He”s asleep. I might get a chance to have a look at this blogging thing for a moment.

So, how am I? I feel hardy like a marine at times, in that I can cope with four hours sleep. Get me! I”m back at work, which is lovely in that I like where I work and the people I work with. It is also Dickensian in its brutality as I walk away from my child each morning and quietly sniffle at the bus stop. Not crying.

Work itself is strange to return to. I”m astonished that I have any brain power at all these days. Folks expect me to do things, and to remember things, and I”m just grateful that I can write things down I need to remember like my name, where I live, and that yes, those are my feet. Hmm. My predecessor who was in my role before me was brilliant and created a wonderful wave of efficiency that I am just surfing on at the moment. I find myself pushing myself to just keep going, to not stop, and that alone seems to be seeing things done.

Here comes winter. We”re looking forward to our first Christmas with best australian online casino him, and I”m insisting that Santa visits the house. My husband is an atheist and I abhor the Church, so we”re happy to have him have little or no religious education. However, I believe in the magic of the imagination. so I put my foot down on the Santa Claus issue. He”s coming to the house because, as Terry Pratchett put it, man needs to believe in the fantasies of childhood such as Santa, so that they will grow up and believe in the fantasies of Justice and Honour as adults.  Plus its fun. So we will be having Santa.

Go Obama. Was there any real choice? Fox is destroying Republician Conservative thought so well that Obama seemed the only grown up in the race. I was a huge fan of his in the “08 election, less so this time. But I still feel very glad he was elected again, he was the only person close to my own political views.

I”m going to vote in the Children Referendum. The daftness of the No vote has not served debate, I”m afraid.

Finally; dreams. I”m a person who has a huge emotional landscape when I dream (I”m sure we all do). I”ve just finished reading the Sandman comics, and have fallen in love with the Romance of it all. But my own dreams get better and better as I experience my own personal happiness.  I have a sense of impeding wonder that I can”t explain. Go figure….

A Pilargyrist is a lover of money; specifically, a lover of the precious metals that used to make up coins. They don’t like spending money, but instead like the possession of money for its own sake.

Not only do they have run of the mill greediness, which we can see around us in a love of material possessions, but they have a hatred of spending in of itself. Going far more than mere frugality, which these days is a virtue, they hate to see the figures in the bank balance go down for any reason.

I can understand this, to a point. Its nice to have your cake and eat it, too. But as I’ve gotten older, people rather than things have become the important priority in my life (after getting my principles wrong again and again, let me tell you). If I have money now, it is for spending so I and the people I love have experiences worth having. Don’t hold on to it folks; you can’t take it with you and it is later than you think.

In my Mother’s house there was a radio in every room. It was something I grew up with, and didn’t even notice for most of my childhood. It was only as a teenager that I was glad of it; there would be a radio for company while you studied (“Oh stony grey soil…”), while you got ready for going out on a Saturday night (with one of my sisters hammering on the door to get me to hurry up! You look stupid..) or even just reading in the kitchen while people were watching TV in the sitting room. I was so glad as a kid; the one thing you don’t want to be as a troubled yoot is to be aware of your thoughts, man.

There isn’t even silence in the womb; we did a lot of checking of his fetal heartbeat while the kid was growing. Let me tell you, it is noisy in there. The kid as well did a lot of jumping around in there, and so there was a lot of noise and activity in there.

Today sees the bambino at the creche again, this time for two hours. The house is so appallingly quite I can’t take it. I’ve Ray Darcy on for inane noise in the background. Hate this silence!

I am sitting down after coming home with my husband and son from our first visit to his new creche. The place is bright and well light, thought out almost to the point of bureaucracy but not too much, and staff that seem willing to jump through hoops to keep children and parents happy. Still the shock of being removed from my child for eight plus hours a day is a physical one, and I’m trying very hard not to cry.

