Please.  Go TO bed.  NOW.  Please.  GO TO BED now. Please.  PLEASE. 

Please

just

go’.

It’s 10.41pm and one child is still awake.  I sit now, as I often do, with the TV on silent waiting on them to finally drop off.  What I would give for a sleep wand. 

I’ve read a lot about guiding children through a separation, but nothing could have prepared me for living through this.  It’s pure and utter shite.  My dear, sweet, beautiful children deserve better that what they have at the minute.  It is improving though.  The many great days, outweigh the testing moments.  We have many little adventures and so much fun.  Laugh out loud stuff.  I can only hope that this will be what they remember.

I have dear, sweet friends, family and work colleagues who are guiding me through this, even if they can only hold me up by the oxters as I crawl through the porridge, wearing my red lipstick.    

When Your Puppy Fat Comes Back to Haunt You

Having been fairly average is weight for all of my childhood and teens, I piled on the pounds, two whole stones of it in fact, in my early twenties.  My excuse ?  I found it hard to settle into art college in Galway, I was lonely and my class mates seemed more talented, confident and fabulous than me.  My new found circle of friends that I met through my Nordie boyfriend were feisty and cool, many of them musicians.  The girlfriends were working full time and could afford to buy designers clothes, while I hid in my leggings.

Others may have been inclined to hit the bottle, I opened the Mr Kipling.  Funny thing was, I’ve never had a particularly sweet tooth and often ate things I didn’t even like and often felt disgusted with myself.

Sadly, myself and the Nordie boyfriend parted company a few years later.  Instead of hitting the cake, I tread the tarmacadam and walked it out of my system.  The pounds feel off and I felt better about myself (leaving the broken heart stuff aside) than I had in years.  Others may be happy carrying some extra weight, but I was never comfortable in that larger, looser skin.  I vowed that I would never be that ‘big girl’ again.

Since then, I have carried that anxiety around excess weight with me.  Although I have held onto few of my pre-motherhood ideals around what I will/will not allow my children to eat, I am very conscience of my children’s weight and diet.  My primary concern is, of course, their good health and instilling good behaviour for later life.  However, I know that I have a big hang-up about how being overweight could make their lives less pleasant – a transfer of my baggage, I guess.

Overall, the Poppy Cottage family haven't shaped up too bad weight wise.  But late last year, Hudson, my gorgeous Labrador/collie had the snip and it all started to go horribly wrong.  Instead of noticing his beautiful face, people commented on the size of his backside.  I instantly went into defence mode, explaining how that, without his hormonal drive, that he had less need for calories.  I blamed the kids for feeding him their left overs, while I looked in the other direction ‘Look Mam, all gone !’ 

I found it hard not to take the comments about Hudson’s girth personally, as personally as when Mrs Smith told me all those years ago in the clothes shop where I worked, that I was a ‘fine lump of a girl’ in front of other customers.  I buried my head in a rail of clothes, trying not to cry.  She was no skinny malink herself, Mrs Smith.  She was the kind of woman that asked childless women when they would ‘be starting a family’ and call people with intellectual disabilities ‘patients.’  I should probably get over what she said to me at this stage.  It’s been twenty odd years now.   She meant no harm.  And she is dead after all.  

I, and our friendly vet, have talked to the children about the consequences of feeding tit-bits to the dog and they have been very good about it.  They have seen for themselves, their ever increasing doggy in our little house.

Like all good diets, we have had a few blips.  If I’m busy, as I was last autumn, or the children aren’t in form for walking the dog, I’m stuck for exercising him.  The weather of late has been far from inspiring for any of us to get out and about.  The mucky paw prints all over the house would reduce any gal to tears.

... And then there was the ‘After Eights Incident’ ...   Just before Christmas, I did some shopping for boxes of sweets, the last-minute, failsafe gifts.  I dumped the shopping bags in the house, before heading out again with the children to see the Coca-Cola truck in Monasterevin.  It was bitterly cold so I left the dog indoors.  There was a huge queue of people at the truck, so we didn’t stay too long.  Just as well, because when we got home, Hudson had demolished a full box of After Eights, cellophane, box, wrappers and all.  He must have had a quare sickener afterwards, because his bowl of water was licked dry.  I doubt if he will ever look an After Eight straight in the face again.  I relayed the story over Christmas and was told by more than one lecturey voice, ‘you know that chocolate is REALLY BAD for dogs’.  And yes, I DO know that chocolate is bad for dogs.  But for fecks sake, I didn’t exactly put them in his bowl.  I didn’t say ‘here you go Huddie, a wee treat for the holliers.’   Thankfully he did not have any adverse side effects, although his poos must have been interesting for the next few days.  And no, I didn’t look. 

