Twinnies

'I can see two', the nurse said as she did an ultrasound scan on my 7 week pregnant tummy.  'Two what ? I said. Legs ? Arms ? Eyes ?'.  'No', she smiled and said 'heartbeats'.  It was official, I was expecting twins.  For the next 6 weeks or so, I was afraid to cough or sneeze, but then gradually grew confident about my growing bump.

I looked forward to further ultra sound scans.  A glimpse of a face, a little hand and even the moving blobs.  My obstetrician began to record their positions on my medical notes, with little doodles.  I loved the way that each scan shows how my twinnies had wrestled around inside me, intertwining and moving off again.  Bum to bum, then head-bum, head-bum, head-head.

It reassured me that they would be good friends when they arrived.  In my pregnant fuzziness, I had notions of them sleeping together until they were 5, or maybe 10 years of age.  So, before they were born, I bought them a large cot to share.  In reality, the large cot quickly became too small and I up/down sized to two smaller individual cots.  

I’m not keen of single-sex schools anyway, but I was determined that they would go to school together and be in the same class.  Not that I thought that they would be glued at the hip while at school.  It’s just what I wanted, their shared experiences, linked to my romantic, warm, fuzzy feeling about what it means to be a twin.  I knew that they had different learning styles and have resisted comparing theie work in school (which is easier said than done).

My aunt Ann, who lived just down the road from us, had twin boys thirty-something years ago, Damien and David.  I remember the excitement the night they were born.  Ann’s four other children were in our house and we were watching Hithcock's ‘Dial M for Murder’.  (Given that our average age at the time was about 8 years, this was an odd choice perhaps ?).  As far as I remember, we enjoyed the film anyway and didn't suffer any long term trauma.  My main memory of Damien and David as children was seeing the pair of them, with divilish heads on them, charging towards me on toy tractors, with loaders, aiming for my ankles. It is only now that I am writing this that I am wondering about their careers paths as bus operators … All I'd say is - if you see them driving a bus AT you, get out of the way. Fast.  It was lovely to see how close the boys were as children and are now as adults.  I must confess that I still get mixed up on who’s who.  But I’m not the only one – It has been the topic of conversation at many-a-wedding !

Having girl/boy twins means it is unlikely to mistake who is who.  Having a blue eyed/blonde boy and brown haired/browned eyed girl made it easier too.  Having said that, when my babies were younger, I did get asked if they were identical.  I bit my lip and resisted saying that 'he has a willy and she doesn’t’.  Leon is a head above Mya now, so it's not obvious that they are twins.  Yet people still remark how close they are.  

They pretty much do everything together, or at least, alongside each other.  They even got the measles within hours of each other.  Although they are interested in very different things, they often play side by side.  They have separate bedrooms, but they choose to sleep in bunk beds in the same room.  (This is common in twins - I've heard that my grown up twin cousins Damien and David still share bunk beds).

In the last year, two big things have happened. 

1. Sometimes only one of them gets an invitation to a party, usually because it's a 'boys only' or 'girls only' party.  And that's fair enough.  That's life.  It's just hard to explain that to a little one.  The nice thing about that it that it gives you a couple of hours with one twinnie on their own, to do something special.  I've started to look forward to those rare times and they seem to enjoy having you all to themselves.

2.  The competitive streak has really kicked in.  Everything and anything is analysed - Who can eat the most pasta in one sitting.  Who is the best gardener.  Who can tie their shoe laces better.  Who can pee standing up (guess who won that one).  I don't care about them winning things,  but it was a relief this year when they both won medals at the school sports day.

