Holding Hands in the Country Side: Mother's Day

I wake on Mother’s Day, in true Irish Mammy style – wrecked with guilt.  I am missing out on a family mass and gathering of my mother's clan.  I know that she would have liked me there, but the 9.30am service in Co Louth would require a 7am start, on the morning after the clocks had moved forward.  Besides, it is Mr Private’s birthday.  It would have been unfair to ask him to make the trek - This particular baptism of fire is a step too far for any Birthday Boy.  

It was also my first Mother’s Day without my children, as it wasn’t ‘my weekend’.   I was fine about it until the actual day and woke feeling a terrible a pang, missing the little critters terribly.  

In the build up to Mr Private’s birthday, I get myself in a heap about a gift for him.  He’s been very generous to me, so I want to get him something special.  Option A is to buy something expensive.  Option B, something thoughtful.  I decide on Option B, something I make, inspired by an earlier conversation we had.  I know that he will appreciate the effort.  Besides, Option A brings me out in a sweat – Let’s face it, men are hard to buy for at the best of times.  When you don’t know someone that well, it’s trickier.  I'm still in the process of finding out important stuff, like what kind of chocolate he likes (no nuts, but yes to rock salt).  I consider going through his wardrobe to get ideas for a gift of clothes, but I’m afraid of being caught in the act by him and appearing like a Bunny Boiler.  Yes, the handmade is easier in a sense, albeit 10 hours of work late at night.  Before I present it, the familiar feeling of self-doubt creeps in – there was no gift receipt with this one.

My son was with me when I buy a birthday card for Mr Private days previously.  I don’t think he notices me browsing, as I am also buying a Mother’s Day card for my Mam, but he does.  My children know about Mr Private, but haven’t met him.  My boy directs me to the cards intended for male ‘friends’ – you know the ones - insipid watercolour paintings of golfers, or a sail boat.  He says, ‘these would be good Mam, because he is JUST your friend’.   I agree.  I purchase the blandest blue checkered ‘On Your Birthday’ card in the shop and the child looks satisfied.

For Mr Private’s birthday, he wants to go to see Kerry V Cavan in Breffni Park, in Cavan Town.  He had flagged this before we discovered that the clash of dates.  I joke that there is nowhere else that a Meath woman want to be on Mother’s Day?  The only thing comfortable about this encounter is the green and gold strip of the Kerry team, mirroring the colours of the Royal County.  For the first time ever, I shout for Cavan, as the underdog and Mr Private, for his home county of Kerry.  Throughout the match, memories of GAA matches with my father run through my mind.  Hill 16, amid a sea of Dubs.  Brian Stafford, cool as anything stepping back to take a free.  David Beggy, running like lightening.  Big lumps of men like Joe Cassells and Liam Hayes.  Tanks of lads like Mick Lyons.  ‘The physical Meath team’, as Pat Spillane called them.  What would Da have thought of me standing here today?  'Be the hokey'.  I watch children now, in their county colours, too wee to be able to see the match properly, only interested in going to the tuck shop, and yet becoming alert every time the crowd cheers. 

Like the family wedding I attended with Mr Private, it probably seems ‘too soon’ to introduce him to my mother.  But I had a longing to see her on Mother’s Day, so we make a detour to home farm on our return journey.  He slags me about really being from Cavan, given the proximity to the border, but as everyone knows, borders are more important, the closer you get to them.  I tell him if I was a Cavan woman, that I wouldn't have splashed out on a e3 bet with him, on which team would win.

Mr Private changes his mind about not wanting birthday cake when he sees my mother’s rather impressive home baking, complete with an impromptu candle.  On our route back to Kildare, I point out house after house where my relations live, where I went to school and I tell stories about people who influenced my life, special teachers who helped shape the person that I have become. 

I pick my children up at 8pm.  They have Mother’s Day cards for me that they made at their child minders on Thursday and manage to keep a secret until then.  I’m impressed as much by the secret-keeping as I am with the hand crafted cards.  When I had dropped off my children’s weekend bags at their school the previous Friday afternoon, I had spotted another card in my daughter’s hand, but she hid it from me.  I remind her now, asking if she made me a card at school.  As soon as the words come out of my mouth, the penny drops.  The card isn’t for me at all, it’s for her father’s girlfriend.  I want to kick myself.  She over explains that she had already made one for me and I reassure her, telling her that she is a sweet girl and what a kind thought that was.  More pangs of guilt for things being as they are for my precious babies.