Despite the blips, it seems that we have it in hand.  A friend remarked only yesterday that Hudson had lost weight, so it must be true.  We brought him for a long walk today and he was as happy as a dog with a box of After Eights.  I was sure that I observed his bum shrink right there before my eyes.
Hudson’s previous owner is coming to visit us soon.  I’ve already given him the heads up on the mutts weight gain, but I’ll be anxious that he will think I’m a bad Mammy.

Expect to see us pounding a road near you very soon. 

POST SCRIPT : I do not recommend splitting up with your significant other as a way to loose weight.  Tis a bit extreme ...

Handsome Brute

I didn’t mean to sleep with him last night, my handsome brute.  I had been dropped home after a few unexpected drinkies in town with a friend.  He was standing there, waiting.  His beautiful brown eyes looked at me.  Devoted.  A look of love.

I had a conversation with myself in my head.  ‘No, don’t go back there.  You said NEVER AGAIN.  You have moved on.  There IS NO GOING BACK.’ 

Then the alcohol spoke.  ‘What the hell, who will know? I'm AN ADULT’ and threw caution to the wind. 

I’d forgotten how heavy he would be, lying on the bed beside me.  It had been a while.  He had put on a few pounds since he had the snip last year and his increasing girth had become a touchy subject.  Still, better safe than sorry.

We cuddled close for warmth.  The wine hit me and I fell asleep quickly. 

I awoke early and listened to his deep breath as he slept on.  I picked up my book and read quietly, trying to retrieve some of the duvet. 

The children wouldn’t be home for hours yet.  The house felt so different without their presence.  It had only been hours since I had seen them, but I longed for their return. 

I crept out of the bed and caught sight of myself in the mirror.  The dregs of last nights make-up smudged down my face.  A vision indeed in a rather old fashioned cotton nightdress that I came across, while rummaging in the bowels of my wardrobe late last night.  ‘Good choice, you sexy bitch’, I whispered, winking at myself.    

I looked back at him in the bed thinking that it was too late for regrets now.  He looked at me with one eye opened, but didn't really acknowledge me.

Back to bed with a cuppa and toast, I thought that it had been a long time since anyone, other than Me Mammy, had brought me breakfast in bed. 

‘The children will be old enough to boil the kettle soon,’ I thought optimistically.

My sleeping partner stirred.  He looked happy to see me and me him. 

But then he was

gone

leaving dog hair and paw prints all over my crisp white duvet. 

 

Mysterious Ways

I’ve been doing a lot of naval gazing of late, it’s New Years, and sure, we have all been at it.

I’m conscious that over the last year, that I’ve made big statements about my beliefs and values and have created contradictions therein.  Many of the posts I have written lately have referenced formal religious settings, such as blessing of the graves and funerals, often written with fondness and nostalgia.  And yet I don’t believe the formal teachings I write about.  I guess for me, my religious experience is more about family, tradition and the gathering. 

I’ve heard a lot of talk about heaven since my father died.  I know that a lot of people take comfort from the idea of an eternal life beyond the pearly gates, (maybe including you dear reader) but not me.   

As I’ve gotten older, that idea of another place beyond death has become much more real to me.  That place isn’t somewhere else.  It’s here.  Around me.  I’ll try to explain with three examples of experiences I’ve had.

My paternal aunt Olive, the second youngest in a family of ten died in 1989, just 6 weeks’ shy of her 33^rd birthday.  I had been in awe of Olive since I was a child.  She had a big presence with legs that went on forever.  A funky dresser with a great singing voice, the stage was made for her.  My granny called her ‘my lovely blonde.’ 

Cancer took a terrible toll on her beautiful body and she was skin and bone by the time she died, leaving a two-year-old son and husband.  ‘It’s a sad day a girl doesn’t have anything to fill her bra with’, she said one day, half laughing, deadly serious.  I was an awkward teenager at the time and although I visited her a lot with my Mam, as part of her care-roster, I can’t say that I had profound conversations with her, beyond the ‘bra story.’  But that sense of awe, that she was someone special has always stayed with me. 