Recently they began on a mission to learn to cycle their bikes without stablilisers.  It wasn't going too well.  Mya was frustrated because her little Shetland pony legs couldn't reach the pedals on the bike that Santa brought her.  Leon wasn't too bothered eitherway.  I was tired of running along behind them, holding the saddle.  Mya abandoned the big bike and went back to the pint sized one she has had since she was three.  Fair play to her, she was cycling all by herself within hours.  Proud as punch she was.  Her brother was not impressed.  In fact he was raging.  'How come SHE can cycle and I can't ?!'.  The competitive streak kicked in and soon after that, there he was cycling his big bike. All. By. Himself.  Then he started boasting to his sister 'You can only cycle the BABY bike.  I can cycle my BIG bike'.  Mya didn't give a monkeys, because she mastered the art first, and there was no taking that from her.    

To add insult to injury, on the very same day, Mya's first tooth started to wobble.  Straight away, Leon started to yank at his mouth.  All twinnies teeth have remained in place for now, but I can imagine the competition when the Tooth Fairy actually lands.   I think that Mya is going to win that race ... 

With learning to cycle their bikes, came the inevitable.  A day or so later, Mya crash landed off her bike and cut the arm off herself.  There was lots of blood. And lots of screams.  And floods of tears.  I carried her into the house for a cuddle and to survey the injuries.  What was really lovely to see was the way that Leon spoke to his sister.  He usually shouts and roars, but he spoke softly to her, reassuring her.  He stroked her hair.  He asked her if she wanted to sit on his knee.  He went to his wallet and gave her a e2 coin (this is from the boy who does not like parting with money).   The last time I remember him adopting this role was on their first day at school, when my wee girl was very upset.  

Eventually Mya's tears stopped.  Leon asked for his e2 coin back.  He said that 'it was only for a lend'. 

One of Dem Days

It was one of those days where I had a plan.  Mutts walked bright and early and grocery shopping done before work - I was feeling smug.  The plan was to be in my secret office in Athy at 9am (if I told you where it was, I'd have to kill you).  I would work until 11.50am and get the train to Dublin for a Very Important Meeting this afternoon.  I would do a spot of catch up reading on the train.  Sorted.

When I got to the secret office before 9am, I realised that the locks had been changed.  On a Tuesday, other staff are on a late shift.  I couldn't catch anyone on the phone.  I waited, hoping that someone would come in early.  In the meantime, I had a look around the Athy Market, which takes place every Tuesday.  It is the strangest thing.  An excellent people watching opportunity.  There was  fair amount of bling for 9.30am on a Tuesday.  I was thinking that we should have shot some of our film 'All About Eva' there.  It would have had NO relevance whatsoever to the storyline, but would have looked fantastic.

I eventually got into the office after 10am, with a sense of determination.  But someone had been using my PC and had locked the password.  A call to the IT Dept and another half hour gone, I set down to work.

It was soon time for the train.  I sat across from a guy in his early twenties, who had a baby carrier beside him, with an infant boy.  'How lovely ... father and son !', I thought.  Twentysomething made a phone call to Damo.  It didn't take long for Twentysomething  to tell Damo that he was going up to the flats to 'reef the fucking head off Anto'.  It seems that Anto went up to Danielle's Nanny's flat and tried to 'wreck the gaff'.  Poor Danielle's Nanny is 75 and dying of cancer and Twentysomething had to come back from his holidays in Tramore because of that.  He is going to 'shoot the fucker' and knows that Anto won't attack him back, because 'Anto has no bleedin' weapons, the gee bag muppet'.  Similar conversations took place over the next hour, while Twentysomething fed his baby a bottle, still in his baby carrier.  None of the other train passengers knew where to look.  Twentysomething offered to give Damo some 'yokes' when he seen him.  He is obviously a generous lad at heart because he offered me his Star newspaper as he headed off the train, with his beautiful baby boy.  I felt like asking him if I could have some of his yokes instead.

The Luas was pretty uneventful.  When I got to Trinity College, there was a sense of mayhem.  The street, already full with tourists and roadworks, had three fire engines and crowds of lookers-on.  I looked up, where everyone else was looking.  It looked like a young boy, but it was a man, on the roof of a building, six floors high.  It appears he was going to jump.  There was a sense of anticipation.  The scene was reminiscent of people watching the tightrope on Colum Mc Cann's 'Let The Great World Spin'.  Apparently the guy has been topless earlier in the day, but had a hoodie on him when I seen him.  I thought it would be ironic if it was an Abercrombie and Fitch top, as he was on their rooftop.

