Plus One

I'm getting used to your jeep sitting there quietly in the yard, or seeing someone else driving it.  I don't listen out for your booming voice or your persistent cough.

Other rituals remain the same.  A kiss from Mam, clicking the kettle on, Monty wagging her tail, happy to see me.  I glance through the headlines on the Meath Chronicle, the Farmer's Journal, the Indo.  I pooch in the letter rack to see if there is any post for me, after all these years.  The occasional letter from the Credit Union, a polling card.

There's always cards of some sort on the fridge, Easter, Mother's Day, birthday or thank you cards. Today there's a cream coloured, heavily embossed card.  Gilt edged with italicised font.  The name of the bride confuses me first.  She doesn't sound familiar.  It all makes sense when I read the grooms name.  The son of longstanding family friends.  The friends who owned a pub.  Which meant copious amounts of fizzy drinks when we visited.  And a brown paper bag full of King crisps the day after late night visits by my parents.

And then I see 'Plus One' in the space where your name should be.  The kettle is boiling now.  Mam asks me what I want to drink.  ''I've that green tea for you...?''   She looks concerned.  I nod at the invitation, but can't speak.

Her first big event without you.

I think of my uncle, who lost my lovely aunt in her early forties, describing life without her. In his strong Northern accent, he eloquently described 'feeling like a spare prick' at weddings and gatherings over the years.  And then there was my aunt who 'never married'.  Her anxiety about the invitation that didn't include a 'Plus One', the person she had in mind to mind her bag, or break the silence when she found herself in the awkward company of strangers.

I offer to go to the wedding with my Mam, but she has already asked an aunt to accompany her.  I'm pleased.  They will skit and laugh and make terrible jokes and get through the day

knowing that you aren't there.

A Mid Primary School Review

I write, dear reader, not for your pleasure, but as a form of therapy session for myself after a marathon session of ‘tray bake’ making for the annual school Sixth Class sale tomorrow.  As usual, I over committed to the children earlier in the week.  Today, I had one of those days and started baking at 9.30pm.  Of course my excited daughter wanted to help.  ‘You promised Mam’, said the sad little face. My son wanted to stay up to do quality control, tasting all the goodies.  Wired from sugar and excitement, they have just gone asleep.  It’s almost 11pm.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been reflecting the past school year.  My twinnies are almost finished Second Class ! Half way through their primary education.  

Having twins in primary school for four years has given me eight years’ cumulative experience of School hood, so here’s some thoughts on it, as well as general warnings for greenhorn parents with children starting school in September, thinking that they have it all sorted, just because they have ordered their school uniforms already.  Hah!

1. Think you had it all sussed with the ‘free’ ECCE year in crèche? You hadn’t! The scheme may have been set up to better prepare children for school, but it doesn’t do much to prepare parents.  ‘Big School’ is bigger in every sense and that included the pressure to be Mother/Parent of the Year and if you, as a parent, feel like you don’t succeed in that, Failure of the Year.

2. Expect to lose your identity.  You will become *insert child’s name* Mom/Dad, in a number of variations. In my case, it’s ‘‘LeonAndMya’sMom’’, ‘’MyaAndLeon’sMom’’, ‘’Mya’sMom’’, or, that which makes me feel eternally young, ‘’Miss’’.  It’s usually accompanied by a child (whom you may, or may not know, tugging at your clothes). 

3. Lead by example in showing your children it is okay to fail.  I do so spectacularly last year when I came last in the Mothers Race at the School Sports Day.  My son reminds me of this achievement regularly, to which I remind him that ‘it’s all about taking part son!’ (In my defence, I see myself as more of a long distance kinda gal.  The sprint just didn’t suit me)

4. Find one safe place for all of the letters and notes home from school.  That’s ‘ONE’ place.  Not several places, which lead to blind panic on the details of the following days activity.  And if you can’t manage that, have one organised friend on speed dial, who doesn’t mind emergency phone calls late at night and early in the morning.  A friend who doesn’t tut or frown (to your face).

5. Expect to get in trouble for mixing up your children’s friends names.  Think : Kayla, Jaden, Kahlen, Kia, Caleb, Kaylem, Caitlin.  Need I go on!  Expect to not always know if the children are male or female and to feel the double scorn of your children.  Expect them to quiz you on who-is-who and to try and catch you out.  Admit defeat at the outset.  YOU WON’T WIN.

