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

Santa in the Bag

So, my blogs posts of late have been a tad sad. I know that I made some of you cry. I know this because you told me so. Sorry. I didn’t mean to. Writing really has helped me to process the death of my Dad, something that I didn’t anticipate. Whatever does it for you, I guess.

But I wouldn’t want ye to think that I haven’t embraced Chrimbo. How could I not with two eight year olds ?

As I write, my twinnies are running around the house in high pitched hystericia, with Star Wars eye masks on. In a moment of madness today, I bought them, thinking that these eye masks might settle then at night. Instead, the masks have become vehicles to turn my children into beings in need of an exorcism.

They have been at it now for 20 minutes and I waiting on one of them to come into me, crying hysterically, saying the other one hurt them. It’s inevitable that there will be tears. I shall resist saying ‘I told you so.’ That wild hysteria is a sure sign that Christmas is imminent. There was other give away signs too, apart from the ho-ho-ho tinsel stuff. The toaster has packed in and the septic tank is full. Oh yes, the stuff that always lands on ‘The Week Of …’. Murphy's Law and all that.

In the meantime, I’ve pretty much got Santa in the bag, well, in my Mam’s wardrobe actually. Let’s hope that there aren’t any games of Hide-and-Seek there before 25th.

The children did a letter to Santa at school a few weeks ago. Teacher very thoughtfully sent them home in the schoolbags. They were pretty good letters, with rather impressive punctuation, grammar and illustrations.

Little woman’s list was quite modest and doable. She will get a lovely big surprise that I’m excited about and I can’t wait to see her little face. Eek ! just remembered that I forgot the ‘baking things’. A sieve and a baking tin will sort that out. And cheap as chips. Music to my ears.

My boys letter was quite aspirational. He is looking for an X Box, a bike, a very long list of farm machinery and Nerf guns. Does anyone want a Nerf gun in their face on Christmas day ? I think not. The X Box is a non-runner too. I tried to let him down gently, saying that Santa probably wouldn’t bring someone an X Box the year if they got a rather nice tablet last year, especially children who spend too long on the tablet. The eternal optimist, he ignored my warning and said, ‘But JUST SAY, Santa brings me an X Box, will you buy me a TV for my bedroom ?’

I took a copy of the Santa letters with me when I did The Big Shop. I had an hour to kill last week and aimed to have it done in a flash as I thought that my previous Sherlock-like investigations would have me in good stead. The problem was that the recce trip with the children was in a toy shop in Carlow and I went shopping in Naas. My anthropological research can now reveal that kids in Carlow like tractors and agricultural toys more than their peers in Naas. I couldn’t believe it - A crammed aisle in Carlow, but not a bale-trailer to be seen in Naas ! So much for the one-hour-shop.

I did manage to acquire the ‘small Claas combine’ on Leon’s list. I was delighted. The larger one was on display alongside it. I confirmed with the sales assistant ‘that’s a small Claas combine, isn’t it ?’ He agreed. Sorted ? I thought so ! Until Leon shown me afore mentioned combine harvester on Youtube. It was teeny weeny. It appears that there is a ‘smaller small’ than I had seen in the shop. And my medium sized purchase is in my Mam’s wardrobe. ‘What’s the difference between that one and other models ?’ I asked, quizzing The Boy. ‘The wheels Mam.’ Shite, too late now.

I bought a David Walliams book for Leon too. I bought it in Farrell’s bookshop in Newbridge where the lovely staff do all the work. The book was put in a bag and shoved into the over packed wardrobe. Another job done ? Kinda. Both of the children had book vouchers that they wanted to cash in. We were in Carlow shopping centre today and the vouchers were burning a whole in their wee pockets. They both made a bee line for David Walliams books. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember which book I had bought. I tried to steer them elsewhere, but they insisted.

‘These are OUR vouchers, so we can spend them on what we want.’

‘Yeah Ma.’

They eye balled me, the pair of them. Mutiny on the flipping bounty.

There was a 3 for 2 offer, so we now have THREE books by yer man in the house. I may get my Mam to see what I bought for Santa. At least they are getting in the reading buzz for the holidays.

I had lots of great ideas for stocking fillers over the last few months, but when I see them, I always have the kiddiewinks on tow. The sort of thing that you wouldn’t make a special trip back to get. I’ve thought of distracting them, ‘hey, look over there !’, while shoving the stocking filler under the cauliflower, but the pair are way too cute for that. Instead, I bought them some stocking-filler-type gifts today, including the much regretted eye masks.