When I was pregnant with my twinnies nine years ago ago, I was 33.   It was only then that the realisation of how young she was really hit me, the unjustice of it all.  I didn’t make a conscious effort to think of Olive, but throughout my pregnancy, thoughts of her came to me, usually when I was on my own, often in the shower, of all places.  I don’t know if I shared these thoughts with anyone else at the time.

Weeks after my children were born, I was with my mother and aunt Mary.  My mother said that she could see a lot of Olive in Leon and my aunt agreed.  They both felt reluctant in saying it to me, but I could see it too.  As he grows, I can see the performer in him too, the thick head of hair with the cute little nose. 

Two years ago, my aunt Aine, my maternal aunt died after a short illness.  She was my ‘single’ auntie and lived in my Nana’s house, so I saw a lot of her.  As an adult, we had many shared interests and I enjoyed bringing herself and my Mam on trips to gardens or shopping.  I miss her a lot. 

I’m a divil for holding onto cards, letters and tickets, all stashed in bunches here and there, which I sort and move from one place to the other – Just don’t ask me where they all are.  On three occasions since Aine has died, I’ve come across a ‘Thinking of You’ card that she sent me when I was awaiting test results from a hospital a few years ago.  The card seemed to appear like a stone pops up in a newly ploughed field and you wonder where it came from.  Each time I found it, it was on a day that I really felt in despair.  She may as well have put her arms around me. 

Aine had similar hoarding tendencies to me.  After her death, my darling cousin Nicola handed me a bag of cards and letters that I had sent to Aine over the years, that she had retrieved from Aine’s house.  Most of which I had no memory of sending.  It was such a treasure to get back. 

My daughter was pooching for something in my bedroom in May last year.  She handed me a card, saying ‘look at this Mam.’  It was a handmade birthday card that I had made many years before for Aine.  I took a step back when I realised it was Aine’s birthday that day.  Coincidence ?  Maybe.

A few weeks before my father died, I contacted some friends via Facebook messenger to ask them if I minded writing about their Mum, a great friend of my mothers, who had passed away some years ago.  I didn't hear from one of them and I checked my message. I had sent it to the 'wrong' Claire Smyth.  I apologised to Claire, someone I went to school with, who had been confused by my obscure message.  After my father died, I got a message from the 'wrong' Claire to say that she was one of the paramedics who was called to the scene on the day to assist him. That funny little coincidence means so much to me.  It throws up thoughts about destiny and about what was meant to be.

In the run up to Christmas, I’ve barely had any time to myself.  One morning, having a late start at work, I hopped back into bed after the children were dispatched on the school bus, for a much treasured snooze.  The smell of a freshly lit cigarette woke me.  I jumped out of bed, looking for the source of the cigarette.  I ran around the outside of the house, but there was no one there and there was nothing burning.  Similarly, I was in the house alone having shower, with all of the usual smellies and again, I could smell the freshly lit cigarette.  I hopped out, dripping wet, but there was no one there.  

Over the years, one of the greatest causes of rows in our house between my father and I was his smoking habit.  It drove me insane that he didn’t know, or seem to care what damage he was doing.  But JR always did things his way. 

There is no doubt in my mind that the cigarette smoke is my Dad checking in on me.  He was never going to ‘send me a sign’ via a butterfly landing on a flower.  It’s kind of ironic that this source endless source of tension is the thing that now brings me comfort.  Mad, or what ?

First Christmas Without My Father

It’s Christmas Eve, the car is jammed, the twinnies are in the back.  I’m at a traffic lights in Navan, indicating to turn right across the Boyne.  In a rare break to the continuous Christmas songs, Nizlopi’s ‘JCB Song’ comes on the radio.  

My father always had a tractor, ‘The International.’  I’m transported back to a hot summers day.  It’s 1983, I’m nine years old and I’m wearing shorts.  I’m sitting on my fathers’ tractor, hanging on to the metal frame, as he drives along a road to Aghamore.  Feeling all of the bumps and jolts that are unique to a spin in a tractor.  We don’t say too much to each other.  He is singing ‘The Fields of Athenry’.  I later complained to my Mam that he never stopped singing that song, even though I enjoyed hearing him sing.  He could hold a tune, my Daddy, his voice not unlike that of Paddy Reilly, who released the song that year. 