.http://colummccann.com/books/let-the-great-world-spin/

I pushed through the crowds and around the hoards of Spanish students.  I edged softly by an older man.  Without warning, he swung his arm out and punched me in the stomach.  Not a bad effort for an auld lad.  He didn't exactly hurt me, but an impressive attempt all the same.

If was a relief to be behind the confines of an office building for my Very Important Meeting.  It was one of those multi-partner meetings where all parties were given plenty of time to speak' meetings, that went around the houses and back again, but went nowhere.  The thing we really needed to discuss wasn't discussed and the meeting was drawn to a close.  I smiled politely and we all agreed that it was a good meeting.  Back in two weeks for more of the same.

I couldn't wait to get out of the heat of the city.  Everyone had eaten tea before I got home, so it was a quickie frozen pizza for me.  With salad, to make it all healthy.  Then the kids came in with their friends and pretty much scoffed the lot on me.  I got one miserable slice.  Too tired to make anything else, I decided to have a scone with jam instead.  'Oooohhh, jam !', said Mya.  'Can I have that ?'.  'Go on', sez I.  I got another one.  'Oooohhh, jam !', said Leon.  'Can I have that ?'.  'Go on', sez I.

Friends called around.  Realising that we had no tea bags, I opened a bottle of Cava, a pressie from my 40th (can't believe I am still milking the birthday gifts all these months later).  Twas lovely.  But I was a little tiddley (I didn't have much to eat remember !).

The kids are thrilled with themselves with their new found cyling skills sans stabilisers.  They pleaded with me to go for a cycle.  My bike is punctured, so I went for the big boy bike.  Not used to the bike, and slightly tipsy, I pulled the front brake and bashed my unmentionables against the bike frame.  Ow, ow, ow ... OW !  Won't be doing that again ...

I' ll try to get out of the bed the other side tomorrow.

News reports this evening say that Abercrombie and Fitch roof guy got down safely.

Mary Kennedy's Knees

Those of us of a certain age will remember Live at Three on RTE. It was on in the afternoons when I came home from school just before Blockbusters and Countdown. Both these programmes provided background noise when I was doing my homework (hey – don't judge my parents – those programmes were about numbers and letters !!) My Granny Russell who lived with us provided a running commentary to the programme.  But she had a bit of a 'set' on Thelma Mansfield, one of the presenters. She never stopped giving out about her.  'Would you look at that one ?' 'Wouldn't you think that one would something with her hair?' Myself and my mam would share a secret smile and say nothing, both thinking that Thelma was rather glam, with lovely blonde hair.  Compared to her co-host, Derek Davis she was practically a supermodel.  His only saving grace was his lovely Nordie accent.

Fast forward to 2013, and myself and my mam were chatting about Nationwide, on RTE, or to be specific Mary Kennedy and her dress sense. I watch it regularly, as there if often arts and cultural initiatives featured (that's my story and I'm sticking to it).  Myself and Gok Wan, I mean, my Mam, agreed that Mary was dressing 'a bit young' and that her skirts were too short, showing off her middle aged knees. I smiled to myself, thinking that I was indeed, turning into my Granny Russell.

Fast forward to New Years Eve 2013, I was trying on my new guna deas for my cousin's wedding the following day. I was mighty pleased with myself, getting the dress, during a lunchtime dash at work the previous day. I had the bag, shoes, wrap, hairdo – sorted. I put on my sparkly guna and looked admiringly in the mirror. Then horror of horrors, I looked down and there for all to see ... was Mary Kennedy knees (MKK)... !! It's ironic that it has taken me 20 years to be comfortable in my adult skin, only to find the said skin wrinkled around my knees.