I almost got caught out this morning. Leon picked up a piece of paper in the back of the car that must have fallen out when I was taking Santa out of the car boot.

‘Why does this say John Deere ?’

Darn it ! The receipt for the ‘low bale trailer’ that I bought yesterday.

Luckily uncle Robert is a diesel mechanic.

‘He asked me to pick up a part for him’, I said, ‘he will need that receipt’, I said, whipping it out of his hand at such speed that I almost took skin off his little fingers.

‘I thought that he only fixed JCB’s’ said the boy suspiciously.

 

‘It was a special favour to a friend’, I said, feeling the lies coming in around me.

This Santa craic is hard work.

The Living and 'The Dead'

On the recent stormy nights, I often think of my father trudging down the farm yard to look at an animal that was sick or a cow that was calving.  I would have worried about him on those nights -  The fear of galvanised sheeting coming loose and falling on him.  The fear that he would call out for help and his voice lost in the wind and the creaking trees lining the boundary of the yard.  You could say that there is no danger now, that he is at peace.  But I take no comfort in that.  None at all.      

I can’t bear the thought of him lying in a cold, wet grave in Kingscourt, also overlooked by creaking trees, giving a sense on foreboding.  When I tidied up his grave for his months’ memory mass, if felt like the loneliest place in the world.  My boy asking ‘is Grandad a skeleton now ? But his suit still looks like a suit ‘?  Too many questions.  I just want to fast forward to the part when his body turns to dust.

After the months’ memory mass, I went back into turbo-boost mode at work, to get through the last big projects of the year.  Preparations for Christmas are bombing along, as they do when you have small children.  But now it feels like I am in free fall, at a time when perhaps I should be getting myself together. 

I don’t get asked about my father’s death anymore and feel self-conscious bringing it up, even by way of explaining myself.  And yet here I am, writing about it again.  Why?  Because I want to.

When I see the ‘QUIT’ TV adverts, featuring Gerry Collins, I can’t but feel angry at my Dad for never really trying to give up cigarettes.   The adverts are very powerful, with Gerry, terminally ill with lung cancer, reflecting on his life and appeals to smokers ‘Don’t smoke, don’t start, and if you have, stop.’  As a non-smoker, I am taken with the adverts (as are my children), but I cant but feel that it’s only non-smokers who are absorbing this information - Sure, aren’t the smokers outside smoking when the ads are on anyway ?  Smokers don’t want to know – My Dad definitely didn’t want to know and right now, I’m really sad about that and, if I’m honest, a little bit angry. 

Ah !  That will be the ‘angry phase of the grief process’ then.  There I am, one big cliché again. Now I know what it looks and feels like.  I’m not comfortable with this at all.  It feels irrational.  With this feeling, comes guilt, for feeling like this.  Brilliant !  Just when I thought that I couldn’t feel any worse.  Sometimes it exhausts me and I go to bed in the clothes that I was wearing that day.  Who’s going to notice anyway ?

But Da, I’m only angry because we would have liked to have had you around for a while longer.  Another ten years maybe.  With Mam.  Long enough to have seen all of your grandchildren grow.  Even long enough to see what happens with the IFA, how the next government fairs out.   To travel some more.  Maybe see Meath back in Croke Park winning medals again. 

I went to see The Performance Corporation’s operatic adaptation of James Joyces ‘The Dead’ last Saturday in Project Arts Centre, a matinee.  It was what you would expect from TPC, witty, with a lovely understated aesthetic, pacey choreography, considered music, brilliant acting and strong dialogue.   I felt totally immersed in the experience, as did my children (although my boy later protested that he would have liked a bowl of jelly that was part of the performance). 

Our journey to Project was through congested traffic, via Jervis Street Shopping Centre.  We emerged from the car park into full-on two-Saturdays-before-Christmas-shopping.  The place was packed, the festive cheer was infectious and the decorations, ‘awesome’, according to the children.  But ten minutes was enough and we were all relieved to escape the super shiny experience, across a breezy Hal’penny Bridge.  My boy was troubled by the homeless man begging on the bridge and asked me about it later.  I ignored the man, making him invisible by looking away to avoid eye contact.  I was sorry that I didn’t give the man a few bob and just say ‘mind yourself, to make him feel for a short moment that someone gave a damn.

While ‘The Dead’ was humorous throughout, the closing dialogue was poignant, remembering a dead child and a lost love.

Yes, the news­pa­pers were right: snow was gen­eral all over Ire­land. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, fur­ther west­wards, softly falling into the dark muti­nous Shan­non waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely church­yard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and head­stones, on the spears of the lit­tle gate, on the bar­ren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the uni­verse and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the liv­ing and the dead.