6. Start saving up your loose change now.  For the never ending notes home from school, with random sums of money for various fundraising, donations etc.  Invest in a multi pack of envelopes.  A labelled, clean white envelope will give you the appearance of an organised parent. 

7. Don’t be fooled by the convenience of a school uniform and think you have it all sorted.  I once did.  I’m a big fan of the uniform.  It doesn’t, however, account for early morning arguments over socks, tights, undies. Unless your school has regulation socks and jocks.  I’d strongly advocate for them.

8. Just because you buy two of the same uniform t-shirts/jumpers, do not take that to mean that you actually have options.  I can guarantee that a child will have a preference of one of the two items and refuse to wear the other, because the buttons are a slightly different shape on one of them, or such like.

9.  If you find socks/tights that your child has quality assured, invest in multi packs of the multi packs.  It’s a nightmare looking for these towards the end of the school year, when the heels and toes are threadbare and the elasticity in a pair of tights is shot and they hang around your daughters knees.

10. Don’t believe the labels.  Like the ones on the A4 plastic zipped folders.  The label that says ‘super strong zip’, ‘made to last’.  It actually means that it will last a fortnight, which I suppose is a whole two weeks longer than the non-super-strong variety.

11. Try not to scream and/or vomit and/or instill fear in your child the first time you see live head lice on his/her head.  Silent screams behind the child’s head are acceptable, provide that you can turn it into a pretend yawn when he/she catches you.  Practice the mantra that lice only jump onto clean heads, just as your own mother told you.

12. Start making handmade Christmas cards/gifts for your children’s classmates now.  It will buy you much needed kudos later in the school year.  There is nothing worse that feeling Parent Envy when your children arrive home with something bespoke and handmade.  Beat the others to it.

13. Lunchboxes.  Give me strength.  I always thought that I’d be one of those moms who made nutritious lunches like carrot sticks and homemade hummus, or flasks filled with chunky soup.  There’s close to mutiny here most mornings.  And that’s only over the fruit. It’s not just green or black grapes.  It’s the size of the grapes.  Expect each child to have a different preference.  Sometimes I think my children should work for the EU on fruit specifications, such are their nit-pickiness over the goddamn grapes.  As soon as I get into a groove on lunches that both children like and eat, they change their minds.  

14.  Drinks containers.  Don't get me started on this - I’ve bought all price ranges and specifications, but they all leak and it’s ALL MY FAULT.  Apparently.  Pointing out design flaws to your child is pointless.  You wrecked it to ruin their day.

15. Expect to turn into a blubbering mess, at least twice a year, crying uncontrollably when some cute kid, that you don’t remember ever seeing before, sings a solo of anything at a school event.  Or End of Year events when Sixth Class pupils do or say something that refers to their final days and weeks in school.  Or the whole school sing the National Anthem.  Try to redeem yourself (and most importantly, your child’s reputation) by pretending that you have hay fever/dust in your eye.

16.  At the End Of Year, clear a room and every windowsill in the house to accommodate the onslaught of a years’ worth of returned artwork, projects and work sheets.  Expect to feel extremely sentimental about ever last mark your children make on a sheet of paper.  Know that someday, the sentimentality must wane and there may be a bonfire.  A large one.  Failing that, you can sign up to be a participant on a TV show for Hoarders. 

17.  Learn a super fast/cheap/impressive recipe for ‘tray bakes’ for school sports day/cake sale, etc.  I’ve just discovered a fab recipe for a Rice Krispie assemblage.  Just melted Mars bars, butter, Krispies and chocolate.  No cooking requires and the children think I’m a genius.  The calorie content is up for discussion in another blog on a different day.  I've come a long way since my early tray baking days.  My first attempt was a lemon cheesecake for the first school sports day.  I didn't quite get the concept of a tray bake being something that you could pick up without a plate and a fork.  I later found out that my cheesecake was set aside for the Bishop to eat later, but in all of the sports day fuss, no one remembered to take it out of the fridge.  I stuck with the Rice Krispies after that.