My plans for flesh coloured tights to complete the ensemble were abandoned. I needed to act quickly, to come up with a solution to the travesty. Cerise pink opaque tights, I thought. A quick try-on with previously mentioned guna, and I was sorted.  Cinders Ella could go to the ball/ wedding.

We headed off to the wedding the next day, scrubbed and polished. We were only gorgeous. At the reception I met a distant relation that I hadn't met in about 25 years.  I thought he would say how lovely it was to see me after all of these years, but instead, the first words out of his mouth were that my Grandad Owenie Russell would turn in his grave if he seen my tights. Sadly, I never got to meet my Grandad as he passed away shortly before I was born, but he is always remembered by all who knew him with fondness and respect.  He would have been been keen on women 'retaining your modesty' and I guess my tights didn't do that.  But in my defence, my cerise pink opaque tights saved the guests from my MKK.  

SIX YEARS AND NINE MONTHS

Today was my six-year-and-nine-month-old twins last day in Senior Infants.  When they return to school in the autumn, they will make the big leap across the wall, into First Class, with a new teacher.  'The Principal's Class'.  Very grown up.  The unwritten rule, defined by the First Class pupils in the school, is that they will be too grown up for parents to bring them into the classroom each morning, to unpack their school bags, look at their work on the walls and kiss them goodbye.  My heart !

I had great intentions when they were born on Hallowe'en night in 2007.  I was going to write a diary, marking all of their milestones.  I didn't.  I just about recorded their injections.  I have a rough idea when they started to walk and I'm sure that they were toilet trained at some stage.  At the time, I read about someone who wrote a letter every year to her children at Christmas, and put it away for them to read when they were adults.  Brilliant idea I thought !  ... I didn't do that either ...

What I did do though, was to record what my children did and said on Facebook.  Little anecdotes here and there, 'twinnieism's.  I often meet people who say 'so THESE are the pair !' and look at my children as if they know them, through my updates.  The pair look at me as if to say 'who is this random adult smiling at us ?' Maybe my children will sue me for damages for this when they are older.  Maybe I will be dead before they get a chance to ...

In hindsight though, I'm sorry that I didn't also record the stories elsewhere.  Maybe someday when I am REALLY bored, I must trawl through 4 years of so of FB posts and extract my twinnieisms.   As they get older, I know that the antics will decrease.  I want to archive this very special time in the lives of my little people and maybe I will write that book ... maybe.

In the meantime though, I have been thinking about them as they leave Senior Infants.  I reflected on the worries that I had about my twinnies starting school.  Would they make friends ?  Would the learning style suit them ? Will they be lonely ? Would they love learning ? Would they be happy ?

Mya Moo Moo
Mya had jaundice when she was born.  She spent her first few days in a 'Billy Blanket', in her nappy, with arms spread, so that her body was exposed to UV rays.  The hospital staff warned me not to take her out of the blanket, except for feeds.  I was really anxious that I wouldn't bond with my little girl.  Looking back now, that seems ridiculous.

Aged only 6 years and nine months, I already ask her advice.  I love having girlie chats with her in the car.  It reminds me of my own childhood relationship with my mother.  Probably seen as the quiet one of the pair, she has a wicked sense of humour and we often are in tears of laughter.

With a strong visual awareness, she has a very distinctive sense of style. Her 'look' is shorts and tights and occasionally giving in to wearing party dresses, usually with runners.  She doesn't like to wear her hair tied up.  She was disgusted when I dyed my hair recently, as our hair colour was no longer the same and we didn't look 'like twins' anymore.

She is sensitive, considered and particular.   She is also very short.  Her wee figure is like that of a Shetland Pony.  But as she reminded me recently, ' I am the smallest in my class, but I'm also really fast'.