In the way of things, my strange brain reminded me of the adoptive parents of Baby Ann. They had taken care of her for three years and sought to have the adoption finalised. However, the birth parents of Baby Ann got married, and as the constitution prevents any granting of adoption when the parents are married, she was given up. What on earth was that like? What was that like, that last morning, when they got up, showered, dressed, make up, gathered up her toys and things and left with her? Parents routinely put their children first, so they would have maintained a cheerful facade to her as they gathered up feeding things, beloved toys, car seats, bibs and chairs. How could they get the strength to do that? How could they return to the house, now empty of her, with the reminder of their loss? When there is a death there is the force of society’s sympathy at your door. Where is the help for  parents in such circumstances? The scrap of research I’ve done on this one indicates that the issue of Baby Ann is not straightforward. None the less, the loss felt by the adoptive parents has my sympathies.

There’s a voice at my shoulder that is sneering; how typical of me to take a perfectly normal situation and extend it to something dramatic. Personally I would call it empathy for others, and a healthy ability to make comparisons. As for my little man, he was nervous but able to enjoy his time there.  We’ll be doing it again on Monday for two hours, until he is there for the full time I’m at work. Right now he’s snoozing away, unconcerned by anything; as it should be.

Seriously?

I’ve been awake since six, since he needed a feed then and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I had three minutes to shower and dress and he has been asleep for twenty minutes, which I used to load up the washing machine and power this up. I’m too afraid to empty the dishwasher in case he wakes up.

Aaaannnd he’s awake. So I’m off.

Oh, and all those photos of bad food on ‘What’s Ireland Eating’? Most of them were MINE!!!

At about twenty past three yesterday the doorbell went. Mostly the only people who call unannounced are people trying to sell you something. I could see as I approached the door whoever it was was wearing a suit, so that seemed even more likely. I thought about not answering it (they can be a bit pushy), but decided to give whoever it was a break. I opened the door, and said hello.

The person turned around, and it was my Dad! I was delighted to see him. He lives a hundred kilometers away from me and so I don’t see him very often. He was in Dublin for an archeological conference and decided to drop in.

Oh, but it was nice to see him. Having him here made me aware of something, however. I am so anxious so much every day that its not funny. We were sitting on the couch and I was spilling out conversation in a rat-ta-tat, urgent way. Why couldn’t I slow down? Why not just relax? Because, I am able to see, I respond all day and night to my little boy’s demands with just that sense of urgency, that I am utterly wound up and panicky without even realising it. Huh.

I don’t think there is a way one can remove all anxiety straight away. Its served me well so far, in that the little man is doing great. But it doesn’t seem healthy to be fearful and manic all day every day. No wonder my son’s Dad is better at getting him to laugh.

Oh well. At least Dad liked the biscuits.

I’m a woman at home with her nerdiness. I outed myself in that regard years ago. But there is a side to me that wishes at times for her own montage, her own dance track, her own theme music.

I wish I was cool.

I want to be free of the ability I have to catch my sleeve in a door as I walk in, thereby throwing juice back in my face. I want to have a devil may care attitude and a ‘be free to be who you are’ belief.

Being cool crucially isn’t about being excellent or  the best at something. Carl Sagan was wonderfully smart, but he himself wasn’t cool. No, he wasn’t, sorry.

Same goes for Grace Kelly. She’s too poised to be cool. She is perfect, but too aware of it to move to an instinctive beat that would make her cool.

Whereas young Jim here is so cool he makes others cool by association. The Doors made music with a goddamn organ, think anyone cares about that? Hell no, sister.

Cool is that attitude that, coupled with physical beauty means a person has allure beyond charisma. It means a person simultaneously attracts and distances themselves,  as us mere mortals would never be good enough to get close to them. James Spader was astonishingly, blood freezingly cool in the 1990s. Add twenty years, a destroyed marriage and him quitting smoking, and he ain’t cool now.

While these two are so cool, its a miracle they don’t repel each other.

Yes I am conscious that I am the Queen of fuddy duddy and that my idea of coordinated cool is matching woolens at Marks and Sparks. You are reading the words of a baby-food covered woman who is typing with one hand because her baby is in her arm, gently snoring. But every so often, a wistful air comes over me and I sigh, and I think… “I wish I was cool…”

My nearby deli/market used to do a brilliant chewy biscuit that I found impossible to resist. They were light, with chocolate chips and I found them the perfect treat.