Their body clocks are confused with the change of time, but I let them stay up late for extra special Mother’s Day cuddles on the couch.  My Mam texts me later and gives Mr Private the seal of approval.  Feck, I may hold onto him so, for another while anyway. Oh, and he loved his birthday present, genuinely.  Good result all around (apart from the GAA match, which ended in a draw).

Holding Hands in the Countryside: The Wedding

Quite a number of individuals who could collectively be called CCWLLL (Citizens Concerned With Lucina’s Love Life) have made contact with me, asking how ‘the wedding went’. For those of you who didn’t read my blog-before-the-previous-one, I wrote about a family wedding reception that I attended with Mr Private, my first time to meet any of his family.  The jist of the blog was that I hoped my very un-me flowery dress would act as camouflage and that I would disappear into floral wallpaper that one would expect to find in a hotel.

My trip to the wedding involved 4, yes, 4, train changes.  There were no problems with missed connections and the traipsing between trains wasn’t as bad as it sounded.  I sat beside a lovely woman on the train destined for Cork.  She was stuck on a crossword clue in the Farmer’s Journal magazine.  She was surprised that I was familiar with the Journal.  I told her that my mother still bought it even after my father died.  Before long, we had exchanged stories about all things country, including road frontage, in-laws, marriage break-ups, grandchildren and wills.  I confined in her about how nervous I was about the wedding and she does her best to reassure me, like a surrogate Irish Mammy, before I left her to board my fourth train for the day. 

It was amusing to consider my journey, from the 7am commuter train to Dublin, packed with The Suits, doing an hour’s work before they hit the city, to the increasingly gradual slow-down of pace, over a number of hours, the  closer I came to Kerry.   It seemed like everyone was in holiday spirit, but it was mid-term after all.  I felt a pang of guilt that I wasn’t with my own children on their mid-term.  I put my ‘selfish bitch’ thoughts on the shelf for future perusal. 

My pre-booked taxi driver knew my work counterpart in Kerry and I was happy to speak to him about Kildare’s 1916 programme – a grasp at something familiar.  The unfamiliar view of misty mountains from the hotel was calming and beautiful all the same.  The guna felt deas when I put it on and the make-do hair and make-up was decent enough.   Meanwhile, Mr Private sent some photos that confirmed that the bride had indeed said ‘I do’ and was on his way.  

The saxophone player’s tunes wafted across the hotel reception and loud enough to drown any inner scream of ‘what the hell am I doing here’, while I sipped a cup of coffee that I couldn’t taste. Mr Private arrives and I’m aware that I’ve never seen him in a suit before.  He is looking dapper and as radiant as the beautiful bride.  He’s smiling at me and the trip seems worthwhile now.

Time is short and the bell rings to call us for the meal.  I feel a cold sweat develop as I realise that I have yet to meet the bride and groom and that I have no idea who I will sit with for dinner, while Mr Private sits at the top table.  He has it all sorted and it’s all good.  After the meal, I meet various relations and Mr Private introduces me as his ‘girlfriend’.  They smile and nod, but otherwise don’t bat an eyelid.  I expect an interrogation, but it doesn’t come.  Maybe it’s a down-South thing, or perhaps they just aren’t as nosey as my family (myself included), who would put any new suitor through a Quick Fire Round of questions on first sight.  The younger relations though, belie this, with the teenagers blushing, without making eye contact, mortified that Mr Private is holding my hand while the younger ones look at me, their eyes on sticks, the unknown creature in the flowery dress with the thick Meath accent.  I’m introduced to Mr Private’s male friends, with warm, soft handshakes.  It’s my turn to blush now, wondering what, if anything, he has told them about me.

Mr Private brings me out to dance and he’s beaming.  Is he as mindful as I am that we have never danced together before?  Thankfully, he doesn’t copy my dance moves, as that is a sack able offence. He sits down to chat to his friends, while one of the cousins pulls me back out on the dance floor, to the circle of girls.

I feel like I belong.

Holding Hands in the Countryside: Our First Tiff

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Myself and Mr Private had our first tiff, although it was far from a door-slamming/raised voices/finger pointing affair.

I, and eleven others were invited to speak at 'Strictly Speaking', a fund-raising event by Athy Toastmasters, where we were each given two random topics to speak about for 2-3 minutes.  The contestants were to be scored in 'Strictly Come Dancing' style, by a panel of four judges.  As the event got closer, I got more and more nervous.  I really wanted a bit of support, especially after one of the event organisers, Maggie, sends an email encouraging us to bring friends and family.  None of my family live locally and most of my friends in Athy have young children, with all of the logistics of childcare, so I didn't ask any of them to come along. Of course, I would know lots of people there, but it's not the same as having someone special, clapping that bit louder for you.