The children can see that I am crying again and this time, it needs no explaining, because the song reminds them of Grandad John too, ‘even though he didn’t have a JCB’, no flies on this pair.

These are my last big tears for my father this Christmas.

Before he died, I had already planned to spend Christmas Day in my parents’ house.  My newly acquired ‘single’ status is taking a bit of getting used to.  The thoughts of shopping for Santa on my own felt lonely, but unavoidable.  A bit of moral support (and help with the wrapping) for Santa’s big arrival made the situation a whole lot better.  Besides, it was lovely to have Santa back in Milltown after all of these years.  For my children to open the same door as I did, to see what the Big Man had brought.

My father always said that there was a great sense of calm down in the farm yard on Christmas Eve, that the animals knew something special was happening.   Many Christmas mornings brought a new born lamb or two.  We often had a shivering little thing in a box, warming in front of the fire, amongst the Santa toys.  There was no let up the work on the farm over Christmas and even as a child, I was aware that there was hardship involved here with frozen pipes and sick animals, while other people enjoyed long holidays.  

My mother always fretted about having Christmas Dinner at ‘dinner time’ for my father (that’s 1pm sharp, for all of you non-farming folk).   This got more difficult as the years went on and as us grown up children found it harder to make the strict 1pm curfew, with small children, Santa and work commitments.  My mother bought some time, giving my father roasty bits of meat to keep him going, while he read some of the stock pile of books he received as gifts and half-watching DVDs.  He would get an extra big slice of Mam’s black forest gateau later on.

I took a day off work recently to bring my mother Christmas shopping.   We had a lovely day – some quality mother and daughter time and we both felt the better for it.  When I brought her home, the house was in darkness and it felt unusually cold.  No JR sitting there reading the newspaper, lamp on, TV on in the background, raising his head to ask ‘what kept ya ?’ and wondering how we could have spent so long shopping.   I felt bad leaving my mother there on her own as I headed back to Kildare.  ‘You get used to it’, she said, which offered no consolation whatsoever.

My sister in law Denise (and I suppose my brother Robert helped a bit too) cooked Christmas dinner in their house this year.  With four excited children, my brother and his wife home from England and my Mam, there was lots to be done.  Cousins, aunts and uncles called in.  The usual craic, opinions, gossip and messing.  The following day, my mother cooked Christmas Dinner Part II in Milltown.  My other brother, his missus and their four kids arrived.  The flock all around.  Such fun.  My Boy sat in ‘Grandad’s chair’ for dinner and no one passed much remarks. 

I don’t feel sad because my father never seems too far away.

St Stephen's Night

I didn’t have to be asked twice when the brothers and their significant others suggested going out on St Stephen’s Night.  My Mam and the significant others had arranged babysitting and my brother nominated himself to be the Designated Driver.  AND we got a seat in the pub.  The Trinity of a perfect night out for a 40-something Momma who doesn’t get out often.

Before we took off out, I got a good dose of The Guilts from The Boy.  A really, really sad face asked me not to go.  Well, actually, it was more like begging.  There were tears.  I stood firm and promised that I would be home ‘soon.’  He wanted a finite answer on what ‘soon’ meant.  I lied and said ’11.30’, knowing that I would probably break my curfew.   I reasoned with him that I was entitled to a play-date of sorts too.  I felt like a teenager getting the inquisition.  All that was missing was him reviewing my outfit and saying, ‘you aren’t going out in that.’   As it happened, I didn’t pack too well for myself (nothing new there) and my potentially slinky outfit was compromised by the addition on a kidney-warming black vest to cover up a not so reveal-able white bra.   So The Boy had no worries in that department.

Le Pub of choice was an old haunt of mine years ago and I expected to see the familiar faces.  I was disappointed with how few people I recognised at first, but a steady trickle appeared throughout the night.  And bless my innocence, I didn’t realise that a clatter of people I knew were in the smoking area, but I didn’t like any of them enough to spend my night in a haze of smoke.  A Russell night out wouldn’t be the same without a gathering of the cousins.  As the years go on, there are more family and work commitments, so the numbers have dwindled, but we found a few along the way and the gene pool was well represented on the night.

