Musings on a Life Quite Ordinary

To Cursive or not to Cursive

2018-09-24T13:26:00.001+01:00

Barely a month back into the new school year and it's been great.

The routine is back in place, variations of the all important five a day are going into lunch bags so we can all pretend they are being eaten, we haven't run out of loo roll since August and I have the dog to myself.

The only downside is homework. (Insert dramatic sigh here)

With the just about exception of English, because of the reading, I hated it all through my own school years and am close to hating my children's homework even more.

Each year I have a nemesis. Last year it was prime numbers, the year before it was Irish verbs and the trauma of the year they changed how to do long division still hasn't left me. The challenges vary every year, sometimes they creep up on me, others I have realised so late in the year that it's just plain embarrassing. This year however, it became apparent on day one of homework that cursive writing with my 6 3/4 year old was going to be the thing that pushes me back into the arms of my strong coffee and hob nob habit.

It has been explained very clearly and kindly for the third year in a row by our child's teachers that cursive from the beginning is best. If we just put in the hard work with them now, it will pay off down the road. Our child will learn to write better, will learn to read better by identifying word shapes and it's easier to learn print after cursive than to learn cursive after print. The last one I could not agree with more, as that's exactly what I'm trying to do right now at fo....... Ahem - at my age.

I have my own style of writing. It's an eclectic mix of print, calligraphy, upper and lower case back to front sort of a thing that has taken me years to perfect. I can read it just fine but I can't promise anyone else could. It does not however, resemble anything even close to cursive writing.

So, back to school for me, because obviously, in order to help my son with his homework, I'm going to have to learn how to do it first. Naturally, my first port of call is the Internet. In this case, however, the world wide web has not been my friend. Do you know how many types of cursive exist? I don't, because I had to stop counting when it got dark and the battery died on my phone.

So I had a brain wave - ask my son to show me what his teacher showed him. I must say, for a child who is still not 7, he has been incredibly patient with me. He has given me my own pencil and paper, has suggested I keep the big yellow eraser on my side of the table and turned on the calming play list from my phone to sooth me as we work. It's very Ed Sheeran heavy, so we started with writing Ed Sheeran in cursive. After 15 minutes and hand cramp, I had mastered Ed, even with the upper case "Eh" and everything.

As you can see from the example at the top of this post, I'm progressing nicely. I know what you're thinking, but no, I did not get my son to write that word for me. I didn't even need to use spell check for it. I still did of course, but didn't actually need to.

This week my son is teaching me to write the letter F. Or "FUH" as he calls it. Did I mention I have issues with phonetics too? No? Another time then.

The Thing About Grief

2015-02-26T17:46:00.000+00:00

As adults, we understand death is an inevitable and natural part of life. Obviously, it doesn't make dealing with it any easier, but when your family loses someone integral and important, a person who has been in your childrens lives for their whole lives, it doesn't seem so natural anymore. Telling your children that their loved one they adore is dead has got to be one of the most gut wrenching and awful things you have to do as a parent.

Explaining there are no more chances to chat, cuddle, learn from that person or just phone them up to see how they're doing feels wrong in every way. Death feels even more unfair when you have to explain it to a child.

Their ability to live in the moment is obviously a wonderful gift but perhaps also a clever coping mechanism for a child faced with the reality of mortality. If you could get a little respite from grief in the wonder of a box full of toys, building a fort from cushions and duvets or bashing some pots and pans together, wouldn't you?

It's when that respite is gone and they panic because you're popping out to buy bread or one of you feels unwell and they stay awake to check on you every so often, just in case. It's those things that make it all harder.

The thing about grief is that it isn't just one emotion or reaction. It's an ongoing process filled with sadness, confusion, fear, anger and emptiness. It's huge to deal with as a rational adult, never mind as a child. The experts say be honest and clear, tell the truth in an age appropriate manner and don't say anything that could cause confusion. Say the person has died, not passed away because the word died is clearer and doesn't leave a possibility of return. However, in our house, electronics die and get recharged on the kitchen counter, so that advice didn't really help.

When something bad happens to your family, you feel out of control and in some sense a liar to your children. You promise them everything is fine, everyone is fine and you will never leave them. As a parent, you feel bullet proof, nothing and no one will every take you away from your kids. One day though, you will be taken from them and they will need everything you can give them now while you're here to help them learn to live without you, because the worst thing about grief is, it never goes away.

Hair Cut Hell

2014-11-01T21:51:00.001+00:00

My toddler has beautiful long, thick, silky hair, each lock ending in a curl so perfect, it melts my heart. It's the kind of hair most of us can only dream of having and I love it dearly. So much do I love it, that when people ask me how old my daughter is, I hardly ever bother to point out anymore that he's my son. Although his almost constant wearing of a spider man costume and deep as Barry White voice should be the only clues required.

Just sayin'.

My son is utterly convinced that if he goes to the barber shop and gets his hair cut, it will hurt. I have no idea how this idea got into his little head, but I find it adorable when he holds onto his golden locks with his little chubby hands and squeals "no cut my hair, it will ow me". I cannot go through with it.

So what I'm wondering is why should he get his hair cut?

Pressure from other people has bothered me and my other half for quite a while already, but why is it anyone else's business?

We all know our kids childhoods go by in the blink of an eye. There's a high chance that some day, my little boy will be forced to conform to an adult world than demands he look and behave a certain way. If I'm around to see that day for any of my children, I know I will feel sad inside. Ideally, they will find a way of life or job that they adore and makes them so happy they jump out of bed every morning eager to work. Of course I know that's just an ideal, so who knows what's really ahead of them.

So, until that day of possible conformity, my golden haired boy will let his locks fly wild and free from his lovely head until he decides that he wants to cut it.

Wet Wet Wet

2014-10-20T15:08:00.000+01:00

There were many things I didn't know about being a parent when my family started and I'm sure there are many more I have yet to learn.

One thing I definitely didn't realise until my children started school was that whatever time I had to myself at the weekend before reduced even more when they got into extra curricular activities.

This past weekend, one of their activities was a sponsored 6 kilometre walk. My husband did it last year, so this year was my turn. It was also my 6 year old sons first time to do the entire 6 kilometres on his own feet.

It is probably important that I mention I got home 2 hours before the walk having spent most of the previous 22 hours away from home on the hen night of my brothers lovely bride to be. I spent approximately 16 of those hours, eating, drinking, chatting and being very merry. It was fantastic, however, the persistent headache and permanent dry mouth didn't make what lay ahead any easier.

We are very lucky to live close to a beautiful wide open plain where this walk was taking place. We make use of it all the time but it is wide open, so we pay very close attention to the weather forecast.

Some weather forecasters have a sick sense of humour though, as was the case with this day.

Starting Point:
As a large group of us set off straight into quite a bracing wind, a light rain begins to fall. Nobody is deterred, the forecast said it would be just a few light showers, nothing we couldn't handle. The rain increased with such ferocity that we all gave up on umbrellas and even hoods within minutes. Rain gear was futile.

Kilometre 1:
As the driving sideways rain pelted down on us, I turned to another mum walking beside me and asked had we passed the half way mark yet. There was a sheet of rain running down her face, inside and outside her glasses, but I'm pretty sure she gave me a pitying look. My thighs were so saturated that they must have weighed an extra stone each.

Kilometre 2:
As we persevered, the usual banter of such a walk, turned more towards swearing and exclamations of COME ON! and WHAT THE HELL? The rain developed a method of falling up as well as downwards and sideways. I know this because my 6 year old started to make a strange noise brought on by rain going up his nose. This was a parenting first for me.