I thought that Mr Private was elsewhere that weekend, but when I found out that he would be 'around' after all, I sent him a text message the night before and asked him to come along.  He sent back a vague text not committing to anything.

The following morning, the 'Day Of', I text him again.  His reply was a firm 'no', with an excuse, equivalent to 'I'm washing my hair'.  My text in return said 'fine', but of course I wasn't fine.  If I was standing in front of him, he would have gathered that I was raging and disappointed, in equal measures.  Maybe if I had put a string of emojis with angry and sad faces in the message, he would have better understood. That's the thing about text messages though, it can be difficult to read 'tone'.

I recalled how out of place I felt at Mr Private's family wedding a few weeks previously, hoping my flowery dress would camouflage me into the background. 'You fecker', I thought to myself, 'I did that for you'.  Aside from that, I thought that he would been curious to see a whole other side of me, the Public Lucina.  I was out of sorts all afternoon, upset, with the nerves building in my belly, but busying myself with children and Saturday chores.

Mr Private sent me another message, asking how I was.  I text back saying that I was still 'fine', but that 'I am tired of going to events on my own'.  He asked me to call him, but I said I was busy, and I was. Truth is, though, there would have been tears, and I felt a bit silly about that.

In the meantime, a fellow contestant in the Strictly Speaking, the lovely Trish, called me to see if I wanted a lift to the event, she being as nervous as I, bless her wee socks.

As I got ready for the evening, I called Mr Private.  He told me that he was just out of the shower, getting ready to come with me.  Words tumbled out of his mouth, saying how sorry he was, that he didn't realise that the night was such a big deal to me.  I explained that I was now going with someone and I didn't want to let her down.  Mr Private stayed home and watched rubbish TV. The nerves eased after I did my first speech and we had a great night.  Throughout the night, Mr Private sent me lovely messages encouraging me along.

The following week, we meet for lunch and Mr Private listens to what I have to say, I mean, actually listens. He gets it.  I like him all the more now.   We are officially doing 'fine'.

Holding Hands in the Countryside : A Wisteria Wedding

It may seen a little 'soon', but Mr Private likes me enough to invite me to a family wedding, an important one that requires him to be on duty all day and sit at the top table, while I'll arrive, mid proceedings and wing it amid a sea of guests who already know each other. I haven't met any of his family yet, but sure, there's nothing like getting stuck in, right?

It seems like a great idea a week ago, but as the day drew close, a sick feeling that started in my belly has crept up my throat, the fear of being exposed, a la, The Emperor's New Clothes.

I'm on my way there now, via a complicated train route, that involves no less than 3 changeovers. That in inself is enough to stress me out.

Then there was the matter of the guna. As is typical of other shopping expeditions for clothes, I gave myself an hour to find something, in my old reliable, Buy Design ,still a relatively hidden gem in Crookstown, Co Kildare. Almost everything I admired on the hangers, I didn't like on myself. As Larry Gogan might say on the 2FM Just A Minute Quiz, 'they didn't suit ya'.

Then I broke the rules for the gal who 'doesn't do floral' and tried on a dress weighed down with a wisteria pattern. I smiled. 'Wisteria Drive' was the address for the "Desperate House wives' TV show. Scientific evidence that this was the frock for me.

I brought my mother shopping yesterday and made the fatal error of looking in the wedding worthy ensemble rails. The floral option seemed less and less of a good idea. But given that all of the acqutraments were already in place, I thought best to stick with Plan A.

I'm hoping that the hotel is one of those decorated with layers if textured pattern, so my guna will camouflage me into the background. Right now, 'wallflower' is sounding like an attractive option, provided at Mr Private can find me.

Wish me luck peeps

MineVention

Being a bigger child than my children, I couldn’t wait to tell them that I had tickets for MineVention in the RDS last weekend. Although they didn’t really know what they were going to, there was salty tears of joys, especially when they found out that they would also get to hang out with their niece Sienna.

According to their Facebook page, the event was 'An afternoon of Minecrafters and Gaming Fans to come together and show off their game skills while meeting and greeting their favourite Youtubers.'
A disclaimer stated that 'This is not an official Minecraft Event and is not approved or associated with Mojang.' Neither myself nor my children cared about its’ lack of official ness. This was where it was at.

To explain to you non-gaming people out there, at this event, you get the opportunity to meet people who are well-known (not sure I would go as far as say that they are actually famous) for making videos of themselves playing games online. I know, it sounds as bizarre as a Fine Gael WhatsApp group.