18.  If above mentioned tray bakes turn out a mess, sprinkle them with icing sugar.  This magic dust can transform any baking disaster.  A fancy doilie will complete the Great British Bake Off feel. 

19.  Expect your children to sense your fear.  The morning that you have sweat rolling down your back because you have an important meeting and you need the Getting Ready For School and Out The Door to run like clockwork.  It will all go in the s-l-o-w-e-s-t … o-f … m-o-t-i-o-n-s ...

20.  Like every cliché ever told, it all going by in the blink of an eye, so enjoy.  Some day you can look back and smile about it all.  Or else, get revenge.

This Father's Day

It’s the beat up jeep, in need of a wash at the filling station.  The windows opened.  A midlands radio station blaring out dodgy Irish country music on a Saturday in June.

It’s seeing Kimberly Mikado biscuits on a supermarket shelf and mouthing ‘Mick-a-Doo’ to myself.

It’s regret that he can’t see my sons ever-growing farm set.

It’s saying ‘where my parents live’ and checking myself, remembering that it’s singular now.  

It’s the aroma that is released when I rake up sun dried cut grass in my garden and I’m transported back to a hay field over thirty years ago.  We drive through a marshy field called ‘Nancy’s Bottom’ to get there.  We laughed then, and I still smile now, thinking about the unfortunately named field.  My Mam has brought the tea in a flask, or maybe a bottle, wrapped in a towel, if the inner flask has shattered.  Super soft sandwiches.  He’s in his bare belly.  A farmers’ tan, long before the phrase was coined and a sunburnt, freckled back.  A slight pot belly protrudes over his workman’s trousers.   The smell of sweat from a day of back breaking work. 

It's him walking into a shop on a hot day, just wearing a vest, or an unbuttoned shirt and just not giving a shit.

It’s the arguments about England leaving the European Union, knowing he would disagree with my views.

It’s him, half greeting me over the Sunday papers, barely lifting his head. 

It's driving past the non de script restaurant where we all stopped for lunch on the way to my brothers wedding in Kerry two years ago.

It's sadness that he missed seeing Kilmainhamwood U14 GAA team win the county final. How proud he would have been, of Kaylem, the first born grandson.

It’s imagining him laughing down the pub, telling his friends about me ploughing a field in a JCB Fastrac.

It’s me hugging Elizabeth Mc Caul, a ploughing champion.  We cry for her dead husband and my dead father.

It’s the neatly ironed rail of short sleeved shirts still hanging there.  Some of the ones he got for his birthday, just six weeks before he died.   I wonder if he even wore them?  White, with red, navy and pale blue in a thick checked pattern.  White, with a lime green and blue, in a thin checked pattern. My failsafe gift for the man who was hard to buy for.  The gift that was not fit for purpose unless it had a pocket large enough for a packet of 20 Major.  The times that the cigarettes so infuriated me, that I bought him ‘non cigarette friendly’ shirts with no pockets.  As if this mini protest gesture by me would make any difference.    

No such gift dilemma this Father’s Day

Padraig Pearse Gave Me Bingo Wings

You may say that this is a wild statement, but it’s true.  Padraig Pearse (and the six other signatories of the Proclamation) have given me bingo wings.  Sure aren't they getting blamed for the state of the nation, so why not take my baggage too? Anyway, they are dead, so it’s not like they have the opportunity to defend themselves.   And no, I'm not being disrespectful. If I was, I would have printed their heads on chocolate bars, or tea towels, or something.

In case you don’t know what that means, ‘Bingo Wings’ is the loose skin that people (but mostly associated with women) of a certain age can develop on their upper arms.  I assume the term comes from sedentary ladies playing Bingo, waving their arm in the air when they win a line.

Of course I’m in denial that I could be that certain-age-woman whose body starts to do mean things on it.  Even though the signs are all around me, for example, my little girl telling me recently that I ‘was too old for a girl band, but okay to join a choir’.  It’s much easier to blame Padraig.  The last six months at work have been extraordinarily busy for me, with the Kildare 1916 commemorations programme.  It was around the clock, nights and weekends and Bank Holidays.  I went to bed worrying about it and waking up exhausted from it, on top of an already heavy work load.  

