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 ?