Thanks to lovely step-daughter, Zara Kelly who more festival-fit when it comes to events like this than I, we had VIP tickets. This allowed us an earlier entry time, before The Great Unwashed arrived. The children boasted to themselves about being VIP's although they had no clue what this meant. In adult terms, the golden ticket provided that glorious ideal of 'less queueing'.

The thing-to-do at these events is to meet the Youtubers, who sign their names beside their avatar photos, mounted on a canvas we purchased and to get photos taken. In reality, my children didn't know who all of the Youtubers were, but they were star struck anyway. It was lovely to watch these usually shy little people walk up to strangers and ask for autographs and to receive such a warm reception.

It was one of those coming-of-age days when I had a pain in my heart watching them, getting braver as the day went on. They collected 17 signatures in the end, including some from 'FutureTubers', up and coming whipper snappers. I resisted making a total show of my children and being a total-auld-wan by asking the Youtubers 'do you make any money out of this'. I'm just so fascinated by this other world and by people who get off their bums (or in this case, sit on their bums) and make something out of nothing. Fair bloody play to them.

I brought my boy to the toilets, where it seemed that he needed to spill more than he needed to take a leak. In fact, he had himself in a heap. ‘Mam, how come I have only 8 subscribers on Youtube when Solly the Kid has LOADS? He’s sooo young (said the child who was born in 2007).

I had watched Solly on stage earlier that day - he is a beautiful kid, around 8 years old, who MC'd a stage and totally rocked the mic. 'A future in TV', I thought.

It was then, in the cubicle, that myself and my boy had a moment – I confided in him that I knew how he felt. I told him how I thought my blog would never reach the lovely rounded figure of 20,000 views. I lamented to the 9 year old that I can't capture statistics from Facebook to capture my readership. My boy, who can often be hard on me, looked into my eyes, with, what I can only describe as empathy.

Later that night I showed him the stats of my readership in Google Analytics. 'That many people in Russia read your blog Mam?' 'Yes', I said, and didn't bother to mention that they may be clicking onto my page by accident.

Online gaming will never be my thing, but the MineVention event was a total eyeopener for me. I noticed that a lot of children there were those that might be described elsewhere as geeks or nerds. There were a large proportion of young ones with sensory issues and disabilities. They all fitted in here, all connected.

I can see that I have passed on the I Just Want People To Like Me Gene to my son. It's a burden that he will carry throughout his life. If you would like to boost both my ever diminishing street cred and a little boy's ego, you can check out and subscribe to Leon's YouTube channel (and all 3 videos- get the finger out there son) 

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=acgH7wGdQMI

Thanks a thousand

Holding Hands in the Countryside: Valentine's Day

All these years later, I still have, in almost perfect condition, my first Valentine's Day card, received it in my first year in secondary school at the ripe old age of twelve, from First Kiss. I met him the previous summer on the 'swimming bus'.  There was a teenaged middle-man involved - my neighbour and First Kiss's cousin, dodging between the rows of seats, excitedly passing on information like a spy.

'He likes ya. Do you like him?'

There I am, slightly stunned and feeling totally out of my depth, but also very giddy with excitement, that a boy, any boy, this boy, would look at me that way.  I was speechless and responded with a series of shy nods of scarlet cheeks.

The middle-man negotiated that I sat beside First Kiss.  At some stage, he earned his pseudonym and kissed me. It was as harmless as a peck that you might administer on a newborn baby cousin, but it was electric all the same.

Meanwhile, one of the chaperones on the bus complained about the song wafting out of the bus radio, 'You're My Favourite Waste of Time', by mullet haired Owen Paul. He wore tight jeans, boot runners and a white off cut t-shirt.  I thought he was 100% gorgeous.  The chaperone ranted and raved about what she would do if her husband called her a 'waste of time', an angle I hadn't considered til then.  Maybe you'd call it my first introduction to feminism.

The promising start with First Kiss didn't go very far.  He lived two towns away from me and attended boarding school. It was 'in the olden days', pre mobile phone.  His out-of-the-blue Valentine's Day card months later made my cheeks burned when my mother handed it to me.  It was lovely, after all these years, that First Kiss sent me a birthday wishes this year. He seems to have made a full recovery from our short lived encounter.  It's probably fair to say that verrucas from the swimming pool would have lasted longer than our romance.