I had been doing so well, but that felt too close to the bone.  I felt like crawling on stage and climbing under the sheet, beside the actress who lay there. 

I gathered myself and I tried to recall another line from the performance

Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

 And I thought of my father.  That was you Da, no fade and wither here.

Faking It

As I write, I am tucking into a cuppa and toast.  The last time that toast tasted this fine was just after the birth of my twinnies.  I gave in to them this evening and started to Christmas-ize our house, a week earlier that I had planned to.  To me, decorating the house for Christmas is just as painful as childbirth.  But, like childbirth, once the house is all gorgeous you are filled with a warm fuzzy feeling and reassure yourself that it is all worthwhile.

It’s going to be a strange Christmas.  My father wasn’t a big festive fan, but his presence will really be missed.  The routine of Christmas Day will never be the same again in Milltown.  JR was a typical farmer, who liked his ‘dinner at dinner time’, even if it was Christmas Day, there was a large bird to cook and children and family to travel.  I always felt that people who have Christmas dinner in the evening time were exotic creatures.

It’s my first Christmas-proper as a singleton too.  I can’t say that I was looking forward to that, but I have got a new burst of determination and am gaining confidence from the experience.  It does make things like shopping for Santa a bit more tricky, but the beardy fella will come good in the end.  I’ll try to surprise myself on Christmas morning with the thoughtful gift that I will buy for myself.  ‘You shouldn’t have’, I’ll say, chuffed at the expense that I have gone to.

I didn’t fancy wrestling with a real Christmas tree and all of the sorting out the base of it, so I bought an artificial tree this evening.  Leon insists on calling it ‘the FAKE tree’, making it sound all the more plastic.  We had great fun decorating it, although I was terrified that Mya would topple into the tree as she insisted on standing on a tall stool to reach the high parts.  If the only task was decorating, maybe it wouldn’t seem so painful.  Living in a Hobbit House means that there is always a lot of moving and cleaning to be done before the glitter appears.  Add excited little people with no patience into the mix, and it’s one big jumble sale.  The mop, baubles, bubble wrap, dust.  Lots of dust.  And glitter, but mostly dust.  I feel that familiar feeling that I am a minger.    

Nights like this are testing grounds for my multi-tasking skills.   The children want the Christmas tree up right-now-this-second, but also ‘NEED’ a sandwich immediately.  Leon asked me at one stage why 'do you never sit down Mam?'  Eh, hello ??

How come they always wait until I am balancing on one foot cleaning the (very high) mantelpiece to have a mini crisis that usually does involved spilt milk?  Just as I get into my full cleaning groove, their excitement gets the better of them and they start beating the heads off each other.  It's vicious.  How can eight year olds be THAT rough ? Cage fighters wouldn’t get a look in.  At that point, I give up.  I’m about 70% there with the Christmas-ifying.  That point where it looks like the house has been ransacked, or the last 5 minutes on cookery programmes where it looks like it might never be edible. 

I’m still not convinced about my plastic tree, although The Boy told me that he was glad that we bought a ‘fake one’.  He felt very grown up dragging the box from the car into the house and helping me assemble it, testosterone pumping inside him. 

The tree may be plastic, but the magic feels real ...

  

 

Storm Desmond

So, I’ve been going through, what can only be described as ‘a pile of shite’ of late.  The nature of that pile will not be discussed here any time soon, but it’s a pile large enough that has made me think about driving home to my Mam and disappearing under a duvet, for a month, or maybe forever.  I’ve thought about landing on my friend Susan’s doorstep in Doha, with a large rucksack for a very long holiday and offering to clean her bathroom in return.  Neither option is practical with work commitments and two little people.  Instead, I ran away, with those little people, for one night only, to … You’ve guessed it … Ballinasloe.

For three years of my college life in Galway, I had a bus journey from hell from Navan, via Delvin, Mullingar, a change over at the bus station in Athlone, then on to Ballinasloe, Loughrea and Galway, stopping at every hole in the hedge along the way.  I can still feel nausea if I see that familiar bus with, the red setter mutt sprinting, marked ‘Gallaimh’.  I had no ambition to ever stop off in Ballinasloe again, but last week I did a Google, looking for a hotel and came across the Shearwater Hotel there.  The swimming pool looked the business for little people and family suites were available at a very reasonable price.  And better still, it was a half way point for myself and my stepdaughter and her daughter who lives in Sligo – a rare opportunity for my two to catch up with their big sis and their niece (who is only 8 months younger than them – don’t ya just love blended families ?)