Kilometre 3:
At this point my 9 year olds leggings were so utterly drenched that she had to hold them up to avoid walking on them. I was very surprised there was no weather trucks out there observing this meteorological phenomenon. I know we live in Ireland but this was just ridiculous.

Kilometre 4:
The rain finally stopped, we were so grateful, so very very grateful. I noticed my shoelace was undone. As I bent to tie it, what felt like a bucket of water which had pooled in my hood rolled across my shoulders, around my neck and down my top. This was the point when the top I was wearing became completely transparent and I sincerely regretted my poor choice of undergarments. I had to put back on my supposedly water proof jacket despite being wet inside and out. I was feeling a little weepy by now, the children doubled over belly laughing at me didn't help.

Kilometre 5:
Having been given a treat by the walk organisers which the 6 year old devoured I noticed my 9 year old was walking a little stiffly. For her, the rain stopping meant the blustery wind had dried the sleeves of her corduroy jacket so well that they had stiffened. She literally couldn't bend her arms to eat her chocolate bar. I felt really bad, especially as her leggings were sagging so low now, she now had builders bum and a gap between the rigour mortised jacket and soggy leggings. While helping her get her clothes to co operate, she said, "Is this it Mum? Is this is how we all die?"

Kilometre 6:
Despite the 6 year old stopping for a few 30 second standing up naps and the 9 year old bemoaning dying young and missing Christmas this year, we managed to get to the end. Muddy, wet, cold and stepping in sheep poo just as we got to the car. We had made it and I'm one very proud Mama.

Things They Say Revisited

2014-10-09T11:36:00.000+01:00

Things They Say

Every so often I like to revisit a post I wrote a while ago about the funny things that come out of my kids mouths. Almost every day one of my three children say something that brings out a smile, a guffaw or if I'm really lucky, a tears running down my face belly laugh.

Allow me to demonstrate:

6 Year Old: You know how we have an extra chair at our table? Well let's go steal your brothers new baby and put her in it, then the kitchen will look all nice and neat for dinner.

9 Year Old: Mum, were you alive in the olden days?
Me: How olden are we talking?
9 Year Old: Before mobile phones.
Me: (sigh) Yes
9 Year Old: Oh my god! How did you play candy crush saga?

6 Year Old: My friends mum has a new boyfriend, he buys him presents.
Me: That's nice of him.
6 Year Old: Why don't you have a boyfriend?
Me: Because I'm with your Daddy.
6 Year Old: If you got a boyfriend, I wouldn't tell Daddy.

Toddler: I keeeeeeel you!
(I wouldn't let him drive my car).

6 Year Old: Well today we finished building the Millenium Falcon in school. It's the real life one, with lasers and everything. I'm exhausted.

9 Year Old: When will I know everything?
Me: Probably never.
9 Year Old: (sniggering) You're hilarious.

Toddler: Why you spray water at your pits?
(I was using deodorant)

6 Year Old: See that boy over there? He's a human. Like a real live one.

9 Year Old screaming from the sitting room: Look, I wrapped my brothers around each other and made them fall in love.

9 Year Old: Can we go to Lego Land some day?
Me: Sure.
9 Year Old: Can we go to Disney Land?
Me: Sure.
6 Year Old: Can we go to Infinity and Beyond?

Me: What would you like for lunch?
Toddler: Gum and cheese string.

6 Year Old: When I grow up I'm never eating stupid dinners.

Toddler walking around the house with a bookmark against his ear:
Hewwo?
Yeah?
K, bye?

Me: How was your day at school?
6 Year Old: I watched fourteen hours of Garfield and played shooting games.

The Perfect Sleep Over for 9 Year Olds

2014-09-29T21:00:00.003+01:00

It all began last Christmas when the then eight and a half year old decided that she would like to have a sleepover party for her birthday in June. Sure, we said, it's no big deal and in six months, she may have forgotten all about it. If she doesn't, it's only a few kids on the floor in sleeping bags watching movies and eating popcorn. Right?

Hmmnnn.

Closer to the day, it became clear that I may have under estimated the significance of the event. Especially when other parents told me they were viewing our house as the guinea pig for the whole sleepover party scenario before attempting it themselves. I was wished luck, patted on the back, advised to drink lots of strong coffee and told I would be seen when I came out the other side. I became alarmed and rightly so.

Now that I have in fact come out the other side, I feel it is my duty to help other parents out there whose daughters want to have all their friends spend the night. Here are my recommendations for a successful night.

Noise - multiple excited nine year olds make a lot of it and at a more or less constant rate. In my case, it was for seventeen hours, but it may aswell have been seventeen years, such was its effect. Noise reduction headphones can be helpful, but it is advisable to have at least one adult in the house at all times loaded with paracetomel listening out in case of emergency.

Food - It turns out that even if you do spend two hours making six large pizzas from scratch, nine year old girls prefer the frozen chips and garlic bread you bought as back up, so you will be eating pizza for three days.

Bathrooms - If for example, you have fourteen nine year olds in your house, then the only correct number of bathrooms to have in your home is in fact fourteen. Not only do they all need the bathroom at the same time, but they spend a LOT of time in there and are quite vocal about their need for privacy. Do not make my mistake and violate that privacy, you will be left a shivering wreck on the floor.

Space - One nine year old girl, does in fact take up more space than four large adult males. They bring stuff with them and lots of it. My advice is clear out all furniture from the entire living area of your home. Also, do it in advance, moving a large couch through double doors with two nine year olds chatting about bras on it, is not as easy as it sounds.

Bras - the subject of bras comes up a lot at this age. They make them for themselves out of vests, t-shirts and pyjama tops and ask an endless stream of questions about your bra usage. When did you get your first bra? What colour was your first bra? Are you wearing a bra now? Later in the night you get either - Why aren't you wearing a bra now? or worse, you really should be wearing a bra now. Try to hold it together during the questioning, fight the urge to cry and lament the days before babies when bras were optional, nine year olds don't need to know that stuff yet.

Disappearing Male Syndrome - At various points during the sleepover, you will notice that any males in the house simply disappear and cannot be found. Usually during the bra conversations. When this happens, check their car or the dark part down the side of your house.

Sleep - Just because it is a sleepover party doesn't actually mean that any sleeping will take place. It's best to accept that now and hide cans of red bull around the house for a hit when you need one. If you do in fact nod off, be warned - you will wake to at least two girls staring at you from a distance of two or three centimetres from your face. Head butting is often an unavoidable side effect of this.

Scary monsters - they are real and when one child spots one, they all start to see it and freak out. My advice is to divide and conquer. Get the ones who have seen the scary monster as far away from the ones who haven't as quickly as possible for a calm down. Don't bother being rational, it just comes off as ridiculous, better to tell them you bought a giant invisibility cloak for your house that stops the scary monsters seeing it. If they ask where you got it, tell them the Internet, nine year olds believe you can buy anything on the Internet. While doing this, get another adult to distract the ones who haven't seen the scary monster as best as they can, I found jelly beans bought almost five minutes, whereas popcorn only got three.

Dawn - Staying up all night and seeing the dawn is a seriously big deal when you are nine years old. My advice is to keep all the blinds and curtains closed with strategically placed blockers to prevent easy opening. Children are like Superman. They absorb the suns energy at dawn and use it for a supersonic burst of activity and an off the record increase in volume.

The Next Morning - Just because these girls have had little or no sleep for over twenty four hours doesn't mean they are not all hungry, lively, excitable, chatty, giddy or in any way subdued. You may look and feel like you've been in the ring with Mike Tyson, but they are ready to go. Breakfast is crucial. Carbo loading is a must. Make pancakes, toast and porridge with fruit. Under no circumstances are you to give these girls anything that contains sucrose. That is just asking for trouble.