She loves cuddles.  Particularly if she can have a pinch at the loose (ish) skin on my neck.  This goes back to when I breast fed her and she pinched me while feeding.  When she progressed to a sippy cup, her hands moved upwards to my neck, for comfort.  Sometimes in the middle of the night in bed, I can see a shadowy finger and thumb making it's way towards my neck and feel her little body squishing in beside me.  I asked her recently what she would do if my neck fell off.  She said that she would pinch the dog's neck instead.  Good to know I'm so easily replaced.

Academic learning came easily to Mya.  But what I liked about her school report was her kindness and willingness to help others.  She has a natural mothering instinct.  I could say that she is a 'typical' girl.  But how did that happen ?  I didn't treat my children any differently.  I resisted the pink girlie route, which is hard to do when you are surrounded by a pinkathon in clothes and toys for little girls.

Similarly, I didn't encourage my boy to behave in a stereotypical masculine way.  It was unlikely that you would hear me say 'hey Leon, go over there and get your dog in a head lock'.  It appears to be in his nature.  Oh dear ...

Leon, my boy
When he was born, Leon was really skinny.  I remember the first glimpse I got of him. Wirey arms and legs everywhere, roaring his head off.  We called him Spider Fear.  He is still roaring and shouting all these years later.  Although both the twinnies were 6lb 3ozs when they were born, lots of people told me that my babies were the 'smallest they had ever seen'.  It made me feel guilty for not eating more when I was heavily pregnant.  Truth is though, I couldn't fit any more food in.  I was all full of baby. Once Leon got over the initial few days though, he didn't stopped growing.

I could say that Leon couldn't give a monkey's about clothes, but he does.  He just loves manky clothes and shoes,  preferably two years old, with the appearance of being mangled by a lawnmover.  He isn't happy until he has a hole gouged in them.  I sometimes feel like putting a sign around his neck, saying 'No charitable donations required.  Full wardrobe of unworn clothes at home'.  His latest 'thing' is to tie elastic bands around trousers legs that do not have cuffs around the end.  I hope that he can retain that individuality when he gets older and be prepared to stand out, to stand up.

He is a highly sensory little boy.  He is drawn to texture and smell.  If anything new comes into the house, he will have a good feel and a sniff while he checks it out.  He likes being 'cosy'.  Part of his cosy regime is to sleep on a flattened out cardboard box, under his duvet.  I changed his sheets recently and he was devastated when I suggested that we might loose the cardboard.  No siree.

Leon is very technically minded.  I can almost hear the cogs in his brain cranking up, wondering what can he find out next.  His obsession with the Titanic is longstanding.  In Junior Infants, he regularly asked me when he would get 'Student of the Week'.  It was fitting that he got this much coveted award for his 3D model of the Titanic, made out of cereal boxes, the obligatory toilet roll inserts and yoghurt cartons.  His lovely teacher got him to bring his model into the other classes to show it off.  I was so pleased for my boy and pleased that his teacher nurtured him and recognised his achievement.

Learning to read phonetically didn't come to Leon immediately.  But then it just clicked and his curiosity for words and sounds was unleashed.  I looked through the 'history' on the search bar on this laptop and could see Leon's spelling attempts to find car crashes, costumes of his favourite characters and episodes of Top Gear, and I wanted to laugh out loud.  It looks like Leon will grow into a big strapping lad.  I will always want him to sit on my knee for a cuddle.  Or maybe I can sit on his.

Today, the end of term is a day for lots of parents to breathe a sigh of relief, gasp in anticipation of the coming weeks, but also to reflect on the achievements of their little people over the last year.  I did all that do.  But most of all, I felt a wee pain in my heart because I just love these two quirky, distinctive little people so much.  Here's to lots more twinnie isms x

Bite Sized Pieces

This article first appeared on 'MS and Me' blog on Thursday June 5th 2014 

http://ms-society.ie/pages/community/ms-and-me

It was hard to know where to begin with this months topic of'access', as I don't have any physical access issues. There are, however, other things that get in my way. You could call it restricted access (to my life). I'm thinking particularly of the times when fatigue, nausea and migrane gets the better of me and I have to take to bed, with no light, no sound, no movement. This usually happens on a Saturday when my children are expecting to be out and about. So, I would say that MS limits my access to fun. If MS was a person, I would describe him as a sulky, spolied teenager determined to cause a fuss on family occasions, when you least want it.