I made the reservation and patted myself on the back for being a genius.  I may have checked the sleeping capacity, the mileage, etc, but did I check the weather forecast ?  Hell no.  It was only on Saturday morning, as we were preparing to leave, that I realised that there was a proper storm a’brewing.  But, the pair were beating the heads off each other in the house, the rooms were reserved, so it was To (stay at home in) Hell or To Connaught.  I chose Connaught.

As I drove through the increasing gales towards Athlone, I nervously laughed to myself, that while looking for temporary solstice from my personal storm, I was driving in the direction of a particularly nasty one called Desmond (my boys' middle name).  Should we have turned back ?  In my defence, this was hours before Teresa Mannion’s heartfelt plea on RTE to stay away from ‘treacherous roads’.  How was I to know ? Besides, I’m the type of girl who ignores the fire alarm and waits til I smell smoke before shifting, so a yellow/red alert doesn’t mean a whole lot to me.

The biggest trauma on my journey was an emergency pee stop at a filling station.  Little woman was ‘bursting’.  The toilet was quite frankly minging and Mya suddenly lost the urge to pee, insisting that she could wait until we got to the hotel.  Little man, on the other hand, needed to pee now.  The previous occupant must have used the toilet seat for target practice and had left all of the evidence behind.  ‘Clean it Mam’, he insisted, his OCD tendencies coming to the fore.  ‘But you only need to pee !’ I retorted, ‘you don’t need to sit on it’.  There was no getting out of it, as he hopped from one leg to the other.  Cleaning your own child’s pee is one thing, wiping up someone else’s required a whole other level of love.  I scrubbed most of the skin off my hands and knocked back a shot of coffee to recover.

We found the hotel with ease.  It looked as good as the website.  A Lidl was located straight across the road.  ‘What’s not to love about this place ?’ I thought.  My stepdaughter and her daughter were diverted along their journey from Sligo by floods and I was a little bit anxious that they would arrive safely.  Thankfully they did.

The children were beyond excitement to be staying in a hotel ‘suite’, complete with its’ own hallway and adjoining bathroom.  The look on their little faces at the schmanciness of it all made the precarious journey worthwhile.  We all roared with laughter at poor Teresa Mannion on the news.   I’m really enjoying that the children are at an age now where they ‘get stuff’.  I got a fright all the same, looking at the weather report, realising that it REALLY was BAD.  I vowed to leave the building the next time a fire alarm goes off.

The day after the night before, the planned leisurely breakfast was gulped down by little people who couldn’t wait to get to the swimming pool.   We should have had a splash first : Note for future reference.  Bless my innocence, I had a notion that I would have a relaxing R&R time in the sauna/steam room, with their big sister acting as the responsible adult, but my two wanted me to stay close and definitely in full view.  I did get a go in the Jacuzzi, while waving like a mad yoke to reassure lil people everyone that I hadn’t run away.  We stayed until we are wrinkled and I was foundered with the cold.  I looked forward to a long, hot soak in the bathtub before we checked out, but my boy used the occasion as an opportunity to 1. carry out an audit on all of the plumbing in the bathroom, 2. interrogate me on what age various people would be when he would be 21, 40 etc.

When I made the hotel booking, I didn’t realise that Santa Claus was making an entrance on the Sunday.  There was a craft fair, bouncy castle, a dance show, the works.  One of those days when your children think that you are a genius for planning it all so well.  Despite myself, I couldn’t but feel festive. 

I felt a bit lonesome heading home and wished that the girls didn’t live so far away. We both vowed to make a return visit to Ballinasloe, although next time, we might check the weather forecast.

We hit Athy just as the Christmas lights were being turned on.  We parked up, dandered amongst the crowds and soaked up the atmosphere.  The light projection on the heritage centre was enchanting.  We stopped to look in Bradbury’s DEADLY Christmas window display.  We hunched in together and picked out our favourite moving parts – small magnetic figures on a pond, a see-saw, nodding animals.  One thing more magical that the other. 

I bought the pair a bag of chips, split between two bags.

‘Can we not get milkshakes too ?’ 
                                                                                                             

‘No !’, sez I firmly, thinking of the sugar fest the previous night in the hotel.                   

                          ‘You are a big meanie Mam. You never give us ANYTHING’.          

'Except memories', I retorted, 'I'm good at making them'. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

POST SCRIPT Did I tell ye that I am going to be a step-granny again ?  Leon and Mya an uncle and aunt again ?Yes, Zara and Gareth are having another bambino next summer. Go on, tell me I’m too young to be a step granny ...