Our seats were near the door to the toilets and the exits, so it was the perfect people watching point.  My inner Gok Wan goes into overdrive.  Thinking that some girls should wear what suits them, rather than what was fashionable.  Thinking that some of them could have done with my kidney warming vest that also had the smoothing-it-all-out effect.  Envious of the young ones that just looked gorgeous.  The ones that had time to do their hair.  My eyes, and everyone else’s following the long-legged ones all the way to the door.  

Waiting at the bar to be served, a guy gave me a wink, ‘Howya.’   I reminded him that he knew me from school.   The spark of recognition kicked in.  ‘Jaysus, you have improved with age’.

A gang of lads took over the middle of the pub, celebrating their friend’s Christmas visit from Oz.

I spotted someone early on in the night who was a son of one of my father’s friends.  He has lived abroad for years.  I wondered if he would recognise me or my brothers.  Curiosity got the better of me and I asked him at the end of the night if he knew who I was.  He didn’t.  ‘’I’m John Russell’s daughter.’  A gasp of surprise, he hugged me so tight, I thought that he might crush my ribs.  He had heard about my father’s death.  His memories of how our families intertwined were very similar to mine, but he also had stories about my father that I had never heard before.  We promised to meet again.  I also met a school friend who had recently nursed her father before his death.  More hugs and a few tears.  A shared moment of how our respective Christmas’s were this year, without needing to say too much.

One of the brothers fell asleep in Le Pub, which at this stage is as traditional for him as pulling the Christmas crackers.  He was dispatched home, via the chipper.  Meanwhile, the significant others made the executive decision that the gals and honorary girl, my cousin Ken were going to Le Discotheque.  A bit of long overdue dancing for the disco divas.  Designated Driver brother was on speed dial to pick us up whenever we wanted.  Could this night get any better ??

I hadn’t been in this particular establishment in about ten years.  It was a kip then and it’s even more of a kip now.  In fact, the toilets looked identical to the last time I was there.  All that it had going for it is an opportunity for a late night drink and a boogie.  

When we arrived, the place was flipping freezing.  With a e10 admission fee, wouldn’t you think that they could have turned the heat to ‘on?’  Or maybe a gal who felt the cold so badly should have been at home in her leaba, guilt free, with Her Boy ?  I felt justified in drinking the mini bottle of wine that I had sneaked in from Le Pub.  No point in wasting it, huh ?  If it was a pint, I would have looked for cling film for transporting the drink from one place to another. 

I didn’t recognise most of the dance music and felt like an old codger, but danced anyway to stay warm.  Even the kidney-warming vest didn’t help.  As the night moved on, the music got better and the stragglers straggled in.  The body heat kept us going. 

I met more school friends, three gorgeous sisters who knew my Da.  We laughed at how alike our fathers were.  They unanimously declared that my father was a ‘legend’ and I felt inclined to agree. 

An eejit lit up a cigarette on the dance floor.  The bouncers were on him as quick as a flash and I  wondered if he was 1. that drunk 2. that desperate for a fag ?

I was glad of the afore mentioned kidney-warming vest as the zip on the back of my trousers, proved slightly unreliable for dancing and I needed a bit of extra fabric coverto save any unnecessary exposure of flesh.

The guy from Le Pub who told me earlier that I had improved with age appeared in Le Discothèque.  He was now fairly sozzled and didn’t seem to recognise me anymore.  Or maybe I had dis-improved with age as the night went on ?

My bro, the Designated Driver, the 6 foot angel-with-a-Mohawk appeared as promised, as we were asked ‘are you right there folks’ ?  Various child car seats were manoeuvred and a clatter of us piled into the people carrier.   

The Boy asked me the following day what time I got home at.  I lied again.  The only 3.30 timeframe that he understands is home time from school.  He had sat up with his auntie Sue until 1am the night before waiting for my return, until tiredness got the better of them both.  The Girl meanwhile, was so busy enjoying herself that she had barely noticed me gone. 

The head was a bit ropey and the knees felt a bit shaky the next day.  Was it worth it ?  Hell yeah ! And as for the vest. 

All hail the vest.