As a result, exercise and healthy eating went out the window and the bingo wings and a paunch appeared.  I am convinced that if Padraig and the lads didn’t go ahead with the Easter Rising, that my bod would be in prime NCT condition, because this development has nothing to do with my 42 and a half years on earth.  Nothing, I tell you. 

I considered taking up swimming or joining a gym to tone up, but the logistics of all that just doesn’t suit me right now.  So, I decided that my jungle garden will be my very own gym. 

I recently did a swapsies on my always-breaking-down ride-on lawn mower and bought a push power mower.  It’s easier to maintain and better for my higgledy-piggledy garden.  And better for my bingo wings.  The power drive stopped working soon after I bought the new mower, but I have yet to return it for servicing.  I figure that this is a strategic move, as the bingo wings workout would be all the better without it.  

The weather forecast for last week’s Bank Holiday Monday predicted heavy rain and storms.  There was the only full day that I’ve been at home and able to tackle the garden.  The grass was growing out of control. Sometimes I looked at the grass and it seems to grow before my eyes as fast as one of those speeded up time lapse videos.  I was a woman on a 

mission.

My outdoor gym was so hot that it also had a sauna effect.  But this sauna didn’t protect me from UV rays.  The sunscreen literally slid off my face in the heat and burned my face.  My arms were in shreds from thorns, I was covered in bruises, but boy, did my garden look good.  Despite my battered appearance, I pat my aching back for this genius tactic.  I am saving money on gym fees and on a gardener and my bingo wings will stop flapping in the wind.  Someday.  Soon.  

I’ve just about gotten over my 1916 fatigue and even managed to hum along enthusiastically to a rendition of ‘A Nation Once Again’ at a concert last night.  I’ve almost forgiven Mr Pearse and what he has done to me.  I empathise with him, organising a rebellion, in the absence of technology.  

Imagine how differently it could have turned out if he was able to send a text message the night previous to the Rising saying, ‘Lads, it’s all been called off’.   Where would we all be then ?

It's June, So It Is

It’s here, in case you hadn’t noticed.  June.

I know it’s here because …

 My new Gwen Stephanie lipstick melted into a blob in the car, all 28 squids worth

Freshly cut grass regrows the second my back is turned

The kitchen and bathroom are permanently covered in cut grass, tramped into the tiles, with wet feet from the paddling pool and 7pm water fights

School jumpers, shoes and homework notebooks look like they might disintegrate before my eyes and definitely won’t make it til the end of the school year

No amount of soaking feet in basins of soapy water can remove the dirt from little peoples toes. None.  Toes that I really could plant spuds in, or maybe tomatoes

Written homework is as enduring, and takes as long as walking the gadget aisles in Lidl with young children 

When I’m not gardening, I’m gouging thorns out of my fingers. Or my toes (When will I learn that gardening in flip flops is never a good idea).  Spud growing potential is pretty high for me too

Toasted bread is the closest thing to a cooked meal in the house

The children don’t believe me that it is actually REALLY, REALLY late and refuse to go to bed

the imminent return of the Leaving Cert makes me feel sick, even after all these years

The child who is allergic to summer clothes gives in, admits that ‘’it’s warm’’ and allows the surgical removal of a favourite hooded top and looks for a pair of shorts

The child who is allergic to summer clothes will only were shorts like ‘‘Joe and Tom’s’’, so I find myself stalking two boys to check out their threads

I can’t keep up with the notes in the school bag, with requests for odd sums of money and outlining details of end of year events, one thing more exciting than the other, and lament that my children have better social lives than I

The notes from school are only surpassed by flyers about summer camps.  They all cost a fortune and don’t suit a working momma’s hours.  I consider remortgaging the house just to get me by til August.

The sunsets take my breathe away.  The sunrises too.  And hawthorn in bloom.  And daisies. And roses.  And quite frankly, everything

I’m late for work because fine minutes in the garden in the morning turns into thirty

I already have a mild sense of panic about Back-to-School, even before the holidays have begun

The annual battle with fake tan begins.  The tan wins and I look like I’ve had skin grafts.  I wonder if the world could cope with my pasty legs this year

I’m thinking that September would be a good time to resume housework

I can sit by the roadside and gorge on a punnet of Wexford strawberries until I have a pain in my belly

I think that I’m lovely in my summer dress, until I see the photographs and realise that the lovely dress was totally see through.  Like Diana’s skirt in THAT photograph by John Minihan (from Athy, y'know ?) when she first got it together with Prince Charles.  When I was a child, I idolised her.  I didn't expect to emulate her quite like this.