Yourself - Where possible, do not plan any events or activity for the two weeks either side of the sleepover. Take multi vitamins, drink herbal teas, meditate and you can get through it.

You will be okay, see you on the other side.

You're welcome.

Reasons to be Grateful I'm a Mum

2014-09-23T12:32:00.002+01:00

9 and 1/4 years ago this week I became a parent for the first time. It was terrifying, overwhelming, emotional and exhausting. I was completely unprepared and believed I was going to be the cause of my baby spending years in therapy when she was older.

Now a mother to three balls of energy I have chilled out a lot, because, honestly, what other choice is there? I am coming close to the end of the nappy and sleepless nights part and have been reflecting on my family and the journey they have taken me on.

There are good days and bad days, just like every other home. I've stayed up nights worrying, I've pulled over and cried after a disastrous school run, headaches are a regular part of my life, I've reverted to hating homework again and many other things that every parent out there knows all about.

However, just like every other parent out there also knows, every so often one of those little things happen that make my heart sing and remind me of just how lucky I am to have ended up on the unexpected path my life has taken.

In no particular order, here are just some of the reasons I am glad I got to be a Mum:

I am hugged and kissed every single day.
I am never bored.
Almost anything can be turned into a cause for celebration.
I can go out with an array of stains on my clothes that would make Picasso blush and wear them like a badge of pride.
Baby talk is more entertaining than TV - e.g. the toddler screaming "Cock Porn" in the queue for pop corn at the cinema.
The feeling of a little body sleeping soundly in your arms.
Crocs and flip flops are mandatory.
Learning that finishing things around the house isn't that important.
Half a bottle of wine now has the same effect as a full bottle did ten years ago.
I can survive on a lot less sleep than previously believed.
The sound and feel against your skin of your baby feeding in the deepest darkest part of the night.
I am no longer squeamish.
All the great people I have met through my children.
The joy of a Phineas and Ferb marathon on a rainy Friday afternoon.
Learning that a lot of stuff I used to think mattered, really doesn't.
The times when I am the only one who can kiss it better.
Stretch marks aren't that big a deal.
Neither is getting back into a bikini.
Bed time chats about their day.
Learning that absolutely nothing feels better than unconditional love, both given and received.
Learning that if someone else thinks you're making a mess of it, that it's their problem, not yours.
My 6 year old wanting to marry me because he thinks I'm the most beautiful girl in the world.
Immediate understanding from other mums and dads.
I can play on the swings in the playground without looking like a weirdo.
I have a deeper love for and more appreciation of my parents.
Learning the world doesn't explode when you are late.
I have learned that family is the most important thing in the world, whatever form it comes in and no matter how hard it can be to keep together.
Waking up to three little people who are happy to see me every morning, even if it is 5.30.

From Baby to Batman

2013-06-27T18:23:00.000+01:00

I still think that my middle child has just started montessori, yet the other day while I was waiting for him to come back from his first ever school tour on his first ever school bus, I realised how close the countdown to "Big School" really was.

He's just a little guy, he still says schweep instead of sleep and crap instead of clap. He doesn't know anyone in what will be his new class, what if he's lonely? Or what if he's too shy to ask to go to the toilet and has an accident? What if all the other kids know each other and nobody talks to him? What if he doesn't understand that he has to look after his own lunch and if he doesn't eat it, he'll be really hungry by the time I come for him because it's a much longer day at big school than montessori. What if he doesn't like it?

I know he'll most likely be fine and figure it all out as he goes, but I'm not ready for him to go. I'm not ready to let go of that precious hour or so after I pick him up, while his baby brother naps and before his big sister comes home from school. We have chats and he tells me his stories like the one about his dinosaur friend that lives in a nearby town who poops eggs when she flies. I'm going to miss our cuddles on the couch when we read his books and he asks "but why?" about four hundred times.

It's hard to let go. Sometimes I wish they could stay babies forever.

Sometimes.

Granny's Black Magic

2013-05-27T19:23:00.000+01:00

When I gave birth to my first child, my grandmother brought me a box of dark chocolates called Black Magic; she told me I would need them to replenish my strength. I laughed, but in the middle of the night in the hospital, while I struggled to feed my tiny baby girl, I reached for those chocolates and I can still remember how amazing they tasted. I brought the last of them home and kept them in the fridge just for me.

A few years later when it became clear she needed help; my Granny went to live in a nursing home. It was a lovely place, the staff kind and caring, but it was still hard. Visits with her could be difficult; she just wanted to go home.

A few months on and one day I brought her a box of Black Magic, her face lit up, she scoffed most of the box before we left her. It became our thing. I would bring her Black Magic, my kids who would have been watching the box in the house for days would get to eat some too. She would seem more content and leaving her would be a bit easier. They were a little taste of heaven that always made her smile in the midst of her disappearing and sometimes confusing world.

She had been a power house of a woman in her prime, she ran her own businesses, raised three kids, two of whom died before her and coped with a husband who was dogged by illness for most of their 28 year marriage.

Still, she loved life, food, cooking, took pride in her appearance, played bingo, bet on horses, had many friends, entertained all her grandchildren through various holidays for many years and watched the world go by from her window in the corner of the square she lived in for almost 70 years.

She was more complex than any other person I have known and probably ever will know. She was a tough, uncompromising, old fashioned Irish Catholic woman, but when she wanted, could make you feel like the centre of her universe. There was nothing like being in her good books.

From when I was little right up until days before his own death, my father would remind me to visit her and keep the connection alive. It was so important to him, he believed in her. She loved my children and they her; they were three of her impressive seven great grandchildren, so it was easier with them. They made her so happy.

Then, this morning, while I went through the favourites in my online supermarket shopping list, there in the middle of detergent, nappies, milk and all the usual necessities of family life were Granny’s Black Magic, but today, for the first time in years, I didn’t click on the box to buy them.

For me it was a gradual loss, her memory faded with each visit and the last time I saw her, she had no idea who I was, no idea who my children were and when I left her that day, she was tiny and lost in the bed she was no longer able to get out of. When she passed away earlier this month, I cried for her, but never so much as this morning when I saw that silly box of chocolates on the supermarket list.

At 95 and a half, her death was expected I suppose, but that hasn't made it any easier. She told me stories of her life I hope I don't forget, some that were so tangled up in the history of my own country that I once did a history project in school about her. I wish now that I had kept it. She was the only one of my grandparents that I knew and I have loved her my whole life.

I hope I don't forget anything - her giggle, the way she sat on the edge of a chair leaning her cheek on two knuckles, the smell of her bread & scones baking, the numerous baby blankets she bought my children, her joy at a plate of fresh cooked chips late at night, her incredible rhubarb which against all odds flourished for years in her yard, the care she took putting make up on a blemish on her face that only she really noticed, the flowery wallpaper in her old bedroom, how she always ate fish on Fridays and would hide the glass of white wine she was having with it if anyone called to the door during dinner and so many other little things.

Memories of those we love are so important, cherish them always.

In memory of Catherine Tyrrell, 8^th January 1918 – 9^th May 2013.

Miracle Gro Flower Magic

2013-05-23T19:28:00.000+01:00

I know I’m not wrong saying this was one of the longest winters ever, a dark, damp, cold, rainy, hail stoning, almost but not quite snowing miserable winter that over stayed it’s welcome and annoyed everyone.

So now that spring has finally sprung isn’t it wonderful to see life budding all over the place? There’s actual green stuff growing on the ground, I hear it’s called grass. It’s beautiful.

My interest in the garden in general and all things green started last year. My daughter and I grew a tomato. It may not sound all that impressive, but to me it was wondrous. It grew big and round and I’m sure if we hadn’t planted it so late, it would have ripened and we could have shared it in a salad.