The School Nativity Play

A few weeks ago, my children very casually announced that they were going to be Mary and one of the Three Wise Kings respectively in the school nativity play.  I had a flashback to my own childhood, when the who-would-be-who in the Christmas play was announced by the class teacher.  I remember my disgust at being a shepherd one year.  No little diva (or maybe just moi) wants a part that involves a brown tea towel on their head.  The most prestigious role that I remember having was an inn-keeper.  At least I had a line of dialogue.  I’m sure that it went something poignant and significant like ‘…No Room at the Inn … ’  Now, MY girl was MARY no less.  Mary !  I could channel my childhood disappointments and embrace her starring role.  A Wise King wasn’t to be sneezed at either.  A bit of bling was guaranteed after all.

The pair of them didn’t seem as impressed with their roles as I thought they might (should).   Maybe because they didn’t have dialogue, or maybe because they are just more laid back than their Ma, or perhaps it all went over their ikkle heads.  Only last week The Boy asked me ‘why do we celebrate Christmas anyway Mam ?’  I prompted him about the story behind their Christmas play that they have been working on for weeks in school.  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, ‘I forgot.’

Most of the time in the run up to the public performance involved The Boy teasing The Girl about Ryan (who played Joseph in the play) saying that Ryan was her boyfriend.  Looking at Ryan/Joseph’s wee face, I thought ‘you couldn’t go wrong with him daughter’, but thought that I had best say nothing.

The getting-ready on the morning of the play was far from joyful.  Already banjaxed from Christmas shopping the day before, I scrapped the children out of bed too late and left myself short of time.  They fought over who would have a shower first and came up with opposing rationale on who should go first.  They presented valid arguements.  ‘I’m the oldest’ (even though it is only by one minute). ‘I asked first’, ‘I got out of bed first’, ‘I’m dirtier’, etc.  In the end, I thought of bringing them both into the garden and power hosing them simultaneously.  

My Wise King arrived home from school during the week with a rather impressive cloak, with the instruction that he was to wear it with a round necked top on the day of the play.  In a rare moment of going against what ‘teacher said’, he insisted on wearing a skater boy hoodie underneath, with skinny jeans.  A hipster king.  As the clock ticked, I thought ‘it’ll do !’ and thought that he might be onto something.
Mary was easier to dress.  A cream dress from my brother’s wedding last year, with pale blue headscarf and sash (hand stitched by me, Mother of the Year.  Did you hear me, hand stitched).  All ironed and ready to go.  But could I find the white band to hold the headscarf in place ?   The one that was there a minute ago ?  The one that I had been carefully minded for a week ? The one that fussy Little Woman actually gave the thumbs up to ? No !  Clock ticking.  Bad language and muttering under breath.  I wondered if I could use masking tape to secure it to her head.  Phew !  Found the white band.  Mary shall be gorgeous after all.

I guess that you could say that the nativity play was an alternative one.  The main gist of it was the gift of giving.  Spinning tops, floppy clowns, marching soldiers and dancing dollies all did a party piece for the baba.  My favourite gift was given by the shy rabbit who brought hugs. 

Much of the script was delivered most eloquently by narrators.  One described the angel ‘very, very gently placing the baby in Mary’s arms.’  In reality, the rather angelic looking angel reefed the baby Jesus from where he lay, didn’t support his little head and sort of slam dunked him onto Mary’s lap.
At the best of times, children singing makes me shed a tear.  I’m a sucker for ‘Away in a Manger’ and ‘Cead Mile Failte Romhat, a Iosa’ sang by a choir and during this play, both were sung.  There was no hope for me.  Of course I forgot to bring tissues.  I tried to use the lack of absorbent materials (other than my sleeve) as a deterrent and avoid Panda Eyes. 

The Junior Infant pupils singing in padded star costumes made it all very cute.  There was no picking-of-noses (as a friend witnessed at her daughter’s play), but there were some big arm stretches and drifting off mid-sentence, staring into the distance.

The play involved the whole school community of almost one hundred pupils and all of the teachers.  The Trojan effort was obvious.  It was one of those days when I was grateful that my children have the experience of a smaller school, where each child had his/her own platform, where a humble spinning top seemed as important as ‘holy Mary.’  I guess that I learned a lesson too.  A more humble diva anseo anois.

Happy Christmas gorgeous people x