Neighbours stop you while you are out walking the dog and hand you a freshly pulled lettuce

I eat the fresh lettuce standing by the sick, with a sprinkle of lettuce, but haven't washed it that well and feel the slime of a slug as I swallow.  I wonder if that means that I'm not a vegetarian any more

There’s a much needed Bank Holiday and the sun shines and it’s good to be alive.  Hooray !

My Empty Nest

It seems like my personal circumstances are as changeable as the weather these days.  I guess that’s the nature of most relationship breakups.  This weekend is a biggie for me as it’s my first weekend, in what seems like forever, without my children.  For the foreseeable future, I will have every second weekend to myself, sans enfants.  I’m pleased for them and relieved for all involved that we are at this stage, but bloody hell, when it actually comes, it’s a shock to the system. 

What to do with myself? 

Those that know stuff say that I need to tend to my ‘self-care’.  The phrase suggests ‘slow down’, ‘relax’, but all I can see is a long list of jobs that would be easier to tend to, without the assistance of two eager eight year olds.  

My 1.1 acre garden is a jungle.  Sipping tea, while watching the grass grow out of control does little for my stress levels.  I decided to tackle some of the most jungle-esque areas this morning.  I decided to mow until I ran out of petrol.  Nature saved me from myself when the skies opened, with rain, hailstones, thunder and lightning.  It’s way too wet to cut any more grass now and the soft rain and heat will trigger another growth spurt.  Fan flipping-fastic.  

I’ve just looked out on the garden, in all of its post-rain greenness.  It looks so pretty now.  I'll pat myself on the back for what I have achieved.  Enough hard work for one day.

I went on a night out on Friday and to a show in Dublin city yesterday afternoon.  There was alcohol, coffee, grown up jokes, food in a non-child friendly restaurant.  No pressure, no timetable.  No sad faces asking me to hurry up, or for salt and vinegar crisps in an establishment that only has cheese and onion.  

I got quite excited at the thought of such freedom two weekends out of four.  But simultaneously, I can see that I am transferring my anxiety about the children onto my dog and found myself fretting, hoping that he is okay, thinking that ‘I really should get home’.  The turbo boost button will take some time to release.

On a practical level, it’s so much easier to feed just myself, without the pressure of preparing balanced meals for two children who never seem to want to eat the same thing at the same time.  As I write, I am having a fried egg for lunch, with toasted naan bread and an apple for dessert.  There's so little washing up !  I may never cook again, on my solo weekends.  The way I’m planning and plotting, there just won’t be time.

In the last year, on Saturday evenings, My Boy has administered an injection into my thigh.  I find it very tricky to do it myself, partly because the device isn’t very user friendly, but also because I know it’s going to hurt.  My Boy has a knack and has it done before I have time to wince.  This weekend, I felt a bit sorry for myself, futtering with the device, all on my lonesome.  But I did it.

‘See Hudson’, I said to my dog.  ‘I CAN do this’.  He acknowledged my achievement, wagging his loyal tail, on his over sized bum.  This new arrangement is suiting him well so far.  He had the longest walk in ages yesterday and I’ll treat him to the same today.  His ass and my bingo wings will soon be kicked into shape.

I’ve had whole two days with no announcements about any else’s bowel movements.  Nor did anyone pass any notice of mine.  There was no beating on the door when I was in the shower and no one passed comments about my wardrobe choices, wobbly bits, wrinkles or bodily hair.

I read (some of) yesterday’s newspapers and some of the previous fortnights too.  I’m catching up on writing and ideas for writing.  I’ve the enthusiasm to start two paintings for ridiculously overdue wedding presents.  I’m looking forward to spending time with my Mam.  Treating her for all of her kindnesses.  A days shopping.  An overnight stay in a hotel. 

In the middle of all of this activity, I am missing my darling children.  It’s the background noise, the awareness of them pottering around with me, the constant third eye that you have as a parent, knowing where they are and what they are up to.  Kissing a grazed elbow, stroking their soft hair.  The incessant questions.  The house is so quiet without them.  