This year I’m going for it again – growing things. I do admit freely though that I am no expert and will take all the help and short cuts I can, so far that has involved my husband fixing what I’ve made a mess of, but I am optimistic and shall persevere.

We don’t have a fertile garden, it is stony and water logged. My aforementioned husband uses a few more colourful terms to describe it, but I’ll leave those out.

In front of our house we have two big whiskey barrels, the point of them was to grow beautiful flowers, but alas apart from one fluke whereby a sunflower my daughter planted at school, took root and grew to a lovely 4 feet 7 inches, flowers have never found our whiskey barrels accommodating homes.

So this year, in the spirit of allowing the professionals to tell me what to do I’ve taken a short cut and gone with the experts at Miracle-Gro. The choice for the barrels is Miracle-Gro Flower Magic Multi-Coloured Mix.

I cannot express my delight at just how easy it was to use. I opened the top of the large shaker bottle which even comes with a handle and then sprinkled the contents all over the existing soil in the two large barrels, watered and walked away. Seriously, it was that easy. There was even some left over for the border around the edge of our front garden.

According to the instructions, everything the flowers need from seed to nutrition is already contained in the mix, so I can’t fail. It’s Flower Magic.

Here are my before and after shots, those feet are mine beside the barrel by the way and they are full size - it is a very big barrel.

I’m very excited to see the results and feel like such a proper gardener in the evenings as I water them lovingly with my little red watering can. I’ll report back later with progress.

Happy Gardening!

*This has been a sponsored post*

It Could Happen to Any of Us

2012-10-09T11:22:00.000+01:00

The other night my husband showed me a video on YouTube of a lovely young girl, singing a beautiful song on this years’ X Factor. It was fabulous, she was amazing and the audience rose up to roar their appreciation for her talent. I was really enjoying it too until I saw Gary Barlow’s face.

I have been a fan of X Factor for years, but this year, I cannot watch it. Every time I see his face, I remember that the day his youngest child died was the day my youngest child turned eight months old and my heart breaks for him and his wife.

I also cannot watch the news this week, because April Jones mother’s face shows everything I dread most in life. It was the same for me when Madeleine McCann disappeared.

I am now a mother for over seven years; it is what defines me more than anything else as a person. There are times when I cannot remember my life before my children. I know I worked and played hard, got to see some of the world, fell in and out of love a few times and took stupid risks I now realise I was just lucky to get away with.

But now, everything is different.

It’s not just the normal stuff, like being tired all the time, not realising I have porridge on my eyebrow for hours after breakfast, puke/snot/play dough on my clothes, never using a bathroom alone.

It’s something else.

I am, by nature, a very emotional person and my children have been a constant source of dehydration for me via my tear ducts through the years. However, starting with the disappearance of innocent little Madeleine, I have changed. I don’t know if it has been perceptible to those around me but I have hardened somewhat to the outside world.

I now know that beyond a shadow of a doubt, there are bad people in the world and even though I cannot understand how their first instinct is not to love, protect and feel for a child, I know it to be true that there are those who will harm children if they get a chance. This doesn’t just apply to whoever took Madeleine and April; it also, appallingly applies to some of those who should cherish children most.

I am also infuriated by those cold, unfeeling people, who believe that when something bad happens to a child, it’s always the parents fault and think it’s ok to say so on the world wide web.

I cannot blame April Jones parents for allowing her an extra half hour out to play as a reward for doing well at school because I’ve done that many times for my children. I cannot accept that just because Gary Barlow has three other children, the loss of his fourth shouldn’t be so tough because I know that from the moment you feel them move in your belly, they own your heart till your last breath.

Our children, like taxes and death, are a great leveller for all of us the world over. We, well most of us, adore our children and will lay down our lives for them. It is our strongest strength and sometimes, heartbreakingly, our weakest weakness.

One Frugal Mama

2012-05-17T22:35:00.000+01:00

Up until three years ago we as a family, were honestly quite blasé about our insurance overall.

Whether it was home, car, contents, health etc., we generally went with the cheapest deal, not giving much thought to the cover that came with it. I guess somewhere deep down inside, we thought we were made of iron.

That was until someone virtually parked in the boot of my other half’s car and our lives took a very different path as we discovered that not only the car but his spine were a lot more fragile than we could have ever believed.

The world of insurance cover and its importance took on a major role in our lives. Thankfully for us, it has all worked out well, but it could have been a very different story.

I am, by nature, a frugal person. No, that does not mean cheap, it means I’m sensible with my money, which with three kids has become even more important over the years.

Like everyone else we have being going down the long slippery slope of things costing more, while less money comes in, so finally, I’m starting to look pretty smart and not so stingy.

I will not and I really mean will not pay more than I have to for anything.

I will compare home insurance, I will compare car insurance, I will compare health insurance, I will compare the cost of nappies from one supermarket to the next, I check a web site that tells me the station with the cheapest petrol in my locality. I subscribe to web sites that email me special offers. If I can find a household necessity on special offer, my personal favourite being buy 1 get 1 free, I will stock up on it substantially. In fact, recently a baby wipe manufacturer had a buy 1 get 2 free offer and I actually got dizzy with joy whilst almost forgetting to put my kids in the car in my haste to get to where they were on sale.

I will give my business to whoever gives me the best product or service for the best price.

It’s the right thing to do people!

So join me in my frugality, maybe we can start our own movement, you know you wanna.

* This is a sponsored post *

The Ballad of My False Nails

2012-04-22T22:45:00.000+01:00

At first I was afraid,

I was petrified.

Kept thinkin' I could never live with you by my side;

But then I spent so many nights

Just feeling sorry for myself,

And I grew strong and I learned how to glue you on,

And I looked good, ten talons long, French manicured, no chips or breaks,

I showed you off all day long.

I’d never been a dollybird,

Hardly got nails manicured,

But if I’d have known for just one second you would break right off on me,

I would have bought, extra strength glue,

I would have burned my cuticles just to look good with you.

Weren’t you the ones who tried to dazzle with your shine,

Did you think I’d crumble,

Did you think I’d lay down and die –

Oh no not I!

I will survive.

As long as I’ve got marigolds I know my nails with thrive.

I've got all my nails but one,

Learned how to polish on my own,

I’ll survive,

I will survive,

Hey Hey …….

Things They Say

2012-04-13T11:34:00.000+01:00

I’ve been somewhat absent from the world of blogging for the last few months. I’ve been swaddled in the wonderful world of a new baby. My cuddly little bundle is doing great and routine is settling back in nicely with a bit more sleep too.

One thing this time has reminded me of is that my kids are absolutely hilarious.

I cannot count how many times I’ve said to myself I should write down their little nuggets of wisdom, mispronunciations or a misinterpretation of something they’ve heard.

Here’s a selection of some of the more recent favourites in our household and if you’ve got any please send them to me. It would make my day.

What Daughter Says – “Could I have ornage and lemon please?”

What she means – “Could I have orange and melon please?”

Son – “Mummy, why are faces always in their nude?”

Me – “because they couldn't breathe if you covered them up.”

Son – “Mummy, you so silly, it's freezin on faces.”

Daughter’s favourite number – “Vin Vin In Knee”

What she means – “Infinity.”

Son – “Where's the fuckin troll gun”

Me – “I beg your pardon?”

Son – “Where's the fuckin troll gun please”

Me – “We don't use bad language in this house” (blushing furiously)

Son – “Where's the fuckin troll gun, I play Thomas the Tank”

- pause -

Me – “Do you mean the Fat Controller?”

Son – “Yeah, whas you tink I sayin?”

What daughter says – “Mokoma Key Troll”

What she means – “Remote Control”

Daughter – “Why are you always pregnant?”