If I were to grill down further, my biggest access 'issue' is access to information, but not in a way that you would think. In what you might call a First World Problem of the internet generation, I sometimes feel that I have too much information about MS.

When I first became ill, the little piece of research that I did on 'optic neuritis' before any further initial investigations, suggested that I had MS. This softened the shock when my neurologist in Beaumont Hospital first mentioned 'lesions on my brain', 'lumbar puncture' and the other science bits. During my few days in hospital (and on my follow on appointments) the neurology team spoke to myself and my family respectfully and in simple language. I listened intently, but most of it didn't sink in.

I was actually admitted to hospital around World MS Day in May 2011 (Happy MS Anniversary to me !!). As a result, there was an information stand in the hospital foyer, but it was the last place that I wanted to be. When I came home from hospital, I felt that I should be reading about all things MS. But again, I found it hard to digest what I was reading. I spoke informally to family and friends who had expertise in nutrition and exercise relating to MS and chronic illness. Although I could see merit with some suggestions, I just wasn't able to come up with a plan.

Pre MS I was pretty anti-medication, barely taking a pain killer. I surprised myself then, when my MS diagnosis was confirmed, how quickly I agreed to take weekly interferon injections. I had all of the academic and scientific literature, which I read over and over, but did not absorb. If I was sitting a Leaving Cert paper about the science behind the interferons I'd fail miserably. I surprised (and disappointed) myself how passively I agreed to take the Big Boy drugs. The drugs were recommended by my neurologist, who I trust and respect. Truth is though, the reason I agreed so readily was that I am afraid not to. I want to be as healthy as I can for myself and my family and I feel that those damned injections, much and all as I hate them, will help me to stay well. 

It is generally agreed that you can assist your MS wellbeing by reviewing your diet, looking at dietary supplements and alternative therapies, taking time for rest and relaxation, but also taking regular exercise, avoiding stress, looking at the work/life balance, drinking more water. None of this is rocket science, but I have felt completely overwhelmed by it all, with a sense of urgency to do it all.  It can be tricky.  Feeling exhausted and feeling I should rest but also feeling guilty about having no exercise and stressed about finding more quality time for the children - A girl can't win !

I find that person-to-person interactions have been the most useful to me. There is an excellent MS Nurse telephone support service in Beamont Hospital – The nurses are at the end of a phone and always make you feel that you have been listened to. The local MS Ireland support service has been invaluable to me, initially to reassure me that I wasn't going mad and to talk me through the initial few months. Later, meeting fellow MSers in coffee mornings was fun but most importantly was a great source of information and tips. One of the best pieces of advice was to incorporate turmeric into my diet. My joint pain levels have significantly reduced as a result of taking a daily dose. I would higly recommend it.

I realise now that some of my inability to digest and retain information about MS was part of the shock of the diagnosis and coming to terms with it in my own head. I've taken the pressure off myself to be a walking encyclopedia on MS. I'm taking my time. It's not as if there is any rush - I will probably have my whole life with MS. Having said that, it is reassuring to know that I can access additional information and support when I need it. I'll access it when I can, in manageable bite sized pieces!

BAKED IN ALCOHOL

Myself and my little girl Mya were Home Alone tonight. A friend called over earlier and asked what were we going to do for the evening together.  He suggested that we do a 'spot of baking'.  Mya's eyes lit up.  She said, 'yes Mam, let's make something for the School Sale tomorrow'.  I couldn't say no to her little face.  Besides, the Sale is to raise money for charity.  Also, I'm particularly pliable these days, being all emotional at the thought of my two babies leaving Senior Infants in a few days - Imagine !!