I Love Sky

PREFACE

I am a techno dinosaur, so apologies in advance if I have used the wrong technical terms through my ramblings. 

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Since forever, I’ve been fiddling with various TV services and yokes.  The ‘free-to-air’ doo-dahs were great at the start.  Where I live, the lovely flat landscape may be good for big boy tillage farmers, but when the wind gets up, it played havoc with my doo dah.

A few years ago, when the new Saorview service came into being, I invested in a large TV and a small aerial.  With the extra RTE channels, I felt that I’d be happy enough.  I agreed with Bruce Springsteen’s song "57 Channels (And Nothin' On)" – How many channels can you watch at once after all?  Like the doo dah, its’ success was short lived.  Before long, the sellotape came out and I found myself waving it around trying to get a decent signal.  ‘Stay right there Mam, we can see it perfectly now’, the children would shout from the comfort of the couch as I stood on one leg in the kitchen, holding the aerial. 

There was a free subscription to Netflix in the house, but I never took the time to sit down and configure it with the TV.  To you drama fiends who watch full series back-to-back, you may gasp at my neglect, but hey, t’internet will be around for a while yet.  I’ll catch up with ‘House of Cards’, ‘Orange is the New Black’ and ‘Breaking Bad’ when the kids graduate to teenagehood.

When we aren’t discussing cultural policy and world peace at coffee breaks at work, conversation can descend to discussing Gogglebox and the like.  Until lately, I would nod and laugh along as if I knew what people were talking about, but slightly glaze over and tuck into my bun.  I was starting to feel like that ten year old girl I once was who didn’t get to see ET in the cinema. 

I could take no more.  Drastic action was required.  SKY TV had a deal.  Twenty squids a month for the basic package.  Sure, I’d spend more that on a night out, if I had a social life … IF … All the more reason to invest.  Mr Nice Sky Man came and installed the dish.  He asked me what service I had before and I couldn’t remember any technical jargon, so I used words like ‘thingie’.  But he smiled nicely and didn’t make me feel like a thick. 

The children figured out the remote control before I did.  Initially they were complaining that my twenty euro deal didn’t have all of the children’s channels, but that didn’t last long.  Soon they were charmed with the option to record series and the suite of new viewing options.  Pre-school television will never be the same again (yes, we watch TV in the morning – go on, judge me).  It’s a menu of Weetabix, pancakes and pre-recorded episodes of ‘Ice Road Truckers’ (scary driving on ice in Alaska), ‘Top Gear’ (surely you all know Top Gear ? and ‘Officially Amazing’ (Humungous Russian men pulling cars with their teeth and Norman the dog on a bicycle breaking world records, I kid you not.  Check out  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vdto2MAsU0s )

It’s rare that myself and my girl have time alone together, but my boy goes to a ‘boys only’ club once a week.  When us gals aren’t having a walk with the mutt, we watch the trashiest television possible, such as ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ (spoiled brat American bridezillas looking for wedding dresses, or better again ‘Tots in Tiaras’ (American mumzillas entering their daughters in beauty, sorry ‘TALENT’ competitions’.  The sort of TV that makes you feel like you have some integrity (but by watching it, and allowing your eight-year-old daughter watch it too, you (me) obviously have none.

A real win/win TV experience for myself and the little people is watching ‘Grand Designs’.  Beauty and design, an education lesson in itself with lots of discussion between us on whether we the completed design or not, no IN-YOUR-FACE music and of course, there is Kevin.  Lovely, lovely Kevin … You can talk to me anytime baby.

And have I mentioned ‘River Cottage’ ?  A few hours of uninterrupted back-to-back Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, the sweaty, animal slaughtering chef’s thoughts on 'back to the sea and land as an alternative culinary lifestyle' is food for this vegetarian’s soul. 

As I type, I am watching TFI Friday with the children.  I won’t bother explaining the acronym … Gogglebox is up next.  Will I or won’t I ?  I can always press ‘record’.

HELL IN A SEVEN SEATER

I wrote this 'pre blog site' two years ago.  The car has been down sized and there's been a few other changes in the meantime, but it stills seems terribly familiar ...

Ah, a Sunday family day out. Warm, fuzzy feeling. Little mammy-in-law and himself up front. Working Mamma sees the opportunity for quality conversation with squiddiewinks in the back. Not even out the gate and they are fighting over who sits with the dog on the back seat and who sits beside me. No one wants to sit with dog, or in their car seats. They both want to sit on my knee. Discussion about 'but you are 6 now' ... road safety ... they couldn't give a monkeys. I relent and boney ass Mya sits on my knee to Dublin ... and accidently headbutts me in the face.