Me – “I'm not always pregnant; I’ve done it three times”

Daughter – “Why does Daddy never do it?”

Me – “because he's a man and only women can be pregnant”

Daughter – “is it because he doesn't get labour trains?”

What son says – “Min Mih Mid Aisle”

What son means – “Finn McMissile” (you need to have seen Cars 2 for this one).

Daughter – “Do you mind that I know everything and you know nothing?

What daughter says – “Chicken”

What daughter means – “Kitchen”

What son lisped to his big sister during silence after she had been in trouble

– “you’re attitude shucks lemons.”

Then after a pause

- “Or melons.”

What daughter says – “This is the worst day of my life ever!”

What daughter means – I asked her to brush her teeth and or hair.

Daughter – “Mummy, does Daddy think you're really sexily?”

Me - mute (due to embarrassment of being in queue at supermarket).

What son says - “El fell ent.”

What daughter says – “Effluent.”

What they both mean – “Elephant.”

What son says while taking a sanitary towel from my handbag in a cafe -

“Here's your special nappy Mummy.”

What son says – “I seed you kissing my Daddy on he’s wips with you wips.”

What son means – He saw me kissing his Dad on the lips.

Son looking at his aunt’s wedding cake – “Can we put a candle on it?”

What daughter asks for - paintball ale.

What daughter wants - pinhead oatmeal.

Son, after spending hours taking out and dismantling every toy in his room –

“I sick and tired of the mess of this house!”

Daughter – Why are cars?

What son announced very loudly when finished in the public bathroom at his aunts wedding –

“I’m putting my snake in my cage and fushin.”

What he means – he’s pulling his underpants up and flushing the loo.

These are literally just a few, I’m sure I’ve forgotten more gems than I remember. I'm looking forward to number three enriching our lives with some in the next few years.

Happy Mother's Day

2012-03-18T18:43:00.000+00:00

This morning at 7.30am as I cleaned vomit from the bathroom floor, I thought to myself what an unexpected start to my Mother’s Day.

That’s the thing about being a Mum though; you can’t pick and choose when you’re on duty. From their first breath, things in your life are never the same again.

Our baby cried all night, our eldest has a tummy bug and our middle child has headache inducing verbal diarrhoea. He’s the entertainer in the family.

What made things a tad more difficult this morning was that my husband took me out to dinner last night, which was lovely. We talked about grown up stuff and got to eat all our own food with little or no stains on our clothes. We also had a couple of drinks and as all parents out there know, hangover + kids = hell on earth.

So my bleary eyed husband took the boys to his parents’ house, while I stayed home to nurse our daughter.

My little girl is so sick that she and I have spent most of the day on the couch together. She wants me here, to rub her head and rest her feet on my lap. I’ve been cuddling her, singing to her and just spending time with her which is already becoming a more and more precious thing for me. As my cousin recently said to me, our job is to prepare them as best we can to leave us.

Being a mother is the toughest, most demanding and exhausting job I’ve ever had. There are days when I can’t take another fight, deal with yet more mess, have everything I own destroyed or a hundred other problems. I’ve cried my heart out for feeling like an utter failure and then I’ve cried even harder for feeling guilty about getting angry with my wonderful kids. Every day means experiencing almost every human emotion at a hundred miles an hour but I wouldn’t change any of it for the world.

So today I want to salute mothers everywhere at every stage of the job.

Whether you awoke to the smell of burning toast, homemade cards, school made presents, dirty faces and wide eyes or sophisticated presents, flowers, chocolates, perfume, spa days, fancy dinners, which I trust they do as they get older – remember, you are worth it.

Have a wonderful Mother’s Day and keep smiling.

The Reflex, Re Re Reflex.

2011-12-21T11:30:00.000+00:00

So, there I was, Christmas week, leaving my new born baby in the very capable hands of my mother and sister to go to a Duran Duran concert in Dublin.

What the hell was I thinking?

He was 16 days old; I wasn’t even used to him being on the outside of me yet.

The tickets were a present from my family for my landmark birthday earlier in the year, which happened to coincide with the week I found out I was expecting the new born I was now feeling homesick for. That was a big week.

Even though I didn’t expect it, I’ve turned out to be a bit of a clingy parent. I thought I would skip out the door the first chance I got when I had my first baby, but instead I irritated my mother with phone calls every 20 minutes to see if baby was ok.

I was a bit better this time, he is my third and I should be getting better at the job, but I still found it hard to leave.

I met up with hubby and we had a bite to eat. Then we parked up the cars and took the tram to the concert venue in the city.

I was still doing ok until I realised I had missed my older two children’s bed time. Guilt washed over me and I had to concentrate really hard on not running out of the building in the pouring rain to get home and give my little ones their good night kisses and say our special things that we always say at bed time.

I got distracted by Twitter for a bit, which helped, especially as the tweets from the venue were being displayed on a giant screen in front of us. I got quite a kick out of seeing my name up there.

Then the band came on and started with some new song I didn’t know. I felt a bit deflated.

All was not lost though, they went into some oldies but goodies, Hungry Like the Wolf, Wild Boys etc., but then it happened, the moment that made me turn the corner and zap back in time – “na na na na …. na na na na …. the reflex …. the reflex ….”.

Suddenly it was the summer of 1982 and I was 11 years old in the back of my Dad’s car with my Walkman on, listening to the Reflex which I had recorded from the radio onto a bright yellow cassette which I brought everywhere.

For those who aren’t in the know, in the olden days, we used to listen to the top 30 on the radio every Sunday afternoon and stand over it with our fingers on the record, play and pause buttons waiting for our favourite songs to come on and attempt to release the pause button at precisely the right time so you would only record the song and not the DJ’s voice. I guess it was a type of downloading, not sure about its legality, but I had Duran Duran all over my yellow cassette thanks to it.

That was the 80’s, they were just great? I loved every bat winged, blue mascaraed, kitten heeled and Duran Duran theme tuned moment of them.

So my night was a great success. Duran Duran were flipping brilliant and I’m so glad we went. Sorry to all the tweeting Duranies who couldn’t be there, but we have a bond now that cannot be broken.

Now, must go see if A-Ha are going on tour again anytime soon.

My little one did great too, he didn't even notice I had gone and abandoned him for a bit of Simon Le Bon.

A Little Cat of Very Big Consequence

2011-10-05T10:32:00.000+01:00

Last week we got a fright at our house. Well in truth it was me who got the fright, thankfully no one else was upset by a drama that unfolded in our home over a 13 hour period.

Our pet cat Berry went missing. It never happened before, in 8 ½ years we have always known where she is. This knowledge has been facilitated by a very distinctive squawking sound she makes. That and the fact that she doesn’t seem to be aware that she’s actually feline, which has led to some distinctively odd behaviour on her part.

She likes to bathe for instance, not in a puddle in the back garden, but in our bath or shower, particularly on warm days, she waits for the water to go down to her comfort level, then she gets in and sits in it. Cooling her derrière and paws. She then very considerately gets out and dries herself on the floor mat. Honestly, she loves it. She always loves anything garlicky in flavour, eats things off her paw and can open the fridge. She’s a little odd I’ll admit, but she’s ours and we love her very much.

So when she didn’t come home one morning last week, I was glad the 6 year old was at school and the 3 year old was oblivious. He came for a walk with me around where we live to look for her, when that proved fruitless; we went for a drive around our village to try find her. No sign anywhere.

I came home deflated and worried, contemplating how I would break news of our cat’s disappearance to the family, in particular to the 6 year old.