The School Sale is an annual event, organised by the outgoing sixth class pupils.  Pupils also bring in old toys to sell in the toy sale.  I was delighted with that last year - having a right good clear out of unwanted toys.  Little did I know that they would arrive home from the Sale, with another bag of junk to replace the toys that they had donated.

Based on my lovely bonding opportunity this evening, I would offer some words of caution to emotionally charged parents setting out on such endeavours .....

1.  Don't drink two huge glasses of wine before you start baking.
I did tonight ...  Oh dear ...  The last time I felt this hot/dehydrated was on a Good Friday in Dublin many years ago, with my friend Marie.  We went for pizza and were delighted with ourselves getting wine in the restaurant.  I don't care what anyone says about drinking on Good Friday - it is without a doubt, THE most delicious drink you will ever have.  Myself and Marie had booked sun beds after the meal (It was a LONG time ago, okay ?).  Just as the cover went down on the sunbed, I noticed the warning sign ''Do not use a sunbed if you have consumed alcohol''.  Too late now, methinks ...

It is impossible to rush a six year old in the throes of making pastry.  If there is a God up/down there, maybe she is punishing me now for my (many) Good Friday sins.

2. Check your ingredients.
I didn't.  Well, I checked that we had butter and flour to make pastry.  I just didn't check that we had 'jam' for the jam tarts.  Having already consumed above mentioned glasses of vino, I couldn't drive to get any more.  So we used the remnants of three jars of jam - apple, blackcurrant and strawberry, some homemade and a little runny.  The baked tarts looked a bit miserable.  I had a (rare) brainwave.  I rooted out some icing sugar and snipped the corner off a plastic page.  I felt like a genius.  Mya had a ball decorating the lean looking tarts with icing.  They actually started to look edible.

3. Check the weather forecast.  

If it is roasting outside, it's going to be damn hot in the kitchen.  And it gets hotter.  Pastry is not a good

baking option in this heat, especially when it is being man handled by a 6 year old with sweaty paws.  I remembered my Home Economics teacher in secondary school when we made Rough Puff Pastry.  We chilled all of the utensils, the margarine and the water.  Mrs Mc Cabe would not have been impressed with the slithery mess today.   She told us to be 'lightfingered' with the pastry.  Mya's handling was more akin to two wrestlers in a headlock.

4. Everything looks better on a cake stand.  

I'm not sure if anyone will but the jam tarts tomorrow.  We made 22 of them - two got burned and we had to eat four, for quality assurance purposes.  If we are lucky,  they might make e5 for charity.  But more importantly, I will have saved face with the other mammies, who will think that because our tarts are on a cake stand, that my daughter and I are, in fact,  culinary masters.  The Great Irish Bake Off will seek us out.

5. If you are going to take photos of your kitchen, take the bloody tea towels off the radiator and otherwise, give the appearance of a tidy kitchen/being a Domestic Goddess.  You never know who is looking.  Last year, I posted a photo of the kids in a paddling pool in the garden on Facebook.  Two people contacted me later to ask where I got the paint for my garden furniture.  Who'd have thought !!

6.  Don't start baking at 8.30pm.  

Obviously .....

7. Keep enough icing to decorate your face later with a moustache

No explanation required ...

REBRANDING

It takes me a bit of time to come around to technology.  I usually give out about it, resist it and then embrace it and maybe, get obsessed by it.  I set up a Twitter account, finally, yesterday.  My main motivation was to use it as a way to further promote work related events and projects.  And if I am honest, to try and plug my blog, my other recent techno development.  I'm still finding my way around Twitter, still figuring out the hash tag and how best to get the information to the people you want to read it.   Twitter asks you to describe yourself.  I decided to call myself a 'Creative Professional'.  How grown up does that sound ? I recently read that description in a flyer promoting an upcoming conference in Carlow for 'Creative Professionals'.  'That's me, that is' sez I.  So I posted it on Twitter.  Then the self doubt started.  I could hear them (the silent readers/tweeters, or whatever you call them) 'Who does your wan think she is ?'