I'm hungreeeeee, I'm thirsteeeee, I need to go to the toilet, I'm BURSTING !

The DVD player won't work.  Read manual, consult Youtube, it still won't work. I'm sooooo bored ... why won't the DVD player work Mam, why, why, why ? I'm sooooo bored. Mam, why, mameeeeeee ?

Wee man starts kicking the seat and he has found a goddamn whistle. Just as well mammy-in-law is there, or the language would be blue. Veiled threats. Kids don't even hear. They are too busy biting each others hair. The dog tries to get in the front seat of the car. He can't manage reversing, and so sticks his bum in my face turning around, claws in your leg.

One last try - The DVD player works ! Squids fight over which DVD to watch. They finally agree, but keep turning up the volume. Little mammy-in- law seems to be asking me questions, as I can see her lips move, but I hear nothing. I nod and smile back. Kids open each others seat belts. Another road safety lecture and no one is listening. Threats to turn off DVD if they dont turn it DOWN NOW !!!!

Arrive at father-in-laws grave in Rush.

It's raining.

Dog escapes from car and charges across graveyard.

Frowns from other people.

Dog pees on someones headstone ... at least it's raining.

Rescue the dog and apologise.

Morto

(Still morto at time of writing)...

And now, the big surprise ... plane spotting at Dublin Airport.  Even with SatNav,we get lost.

Feels like we will never get there.  Kids kick their car seats. 

We get there.

Dusk, airport lit up, lots to see - perfect - what thoughtful parents we are !

Kids show no interest in planes, airport, or their parents. They complain that we are too far away and are more concerned that the dog will escape. No one looks up at planes. Grown ups feign enthusiasm. Grown ups have steam coming out their ears.

Let's get out of here ... Fighting over who sits where.

I've had a glass of vino, so I ain't driving.

DVD is louder than the aeroplanes. It starts to skip.

Wet, mucky dog tries to get into front seat, standing on clean jackets and managed to put his paw in my handbag.

Fighting, moaning.  Where did he get that fucking whistle ?!  I can't cope. I make Boney Ass sit in her own seat and retreat to the back seat with the dog.  He stinks and he is wet. He puts his wet, stinky head on my wool dress. He doesn't ask any question or give me the evil eye.

I close my eyes.

Peace.

Mam, are we nearly there ? Mam ? Maaaaam ?!

Month's Memory

It’s a month today since my father died and Milltown is a lot quieter place. Or at least it will be, after the streams of visitors subside.  Already the strict rule of dinner-at-dinner-time (1pm) has relaxed. I bring my mother to Bailieborough, instead of Kingscourt, her closest town, to avoid meeting people she knows when we shop. Before his death, my mother would have left him dinner, or would have rushed home to make it. Today, there is no rush, although we are all starting to feel hungry.

I’ve driven the road home so often in recent weeks. It’s tiring when you are already tired. Once I hit Navan, I feel like I am almost there. Once I hit Nobber, the tears start. The children ask me again, fascinated, about Grandad AND me AND my brothers AND ‘which cousins again ?’ and their cousins, who ALL went to the same school. We laugh when we think about Grandad at school and agree that he was probably a ‘little divil’. Mya reckons that he didn’t like homework very much. Not as much as her anyway.  I ask them if they miss Grandad and Mya says 'no, I just wish he was there'.

I drive up the Glen and I can’t help myself.  I’m bawling now. Leon, is uncomfortable that I am crying again, and crying ‘differently’ than I have before and asks me in a concerned voice to ‘please stop’. I gather myself before I get into the house and greet my mother.

I look around the house. I pooch in a drawer just to see if there is any paper with his handwriting on it. I open his wardrobe and see a neat row of short sleeved checked shirts, neat because my mother hung them up. He hated long sleeve shirts and would roll them up the sleeves, making donut shapes around his elbows, under his jumper. I look at his mobile phone and see a group-text message sent to IFA members informing them of the ‘death of John Russell’ and another one, advising them of a guard of honour at his funeral. I spot pockets of cigarette ash on window frames and feel nostalgic about the thing that until recently drove me crazy.  I see a friend of his in town, who I know was very upset about Dad’s death. Even though I’m driving, I want to pull over and run after him to chat, to see how he is doing.  I suddenly remember that he won't be around for an of the 2016 commemorations and I feel cheated for him.