Our cat has been a really good pet to us. On cold mornings, she jumps up behind our children to warm their backs while they eat breakfast. Last February while my other half was away and both children were sick, she kept me company on the landing while I watched over my feverish little uns. In fact, when I was with one, she would sit outside the door of the other and she did this all night long as though it was as much her job as mine.

During the summer, when my other half was sick in hospital, she literally kept watch over me, following me all over the house day and night. Running to the car when we came home as though checking for news of how her male human was doing.

We, as a family really appreciate her, so when I saw her limp up the garden just before the school run last week, relief flooded through me. We don’t know what happened to her during her 13 hour disappearance, she had been hiding under the deck for some time, so she must have had a hurt somewhere, but she came home and that’s what mattered most.

Last night she appeared to have disappeared again and I got worried.

Imagine how rubbish I felt when my other half discovered I had locked her in the shed for five hours when I was putting the kids bicycles away. DOH!

P.S.: No animals were harmed in the writing of this blog, just a little annoyed by their human’s stupidity.

Life is a Rollercoaster Baby!

2011-09-20T12:33:00.000+01:00

About six months ago I had a very eventful weekend which changed a lot of things in my life. Over the course of a few short days I turned forty and found out I was pregnant with my third child.

My fortieth birthday faded into the background somewhat as all the plans I had been making since I turned thirty suddenly had to change. Gone were the many bottles of red wine that would have been my constant companions under ordinary circumstances. No big night of partying like it’s 1999 and of course the quiet afternoon of Botox I had hoped for had to be swapped for a nap and a quick trip to the shops for sensible supportive undergarments.

My other half coped well, he had a few drinks himself at my birthday party and managed to deflect offers of alcohol for me with expertly placed comments like “she’s been sick as a pig all day with a tummy bug” or “we had a few last night, she’s not able for it any more” while I sipped orange juice and water.

As the weeks passed by I felt really well, which confused me. In the past, pregnancy for me meant the complete opposite. I had found the task daunting, exhausting and a lot of work. For some reason this time round, I was actually enjoying it.

I craved healthy foods, drank wells worth of fresh water, slept like a log and only had teeny bits of sickness.

Then a couple of weeks ago at the six month mark, baby decided he/she had been giving me too easy a time and aimed a couple of kicks into the same overstretched muscle in my lower abdomen.

It hurt.

Like fricking hell.

It still hurt three days later so I went to my GP, who wasn’t happy with the situation so she sent me to the hospital where I learned that I’m carrying a hyper responsive baby and need to rest a lot. This wasn’t really news to me as I’ve been woken by baby more than once since about 14 weeks in.

What was news to me what how many other women were in the hospital at the same time as me with exactly the same problem. How odd.

That afternoon there were six of us. All over forty, all expecting our third/fourth child, all having had wonderful pregnancies up until that week and all carrying hyper responsive babies. I think that basically means our babies move a lot more than normal and with what feels like super human strength, although I haven’t yet found a doctor who agrees with me on the super human strength part.

I have been fascinated by this and can’t stop wondering why we’re all in the same situation. What if last February something unusual happened over our little corner of the world and our babies were affected. Maybe they’re special

Yeah, yeah, I know all kids are special, but maybe ours have powers.

I know it’s most likely a coincidence but if you hear of a new born baby setting fire to a midwifes arse in about 10 weeks’ time, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Connect Me

2011-09-01T10:26:00.000+01:00

Another summer over, another first day back at school already a memory and its September.

So, here I sit at my kitchen table, ready and waiting for genius to strike. My routine is back in order; I have designated time two mornings a week to write for the next three months and what happens? My Internet connection goes down.

WHY?

Doesn’t the Internet service provider know that I have a check list before I can write? It’s crucial to the point of being superstitious. I absolutely, most definitely, completely importantly must do the following before I can write a word:

· Check email.

· Cross reference bank account with my carefully planned colour coded excel budget for the household.

· Look at the stats on my blog.

· Check email.

· Look at my credit card balance in case a miracle has happened in the night and its zero for the first time in 17 years.

· Add a bunch of stuff to the online shopping list that I forgot last week.

· Check email.

· Mess about on Twitter for 5 minutes (ok perhaps 30 minutes).

· Facebook someone.

· Check email.

· Read the 9 at 9 on the journal.ie.

· Look at people.com to find out just why Marc Anthony and Jennifer Lopez split up.

· Check email.

Alright, I’m not a complete fool, I know I don’t actually NEED an Internet connection to write something on a blank page, but I LIKE it and without completing my checklist, my brain just can’t clear itself out.

I am not a happy camper Internet service provider person, if that thingy twirling in the corner of the screen doesn’t connect soon, I’ll be making a stern phone call and this time I’ll stay on hold no matter how many times I have to listen to Green Sleeves.

You won’t break me.

NOTE: If anyone out there actually gets to read this you will realise that at some point my Internet connection connected and I am now in fact a happy camper.

The C Word

2011-08-20T17:59:00.000+01:00

I know, it’s disgusting.

I don’t know a soul who likes the word.

Clamper.

I met a right effer yesterday.

He clamped my car because he claimed he couldn’t see the valid parking ticket he had watched my other half pay for and put on the dash board of our car.

The sneaky little so and so waited until we had left the car park and then clamped us.

I would like to point out for the sake of clarity that we did not break the law. We weren’t parked in a disabled space, or blocking an entrance or anything and it wasn’t the police or a traffic warden that clamped us. It was a private company who own the private car park that we had parked in and paid for.

So anyway, 90 euro later and quite a bit of verbal abuse from both the git who took the clamp off the car and the other git who shouted at me down the phone, we now have to appeal at our own cost.

It’s so unfair that a scam like that has been made legal.

The strange thing was, it led me to a Holly Hunter in Broadcast News moment. If you haven’t seen the movie, Holly Hunter plays a highly strung character who every so often sits down and has a good cry. I’m not talking a bit of a sniffle, I mean a good from the pit of your stomach, runny nose, mascara destroying, frighten other people with your ugly face, proper cry.

I couldn’t figure it out at first but then I guess I had to face up to the fact that we’ve had a pretty stressful few months in our family. Things are all working out for the best now, so nothing to complain about, but isn’t it funny how the stress and strain you feel doesn’t go away just because the cause of the stress does. I suppose the clamp was the straw that broke this camel's back. You have to let it out somehow.

So that’s what I did. I calmly checked everyone was ok, drove home, walked upstairs, locked myself in the bathroom and balled my head off for about a minute and a half.

It felt good and I highly recommend it.

One tip though, make sure there’s enough loo roll to blow your nose in.

On the Brightside, I have heard a great story about a guardian angel in the town where I got clamped. Apparently someone is going around these private car parks with a bolt cutter removing clamps from people’s cars. I do hope it’s true. Hee hee!

Diary of A Delayed Flight - WITH CHILDREN!

2011-07-18T11:47:00.001+01:00

Anyone who has ever flown anywhere with children will know that it can be a little challenging.

We recently flew away for a lovely week in the sun which got off to a bit of a rocky start.

Sticking with my diary theme, here’s what went down:

4.09 am – My alarm goes off – I hit the snooze button.

4.10 am – My other half’s alarm goes off – I jump out of the bed, stumble into the bathroom, forget what I’m doing in there and walk out. After approximately 30 seconds, I remember we have to check in at 6 am for an 8 am flight and go into full get the kids up and in the car mode. I should point out that on the day I am 18 weeks pregnant with our third child and have had little or no short term memory for weeks.

4.12 am – 6 year old is sitting on the landing, fully dressed, carrying a back pack that is at least two thirds her own size, wearing a big smile. She still hasn’t opened her eyes yet.

4.25 am – The toddler is breaking me. After 10 minutes of arguing and crying about why he has to get up and get dressed, the other half takes over. He succeeds is dressing the toddler. Next is teeth brushing – shudder.