I've always felt a bit uncomfortable with my job title, 'Arts Officer'.  I think it sounds like I should be wearing a Garda/traffic warden style uniform, going around inspecting Crimes Against Culture.  There are many such CAC atrocities, e.g. dodgy murals featuring Bart Simpson, knitted landscapes crafted in cheap wool, displayed alongside artworks from Ireland's finest visual artists and well meaning Tidy Towns groups 'decorating' a piece of public sculpture with a sea of bedding plants.  

That is not to say that I am the world's leading expert on Culture.  Far from it.  In my current role of the last 14 years, I've been working alongside professional artists.  Although I studied art in college for many years, it is only now that I would actually feel comfortable saying that I 'make art', because I do, having recently re immersed myself in it.  For years I called myself a 'lapsed artist'.  With a glass of wine for courage, I may even go so far as to say that I AM an artist.  Going by the Visual Artists of Ireland guidelines, I've no business considering myself a professional artist.  In fact, if an artists presented an application for grant aid to me, I wouldn't give myself a grant.  I would turn me down nicely though.  I'd be encouraging and say that my work was 'worthy of merit', or words to that effect.  

I was a bit morto recently when I updated my profile on Linkedin.  I never really use it, but again, I was thinking that I should use it to promote some of our key projects at work.  So I added that I had worked as 'Producer and Location Manager' on 'All about Eva', a film project.  Except that I did uploaded it wrong and Linkedin sent an email to the whole of the WWW telling them that I had a new job.  I tried to undo it, but it was too late.  People are still congratulating me on my new job.  Proud and all as I am of the film, I had that cringey feeling - 'yer wan works on one film and thinks she is a producer' !

All of these identity crises are a walk in the park when I think back to when I became a mother, almost 7 years ago.  Overnight I went from career woman to Stay At Home Mom.  The lack of grown up company was tough.  I spent most of that first winter on my own.  Day time television did my head in.  I loved my children.  I missed the challenges of work.  I tried to dress the way I did BC (before children).  You never know when visitors would come .... But heels are a bit impractical when you are wrestling with two infants on the floor.  I had to alter my day wear, but I NEVER resorted to the dreaded tracksuits.  In my opinion, tracksuits could be added to the list of Crimes Against Culture list, which should only be worn for exercise, or cleaning drains.  Track suits have brought about the decline of the much coveted 'Yummy Mummy'.  If I had advice to new mums, I would say, squeeze yourself into the jeans, C section stitches n all.  Your waist line will thank you later.  When my babies were 9 months old, I headed back to work.  (Did my best to be)Yummy Mummy became Working Momma.  I felt a bit guilty, but to be honest, not that guilty.  

I was diagnosed with MS four years ago.  I hate when people say that I 'suffer' from MS, because that suggests I am a 'sufferer'.  What a horrible description for any illness.  'Sick Chick' doesn't suit me.  I'd prefer to say that I get on with it, battle it, stick two fingers up at it -  All fighting talk.  I was delighted to be ask to write/talk about MS in the media.  I've embraced my new role as 'Citizen Journalist', drawing attention to and creating awareness around the illness.   My only worry about that though, is that I could get absorbed with the illness, or defined by it.  

Despite my frequent posts and stories on Facebook, I've resisted writing a blog-proper for a long time.  I was afraid that I jinx it and would run out of things to say.  But I found that I was loosing track of my writings on Facebook and gave it a go, as a way to archive my ramblings.  I'm comfortable saying that I am a Blogger, but could not say that I am a writer.  That is more scary than saying I am an artist.  

And now I'm 40.  It's Fabulous being Forty apparently.  I am in my 40's.  How the hell did that happen ??? Truth is though, it does feel fabulous, even it I don't look it.  I've got the confidence to do so many things, to embrace them to.  To 'go public' as an artist and a blogger.  The tattoo, nose piercing and dramatic haircut are looking more likely.  Now to master Twitter.  BRING IT ON