I go into the children’s school with a wad of money for their MS Readathon, greatly boosted by donations to the MS Society at my father’s funeral. I feel really proud, but sad that the children didn’t get to ask Granddad John for a donation. I would have liked to have his signature on their donation forms. Silly, I know.

I don’t feel like eating and substitute most meals with sandwiches, the blander the better. My daily bowl of porridge makes me feel nauseous and I crave coffee. I’ve ditched the de-caf for now. I get a rotten cold that I can’t shake and force myself to eat. At least I can pass off my watery eyes and nasally sounding voice as the sniffles.

There is nothing like an Arts Council application form to bring one firmly back to earth. On line deadlines don’t really care about your personal circumstances. There is no option in the menu that says ‘Deferred until further notice, because I’ve got stuff going on’. I think about making up the financial table and cutting and pasting last year’s text from the application form and just changing ‘2015’ to ‘2016’, but I think better of it. Thankfully, I work with great people who do the main body of work, before I press ‘send’ and off it goes into cyberspace.

I didn’t get off as lightly with my children’s birthday party. Their 8th birthday is a fortnight after my father’s death. I float the idea with them, that perhaps we wouldn’t have a party this year. I am met with two little faces filled with horror. As far as they were concerned, grandad’s death was long gone. We go ahead with the trip to the cinema, on the eve of Hallowe’en. It is an easy option, that involves minimal interaction with other human beings. I get into the spirit of it though and enjoy a dose of Transylvania. The part that hurts is seeing their birthday cards from Nana Kay. No Grandad John this year. Damn it.

We go Trick-or-Treating the following day, their ‘real’ birthday. Thankfully there is little dressing up involved. It’s a beautiful night and it’s nice to be outdoors. And it’s all done and dusted very quickly. Later, I collapse in a heap.

I carry around cards that I have received and reread one or two. I respond to some texts and other messages every day, finding it hard to do so. I feel guilty about everyone I ever knew who had lost a parent and wonder if I showed them enough consideration at the time. I want to contact them all now and say that I’m sorry. That I didn’t understand. I feel a bit funny about the cards with references to God and heaven because I don’t believe in either. Besides, heaven seems too far away. Dad's energy is in that strong wind that has been circling around me, in leaves circling my ankles and cross winds on the motorway.

Myself and my boy go in to tidy up my father’s grave on Saturday. It's cold and lashing rain and time was short as it was getting dark. The oasis in the wilted wreaths are sodden with water and are a dead weight. I drag two refuse sacks across other graves, being as respectful of them as I could. I feel miserable and I embrace the feeling. My boy makes me laugh, asking ‘what’s that big bump’ on the grave. ‘Grandad’s coffin’, I say. The fresh flowers don't look that impressive in the growing darkness.

Dad’s months’ memory mass was yesterday. The closer it got to it, the more I dreaded it. The logistics of having a huge crowd in my parents’ house. My Mam’s house now, I guess. A call from my mother on Friday asking me to decide who will do the readings and bring up the gifts at the mass seems like a huge task. I feel a sense of panic. Ridiculous. The mass is lovely and the lovely priest, Fr Mark is kind and generous in his words to the family. He reads out my father’s name. Yes, he is really dead. The eight grandchildren sitting in a row, good as gold throughout the mass. I feel proud as punch. I bet that people are looking at them, admiring these lovely children, John's legacy.

I leg it home to turn on the burco boiler and heat the soup. Soon the house is heaving with people. Heaving. All looking for soup even though it’s only 11.30am. Home-made scones and cakes to beat the band. You can’t beat the Russell women for home baking. The men are quite happy to sit and let the women organise the food and drinks. An informal network, taking turns to wash up at the sink, to replenish supplies, with no one needing to inform the other who-is-doing-what. Children, outside, jumping in puddles, destroying their lovely clothes selected for Grandad’s funeral. The older cousins-cousins disappearing upstairs and only appearing when their parents are leaving.

If Dad was there, I know which table he would have sat at. Who he would have chatted to. What they would have chatted about. Which slices of cakes he would have went for. Which one he would have asked me to 'save a slice' of, for later. It was odd to see his friends in the house without him there, deep in conversation. He would have been oblivious to the organisation that went into planning the day. Overall, it was a lovely day, but it was one that I was happy to see the back of.

I didn’t think too much about the one-month milestone today as I had a busy day. But tonight I went to see a final edit of a drama that I produced earlier this year, ‘JFK, The Badge Man Conspiracy’. The composer has just finished the music. The end credits roll and a dedication to my father appears. The Directors had told me previously that they wanted to include it. Seeing it now, I feel honoured and rare for me, speechless. I phone my mother to tell her. I'm not sure how she will react, but she is delighted.