4.59 am – We depart house.

5.40 am - We arrive at one of our favourite places – The Long Term Car Park at the airport.

5.45 am – A bus to take us to the airport from The Long Term Car Park arrives. However, the driver, who obviously has a degree in humour decides to skip the bus stop itself at which we are standing with 2 suitcases, 4 pieces of hand luggage, a buggy and 2 kids and instead stop a further 50 metres up the road.

5.50 am – After much dragging, pushing, shuffling & complaining, all four of us and our luggage are on the bus. The toddler smiles and says he likes the bus.

7.30 am – Having stood in the check in line for an hour and a half watching what can best be described as a spanner with arms and way too much make up check in a total of 2 families, we are told that there will be a delay of approximately 40 minutes, but we still need to get to our gate as quickly as possible.

7.55 am – Security check. The toddler is fading and climbs into his buggy. However, being the security threat he is; he and his buggy have to go through the x ray machine thingy separately. He’s tired; it takes a number of attempts, one of which includes him walking into the actual machine. We hold our breath, he doesn’t cry – phew! Meanwhile, the 6 year old is positively lively and has decided to work at the airport shoving those little trays down to the people queuing behind us. Such is her enthusiasm that a security person (obviously threatened by our child’s efficiency), tells her in a little too stern a voice to stop doing that.

8.25 am – Having walked approximately halfway home again in order to reach our gate, we are corralled into an area via another security gate with the words POINT OF NO RETURN emblazoned across it. We are then and only then told our 40 minute delay has extended to 3 HOURS!!!! We are in a circular area at the furthest reaches of the airport, it is approximately 60% glass and almost everyone has kids. The few who don’t are already sensing something unfamiliar in the air and start queuing for the loos.

8.30 am – “Are we getting on the plane yet?”

8.31 am – “Are we getting on the plane yet?”

8.32 am – “Can we get on the plane now?”

8.33 am – “I’m bored, can we go home?”

8.34 am – Toddler has gone past the point where he could have fallen asleep and has started to whinge. I would just like to point out that in a recent study; the sound of a toddler whinging was been listed as officially the most irritating sound in the world. My other half and I concur with these findings.

8.40 am – Having paid over 17 euro for 2 croissants, a bottle of water and a packet of crisps from the café that doesn’t have anything in yet because apparently it’s too fricking early for their breakfast delivery, we attempt a picnic. It does not go well.

8.50 am – Other half is starting to crack, he goes to look for a vacant loo where he can wash half the picnic off himself. During his absence I am asked where Daddy has gone 11 times.

9 am – Other half returns, there is officially no way out of where we are. He looks frightened.

9.30 am – VICTORY! The toddler is asleep; we have at least an hour of peace ahead of us. However, uncharacteristically, the 6 year old decides we will pay for the delay she is experiencing in getting to a pool.

9.31 am – ask 6 year old to stop messing with my phone.

9.32 am – tell 6 year old to stop messing with my phone.

9.33 am – grab phone from 6 year old and realise she has been exchanging photos with my sister. Am impressed, so I begin to show her some other things on the phone.

9.45 am – Have completed teaching 6 year old all I know about Twitter, Facebook & Email.

10 am – Take 6 year old to the loo. She is delighted to announce to everyone waiting behind us that she needs to poo. We are then treated to a full account of her bowel movements with impressive sound effects.

10.10 am – It becomes apparent the 6 year old has locked herself into the cubicle and really wants to come out because the smell is so bad.

10.17 am – Finally, another mother discovers how to unlock door from outside – I may not know her name, but I will forever remember and cherish her for this.

10.30 am – Last Call for our flight is announced. The stampede of bodies and buggies is scary.

11.10 am – We are FINALLY in our seats. Other half is heartbroken to be sitting apart from the children and I, but is happily reminded of our toddler by another toddler sitting beside him who repeatedly hits him through the entire flight.

On the Brightside, the holiday was lovely and the flight home was much easier.

Diary of a 6 Year Olds Birthday Party

2011-06-26T21:42:00.000+01:00

Zero minus 48 hours – almost 6 year old is sick, temperature, sore throat, no appetite (this last one bewilders me).

Zero minus 24 hours – almost 6 year old is no better, but fully convinced she will be completely recovered by tomorrow morning so that she can go to school and have everyone sing happy birthday to her.

Zero minus 22 hours – of the 21 kids invited, 19 now say they are coming. This goes completely against the statistics. Must be a slow social day for 6 years olds.

Zero minus 18 hours – almost 6 year old running a temperature of 39.8. Also, it hasn’t stopped raining for 3 days.

Zero minus 6 hours – my little one is finally 6; she thinks she looks taller this morning. Going to school. Still running a high temperature, doesn’t look so good, but refuses to accept possibility of being sick on her birthday.

Zero minus 4 hours – the bouncy castle has arrived. It fits in the garden – Just! If any kid bounces over the back of it, they’ll have to stay there until the bouncy castle people come to retrieve it as no normal adult could possibly fit back there.

Zero minus 2 hours – it hasn’t stopped raining – AT ALL! Bouncy castle is floating eerily in back garden. Water slopping all over the deck. I will not panic, I will not panic, I will not panic.

Zero minus 30 mins – collect 6 year old from school, she’s shivering. Forehead feels hot as a toaster, still insists she feels fine, but agrees to some medicine to make me feel better. Rain easing up. Help arrives in form of 2 sisters and mother. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

2 pm – Party Time! The rain has stopped and the early arrivals have kindly used their bottoms to dry off the last of the rain from the bouncy castle.

2.10 pm – have already figured out which child is going to be “the one”. "The one" wants to know when we’re having birthday cake, now!

2.15pm – 2 children have somehow clambered onto the roof of the bouncy castle. I have made it very clear that is not ok.

2.16pm – apparently I didn’t make it clear enough. They did it again, jumped off the roof onto slide sticking out the side of the bouncy castle, bouncing a little girl clean off it onto the still soggy lawn.

2.17pm – am hoarse, but think I have finally made my feelings about climbing onto roof of bouncy castle clear.

2.20pm – “the one” wants to know what’s in my handbag.

2.30pm – there are now 20 children in my house.

2.40pm – sun is out, kids laughing; table full of junk food has been discovered. Looking good.

2.55pm – first casualties, somehow during a bit of bouncing/sliding two heads collided with the nose of one head going into the mouth of the other head. The one who ingested the nose assures me she tried really hard not to bite. The inserter of the nose disagrees with this analysis and wants justice. I give them both more sweets.

3.15pm – the toddler has had enough of his sisters friends playing with his toys. He’s really quite vocal about it. They all think he’s adorable when he’s angry.

3.35pm – I have a feeling my sisters are quite relieved to be childless and considering staying that way.

3.45pm – “the one” is demanding McDonalds as sandwiches and rice krispie buns are boring.

4pm – We bring out the cake and sing happy birthday to 6 year old. Am choking up, where did the last 6 years go?

4.05pm – “the one” and I have an altercation in the kitchen over the size of the pieces of cake I'm cutting. Frighteningly strong for such a small child but I manage to keep my hold on the cake knife.

4.10 pm – 6 year old bursts into tears, she doesn’t know why. Looks like someone drew circles under her eyes with charcoal, she feels warm. She, Daddy & I have a cuddle on the couch, her friends want to know if she’s ok – awwwww!

4.20pm – Second casualty, lovely little one has hurt her little finger. She’s very brave, but it looks swollen. Time to bring out the Magic Cream (Arnica).

4.25pm – “the one” is demanding some of the fancy carrot cake my mother brought for the grown-ups. No flipping chance.