However, a recent change in management meant that they changed. Their chewy texture became an overworked, caster sugar filled boredom. Not good. So I pulled out the recipe books and had a go.

Right. No. Not remotely good enough. Instead, I rooted out the Good Eats episode from Season Three, Three Chips for Sister Marsha*, and stuck to it to the very best of my ability. The result?

Biscuits that are chewy, moist and perfect. Diet starts Monday, honest.

And thanks again for Mr. Brown for his tweet!

*Marsha Marsha Marsha!

My little boy, who is now six months old, is today getting his immunisation shots. Firstly, all those who think these are to be avoided are dangerously stupid (tip of the head to Sinnott MEP, who’s IQ is in fact a minus figure, in that she makes other people stupid too). Secondly, I’m not as worried and upset about the pain for the little man as some people fear. Both the doctor and my husband expected some kind of tears or emotional reaction from me at the time, which is a little unnecessary. This isn’t a car crash or traumatic event. These are necessary, even to be welcomed. They’ll protect him in ways even I can’t.

Just to note this; Each time I’ve gone home and expressed more milk than ever before. Whatever I’m telling my head, my body is having a different physiological reaction….

Pizza dough

There was a moment when I was getting out of the bath soon after the little fella was born. Leaning over the edge, I caught my reflection in the water as it seeped down the drain. What did I see? Pizza dough.

Not suitable for younger readers.

Yes, pizza dough. Great big soft round handfuls of pizza dough, all ready for the oven. There wasn’t much to say or do at that moment, just watch the water seep out in silence.

I was sick

The birth wasn’t the easiest one, which is a very nice way of saying it was bloody horrible with a lot of aftereffects. It is almost six months afterwards and exercise is only now becoming an option. I say becoming in the vaguest sense, in that I don’t think I’ve ever been this out of shape. I was also fighting an infection for most of those six months, so I was quite weak as well. Exercise wasn’t an option.

Car crash

Arragh shite…

So here I am with my car crash of a body. I’ve never been this out of shape, nor have I ever been this large. I’m large, fat, round, bigger than I’ve ever been before. No clothes I have fit me, and I find that my attitude to clothes is curiously freed; I’m going to look fat no matter what I wear, I may as well look tailored at it.

My plans to improve and why I haven’t started yet.

I have been sick, but I’ve also been breastfeeding. This has been successful after a tricky start, and now, frankly, the child is a bowser. He is a good weight and height, and showing excellent development (he is nearly standing, and is saying ‘Mama’, at five and a half months). Any attempt at dieting before he is weaned would mean a reduction in the amount of milk I’d produce daily, but as it is almost time to wean him off I can start thinking about diet and exercise.

Methods

I have a lot of weight to lose. A lot. If I am honest, it would be about fifty pounds of weight. You wouldn’t carry that amount of weight on holiday, so why should I go ahead and carry it now? I’ll need to eat less, and to eat less sugar and carbs; heck, even portion control would make a difference. I would love to do Keto, with a cheat day once a week, but I don’t think that would be allowed.

In terms of exercise, I plan to treat myself to membership of the brand new Olympic-length swimming pool at UCD when I am back at work. Back in the long, long ago, children, I used to swim three times a week. The pool in that case was a 22 meter pool and I could swim 25 laps (two lengths) in 30 minutes, and still be back at my desk by 2pm. If I could even maintain a three time a week schedule to start with I would be happy with that; I’ve told myself I would look for two laps, three times a week, and look for no more than that fro me (I’m still going to have to be back at my desk by 2pm, and take care of my baby in the evening, so slowly is the rule here).

Help and Support

The best way to do this, I have found, is to make a change of such a gradual nature that no specific ‘help’ is needed. However, keeping going is the big kicker. I may, at times, ask you all for a bit of a push, just to keep going….