If he seen the dedication, what would he say ?

‘Well holy God, who would have thunk it ?’

Last Conversations with My Father

I can’t remember my last conversation with my father.   It’s been nearly four weeks now since he died and I hoped that it would come back to me, but it hasn’t.   It's probably because it was a mundane conversation, but I wish that I could remember it all the same.  I remember driving away from my parents’ house the last Sunday that I seen him and thinking to myself that he had barely spoken to me that weekend.  It wasn’t that he was in bad form, he was just unusually quiet in himself.  He probably shouted ‘G’luck’ to me, from his familiar resting place, the couch in the living room where he was stretched out after dinner. 

Since his death, I’ve spoken to lots of people that my father visited, or happened upon in the weeks before he died and great conversations were had.  He even had the ‘I want to die in my own home’ chat with my mother and aunt.  That he did.  I wonder what would have happened if he said that he would like to die in Australia ? 

He had a late night conversation with my sister-in-law in Bristol a few weeks before he died.  I had offered to drive and then travel by boat with my parents to Bristol that weekend, but it didn’t work out.  If it had, my father would have been a Back-Seat-Driver, except sitting in the front, his seat pushed back for his own comfort, leading to the discomfort of whoever was sitting behind him.  He would have opened and closed windows as he wanted, the same with the volume on the radio.  He would have lost patience with the children’s incessant questions and occasional quarrels and grumbled at them.  They would have thought that Granddad was joking and laughed at him, making him even more grumpy.  He would have become restless about the lack of nicotine and looked for an excuse to stop the car.  I would have been stressed out, but happy to make the trip as a Labour of Love.  It would have been identical to the Road Trip to my brother’s wedding in Kerry last year.  The children still laugh about Granddad squashing Mya’s little legs with his car seat.  I’m disappointed now that I didn’t make that road trip, but I guess that it wasn’t meant to be.

The last conversation with my father that I remember clearly was in late September.  I phoned home to tell my parents that the Irish Times were featuring an interview with me that day, a promotional piece, in advance of this year’s MS Readathon.  My father answered the phone and I told him about the interview. 

‘There’s a nice photo of myself and the kids’, I said.

‘I’ve already bought today’s paper’, he said in response. 

‘But that’s the Indo, Da.  I’m in the Times’.  

‘Well, too late.  I’ve bought it now’.

I felt slightly hurt.  ‘It’s not every day your daughter gets into a national newspaper’, I protested, but knew I was at nothing.  ‘Tell Mam anyway.  I’ll get a copy for you’.

‘Right so.  What’s the weather like there ?’ he said, changing the subject.  He always asked me about the weather.  Sometimes, I’d run to the window to see how the weather was that day and remind myself how that I should take a decent lunch break to experience the weather first hand.

That little exchange about the newspaper article between us said so much, that there is probably a Masters Psychology thesis in it :

Topic for Discussion A : My father was a man of principles and by God, he stood by them.  As far as he was concerned, a blue shirted Fine Gaeler farmer had no business reading, never mind buying the Irish Times, even if his daughter was in it.  It seems that he isn’t the only one of that opinion, as I have often found it hard to buy a copy of the Times in Kingscourt, my home town.

Topic for Discussion B :  He hated waste, so ‘why the fuck’ would you buy a newspaper when you already had one ?

Topic for Discussion C : Since my diagnosis with MS over four years ago, my father had barely spoken to me about it.  It’s not that he didn’t care.  It was just that he COULDN’T talk to me about it.  He was uncomfortable about me talking about it too.  Just as well he didn’t read my blogs.  It was hard for him to get his head around his only daughter being anything but healthy.  And then to hear soon afterwards that his son, my brother would also be diagnosed.  That’s news that no parent wants to hear.  I know that he felt helpless. 

His way of checking in on how I was, was to ask ‘Are you okay for money ?’.  On one occasion, soon after my diagnosis, he called me back as I was leaving Home one weekend and gave me some money.   ‘Don’t go wasting that on something stupid now.  Spend it on something that will make your life easier’, he said abruptly, walking away before I could react.  I phoned him later to thank him properly and he brushed it off as if it had never happened.

It’s just come back to me in the past few days that my father rarely called me by my name.  He mostly called me ‘gersha’.  ‘Get me a cup of tea, like a good gersha’.  Since his death, that funny little word keeps popping into my head, over and over, like a soft wind, a mantra of affection and reassurance.