4.35pm – first child to leave. Time to bring out the party bags. I’ve been reliably informed by at least a dozen kids that it’s really really really important I don’t forget to give them theirs.

4.40pm – 5pm – most of the children leave, we seem to have a lot of socks on the deck that don’t belong to us.

5.10pm – “the one” leaves, giving me hugs and kisses and tells me it was the best party ever – little love.

6.30pm – toddler still going on bouncy castle, at one point almost falls asleep while climbing back up on it.

8pm – bouncy castle goes home. 6 year old in near catatonic state, toddler devastated, waves bye bye to bouncy castle through tears.

9pm – thanks to mother and sisters, our sitting and dining rooms are almost normal. Other half and I so tired, we’re in pain. Ears still ringing from shocking amount of noise generated by 20 kids.

6 year old already looking forward to turning 7.

The Tooth Fairy Cometh

2011-06-20T10:37:00.000+01:00

The Tooth Fairy finally came to our house this past weekend. Not once but twice.

We had been waiting a long time, a very long time indeed. The lose tooth had been wobbling, squeaking, squelching, turning, moving in any number of directions up to 90 degrees for months.

So long, in fact, that the new tooth was half way up behind it when finally, last Friday a gentle tug was all it took and out it popped into my delighted very almost six year olds beautiful and grubby little hand.

Months earlier, when the initial wobbling of the tooth began I fussed about and spoke to lots of other parents about what the going rate was for a milk tooth.

The consensus was 2 euro per tooth was fair considering the current financial climate.

So a shiny 2 euro coin was put aside in the inside pocket of my handbag for the occasion.

Luckily we got it right, as it turned out, our almost six year old had discussed in detail with her school friends what she would get and a 2 euro coin was the minimum. Phew!

There was great excitement on Saturday morning when the tooth was gone and the coin was in its place. Sadly, later in the day, that joy was replaced by despair when browsing in a shoe shop the almost six year old let rip with an almost mirror shattering scream that her tooth was gone. I thought temporary amnesia had occurred but it turned out she was talking about a second tooth.

Where and when the second tooth had fallen out was a complete mystery. She remembered nothing of it.

I felt bad for her but it took me back about 34 years ago when I went on a nature walk with the Brownies, yes I was a diligent little Bluebell in our local pack. I had many badges, no recollection of what any of them were for now, but I wore them with pride.

Anyway we were on our nature walk and as usual my brain trailed off in some far off direction that my imagination took me while I absently fiddled with a loose tooth hanging off my gums. All of a sudden it popped out and I got such a shock I swallowed it.

I was so upset because I was convinced the tooth fairy wouldn’t visit me if I couldn’t put my tooth under my pillow; I can remember it as clearly now as the day it happened.

I sulked home and told my tale of woe to my family. I was truly devastated despite being comforted and cajoled by my parents that it would all work out.

The next morning, my father called me into the bathroom where there right beside the toilet was my earnings from the tooth fairy.

For at least four years I completely believed that the poor tooth fairy had to sift through my poo to find that tooth.

On the Brightside we did a Google search, (back to nowadays) and discovered that the Tooth Fairy uses magic to find lost teeth, so she would know where to look. We left her a note just in case and first thing Sunday morning heard the squeals of delight from the almost six year olds bedroom. She’s up 4 euro already. If this keeps up, I’ll be asking her for a loan.

Sports Day

2011-06-03T12:37:00.000+01:00

My daughter just had her very first ever Sports Day at school. She was so excited she was fully dressed standing over us at 6.03 am on the morning of the big day. It took me a while to talk her into our bed, well bribe with a promise of a cartoon; I wasn’t capable of a whole lot of talking at that hour.

I went along on the big day to support her, bringing the toddler, the camera and a picnic.

The camera turned out to be my most prized possession of the day. Unfortunately the sheer amount of belly shaking, couldn't catch my breath for laughing caused many of the photos taken to be blurry, but boy was it worth it.

The toddler turned out to be one of the more exuberant supporters of the day. He even went so far as to join in. As in run down the field during the sack race and then just keep going past the finish line and beyond to the fence to chants of “Run Forest Run”.

I should point out he runs like a speed walker with his little tushy clenched and shoulders pushing up to his ears. I should also point out I was the only one calling him Forest, but it just seemed so fitting.

The organisation at the school was incredible; I’m in awe of teachers and how well they hold it together while all around them are little people doing things that make no sense. Eating weird stuff off the ground, climbing each other, walking backwards or just spinning until they fell over.

I had forgotten spinning just for the hell of it, I used to love it, afraid to do it now of course, and I don’t like the falling over part anymore. It’s not worth it without wine to soften the blow.

The teachers managed to get so many things done with all the kids taking part and within the allowed time frame. I would like to be taught how to do that. I didn’t notice any of them eat or use the loo though, which worries me.

So, there were multiple egg and spoon races, where potatoes were used I presume for their durability, relay races and my favourite, the one where they pass a bean bag to the person behind them by bending over and handing it between their legs and then run to the back of the line. Oh that one had me leaning on the fence for support, I laughed so hard.

Then to polish off a great day, along came the picnic. I stood on poo that I think came from a sheep. The toddler seemed to take up the entire blanket. We ate soggy sandwiches. The fruit was ignored. I got to meet some nice parents I hadn’t met before. I watched my daughter interact with the other little people she spends all her days with and tells me very little about.

Yep, it was a good day for all of us.

Eat, Drink, Bounce

2011-05-30T12:17:00.000+01:00

My daughter is almost six, a birthday party is expected.

We’ll pull it together but last week she gave us a list of 41 children that she wishes to attend, not counting herself and her little brother.

This causes it’s own set of problems, logistical and whatnot, our house is not big and with those numbers one of those indoor play places that do it all for you is ruled out completely.

We did that last year, 13 RSVP’d and 17 showed up. The Party/Events Organiser was not a happy camper.

Neither was I, as I hadn’t expected to spend most of my daughters 5^th birthday in the loos with the little ones whose parents had employed the drop and run tactic. Smart people, very smart people.

Nor had I anticipated the pretty little Klingon attached to my right thigh for the entire event which meant I couldn’t use the toilet as I have issues in that department. It’s nothing serious; I just can’t perform with an audience.

A couple of years ago for my daughters fourth birthday we hired a bouncy castle for the day. It was a great success, until most of the older kids where we live decided to join in and frightened the living daylights out of the little ones.

This year we’re going down that route again, but I’ve employed a few tactics to help things run better.

Firstly, the side gate will be locked and any big kid who attempts to jump it will be met by me and the sweeping brush. I’ll train the toddler in too, for back up, he’s pretty grumpy at the moment and permission to thump someone would be most appreciated.

Secondly, we’re holding the party on a Wednesday. This works on a number of levels, the best being that it’s her actual birthday day, but also the simple awkwardness of it being midweek means a few won’t be able to make it, thereby culling the numbers.

Thirdly, if we do go ahead and hire the bouncy castle it’s 20% cheaper midweek than on the weekend which makes me happy because if there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s paying full price.

We’ve got three weeks to the big day, so I’ll be using the whole “well if you don’t behave I won’t order a bouncy castle” line until the last moment. Yes, I plan to milk that sucker dry.

She’s been to a number of birthday parties lately. Some of them have been very impressive. Some have basically been booze ups for the adults. Some of them have been proper old fashioned parties with games like pass the parcel.

We’re keeping it simple, fill them with sandwiches, crisps, juice, chocolate & sweets and then let them bounce until they collapse at which point we’ll hand them all back to their parents with a party bag full of yet more sugar based products.

Oh Joy!

On the Brightside, my toilet issues don’t apply at home, we’ve got locks on the doors.