Until fairly recently, I wasn't holding out much hope of a Valentine's Day card this year.  I was preparing to mothball my Love Boots when Mr Private came along.  Given the chaotic time that I have had of late, there is a certain irony in the fact that I am seeing a therapist - I kid you not.  I tell him that I'll looking for a companion, not a counsellor.  He smiles at me and reassures me in his gentle lilting tones that I couldn't afford him anyway.  

There's the delicate matter of Valentine's Day.  It's all VERY SOON for laying all our aspirational cards on the table, with the actual cards that we chose. Mindful of my lectures from friends telling me to slow down and not wanting to sound too keen/desperate, I opt for humour, a card with a photograph of a husband and wife taken in 1930's Ireland, looking less than happy, entitled 'Happy Couple'.  Having embraced feminism (while to this day defending Owen Paul's 1986 tune), I also present him with a bunch of flowers.

There is no such faffing around with Mr Private's card to me though.  It declares, in red glitter, 'For my girlfriend'.  All that's missing is sound effects.

'Is that what I am then', I ask, 'your GIRLFRIEND ?'.  

He's saying nothing, but he's smiling again.  I think he wants to keep me.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGDuOw64R9M

Man of the Year 2016

It seems like it’s a bit late in the day/New Year to make an announcement about 2016.  Please forgive me dear reader.  I have had the plague and therefore, have been incapable of most important things in life, including writing.  However, my confinement did give me time to reflect, and in turn, to produce a robust shortlist and declare an overall winner of my Man of the Year 2016. 

My Dad

It’s 15 months now since you left us suddenly Da.  It was a great relief to get over that first horrible year of ‘firsts’ and the second Christmas without you was easier.  I even managed to extract Mam from the family farm in Meath for Christmas for the first time in over 40 years and come to Kildare.  What do you think of that? 

You will probably think it’s a pile of shite, but the reason for the nomination, is for the inner strength that I have developed this year and I’m 100% convinced that you sent it to me, regardless of what you say.  There have been strange happenings and lovely things that are beyond explanation that I can only attribute to you.  So suck it up Da and accept it. 

My Son

Darling Boy, I’m sorry.  Separation isn’t easy on children of any age and within that, some children hurt more deeply.  I wish I could take back every tear that you have shed – I’d take them in lashes if I could.  For every time you rested your head on my chest, the hugs and kind words.  For taking my hand (even in public).  Thank you for coming back to me.

The Date

For restoring my faith.   Sorry about the broken leg, not that I am taking responsibility for that.  Between the two of us, a lot of healing took place.  And fun.  Lots of fun. Just bad timing babe. 

Feckin’ Fecker

There are many that will raise an eyebrow about you making the MOTY16 list, because let’s face it, Feckin’ Fecker, you weren’t that nice to me.  But I have taken on board everything that you said to me, about me.  You had me pretty well sussed, which I didn’t give you credit for at the time.  Still, a Christmas or New Year text message wouldn’t have killed you, would it?  

Man in Uniform

For the pep talk.  For encouraging me to stand up for myself, when the words wouldn’t come.  For the reassuring nod when words weren’t an option.  For giving me my life back.

The Foot Soldiers

Too many soldiers to refer to individually.  For all of the random acts of kindness.  The friendships. You know who you are.

Ernest Shackleton

Ernest, you were sort of foisted on me within my work portfolio about 18 months ago and from the start, you were trouble.   Every element of the sculpture commission– the eTenders procurement process, the opposition to the sculpture from a small, but vocal group (they called you a British mountaineer, amongst other things, you know), the tight time frame, the location for the sculpture - was tedious and stressful.   You brought tears and sleepless nights and nightmares.  Had it not been for the good humour and amazing skill of sculptor Mark Richards, I may have gone insane in the run up to the installation.  To keep an element of surprise for the formal unveiling, I was hoping that you would be, quite literally, under wraps, during installation.  That wasn't to be.  En route to oversee the installation, my phone beeped with photos and videos of the sculpture arriving in Emily Square in Athy.  The reaction was an overall ‘wow’.  When your granddaughter was given a preview of the sculpture, she walked away.  I panicked that she didn’t like the representation, when in fact, she was overcome with emotion.  Your official unveiling on 30^th August last, received worldwide media attention worldwide.  I often visit you at weekends and without declaring my association, I enjoy the reaction to you from visitors.   You really are a fine fella.  

Your unveiling, in the presence of the Irish Naval Service was not only one of last year’s highlights, but also of my modest career.   Like your Antarctic expeditions, to me, it was 'epic'.  So for that Ernest, congratulations, you are my Man of the Year 2016.