This new beginning for all of us is daunting and exciting.  I’ve five hours left before I collect the children.  I guess that I should make the most of it.

Eurovision

Were ye watching it ? Were ye ?  

Like most things in my life, my children made me do it. 

Yip. 

We watched the Eurovision.  Well, most of the final on Saturday night anyway.

The pair of them were hooked from the start.  Everything about the show was bizarre – ideal viewing for two curious eight year olds.  The outfits, complete with their own light fittings.  Many ensembles looking like they might give friction burns.  Big hair, that might spontaneously combust.  The lighting and set design was pretty amazing, in an enormous space that made you feel that all of the residents of the EU could fit in. The live audience had arm bands with lights on, making them all twinkly and, according to my children, ‘awesome’. 

My boy said ‘eh Mam, there’s lots of … you know …’ pointing his head downwards, awkwardly.  ‘It’s okay Leon.  You can say BREASTS and yes, there’s lots of them.’  Right there in our faces. 

Thankfully, my boy is more interested in geography than breasts, He was fascinated by the multilingual speakers and he had a succession of quick-fire questions about the origins of accents all thought the show.  I would have needed a globe, a PhD in  Linguistics and a translator to keep up.  I spoofed my way through the conversation on European geography, but couldn’t quite explain why Australia was represented, but not other countries. 

I thought their interest would wane through the show, but the opposite happened, once the voting started.  The new score system (whereby the traditional vote from participating countries took place first and the telephone votes were added on subsequently) meant that the scores changed very quickly and the overall winner (Ukraine) appeared as a dark horse at the final hour.  It was a bit like a penalty in extra time.

Nicky Byrne and the Irish entry didn’t make it through to the final from the semi-finals on Thursday.  It was a shame really as the tune, ‘Sunlight’, seemed as good as any other Eurovision ditty on the night.

I am convinced that OTHER FORCES were at play.

I fear that Europe may have used the Eurovision as a ‘protest vote’ of sorts, to punish us for Ireland’s flahoolock spending in the past, knowing that Nicky Byrne is son-in-law of former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern.   Picture them, sitting in France thinking, ‘We will soften their cough.  This will show them.  Zero points'.  Usually a dapper dresser, Nicky’s jacket didn’t help the case at all.  It all just looked, well, too 'autumnal' for my liking.  Who wants to look at something so unseasonal in the heat in May?  Maybe, by some weird osmosis, science thing going on, Nicky has absorbed his father-in-law's liking for dodgy jackets ?

As a child, we tuned into the Eurovision religiously.  Although it was on in the background, no-one really paid attention until Ireland and England’s entries were played.  Then we tuned out again until the voting.  Our main aim was that Ireland would score higher than England.  If England gave us a lower score than we gave them, we would shake our fists at the televisions. 

My favourite Eurovision memory is of when Nicole, from Germany won the competition.  It was 1982 and I was in First Class.  The song was ‘A Little Peace’.  As far as I remember, she sang the song initially in German, but when she won the competition, her encore was in German and English (This may not be accurate, but it’s how I remember it).  She was only 17 when she won, with big hair and a guitar.  I had a major girl crush. 

The following week, our class teacher Mrs Tinnelly, obviously as taken by the lovely Nicole as me, got the class to learn the song off by heart.  ‘We are feaaa-thers oooon the breeeezzzze.  Siiiinnngg with meeee, my song of peeeaacce’.  Remember? 

You can listen to it here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o67vWrkWUAQ

… And of course there was Johnny Logan, crying in his white suit when he won in 1980 (or was that Alex Higgins when he won the World Snooker Championships? Or did they both cry ?) …

… And Linda Martin’s magnificent hair and one padded shoulder …

… And even though they were English, the girls from Buck’s Fizz whipping off their long skirts.  Europe gasped as Cheryl Baker and the other one revealed their mini skirts. 

We made new memories last Saturday night, us three pass-remarkable-couch-potatoes.  I’d highly recommend watching the Eurovision next year, but only with children.  If you haven’t any of your own, borrow some for the occasion and embrace your inner cheese.

(Janey, that's a lot of 'big hair' references in one little blog)