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….

If I thought I was clumsy Sunday, Monday morning really put that idea away.

I usually wake up with back pain, and on Monday was in the bathroom. I gave myself a stretch, closing my eyes, leaning forward and putting my hand on the mirror. When I opened my eyes I saw that the mirror was coming away from the wall, so it was only attached at two points rather than four (if you get me). Blimey. I’d want to be careful with that. I slowly lowered the mirror back on the wall and got ready for my shower.

Of course, once in the shower there was the most dreadful crash. The mirror, and all it carried, fell to the floor with a lovely crash. Beloved husband’s voice could be heard from the other side of the door.

“You okay?!”

“Fine, just an idiot…”

“Fair enough!”

Humpft. Right. I got through the shower, and then managed to stab a toe while handling nail scissors. That was it for yesterday but who knows what today will bring! I don’t know, dear reader, I just despair! 

I have a baby to mind, and no car, which means most of the time I don’t get to go further than the usual daily walk. This weekend, however, the urge to get out of the house was upon me, and I really, really wanted to get out and about. I made the husband promise that we would get out of the house on Sunday.

Sunday comes around and unfortunately he’s sick with a nasty sore throat and aches and pains. I was bitterly disappointed, and irrationally angry with him for being sick. Of all the days! He looked at me from the couch.  We came to a compromise; he would mind the baby while I headed out for a few hours.

I nearly turned back at the bus stop. He was sick, and yet still had to mind a baby all day. It seemed cavalier to leave him to it. But I made myself wait, ignoring the voice. The bus arrived, and the first mini adventure happened; the bus driver asked me if I knew the way. I blinked a bit at this, but then said yes, I did. He refused to take any fare from me, which I worried at. Anyways, we were on our way.

Seems the difficulty for him was the route through Sandymount. I ended up standing beside his seat and directing him: “No, take this right,” with other passengers just watching all this in amazement. When we reached Ringsend another colleague of his got on, so I stepped back and away. I don’t think he would have wanted other drivers to know the extent of his need for help. I hopped off outside Trinity.

Right, so, off we go! The first thing to notice is the lack of impediment. I’d been so used to walking with a pram that the free motion you have without it made me feel almost exposed. I made my way to the National Gallery, only to find that they have renovations going on for most of the Gallery. I got to see the Carravagio, so that is something. I also got some nice postcards in the shop (very Lucy Honeychurch but what can you do).

Postcards bought, now what to do? It was approaching five on a Sunday, there wouldn’t be a lot of options. Himself wanted Lemsip tablets, so off to Boots, then into M&S for dinner for tonight. Then what?

I took a fancy for a bite to eat, so headed off to Carluccio’s in Dawson Street. There was no problem getting a table for one, and I ordered a plate of calamari. It was so nice!

And the staff were so nice! I took out my phone and made a phone call; one other thing that doesn’t happen is long phone calls. I rang a friend and had a natter that by my phone lasted eleven minutes! Eleven! Imagine the luxury! The staff were especially nice, they saw I was on the phone and gently put my coke down with so much respect that you’d think I was on the phone to the PM. After my call, they asked did I want dessert. Turned out I did, so I had some lemon tart and a hot chocolate. I pulled out my notebook and wrote out notes for fifteen minutes, and manged to figure out the underlying structure of the novella. (It was obvious, but I needed time to let the neurons speak a bit louder.)

Right! Time to go. There was a bus at 6.30pm I could catch, and it was now quarter to. I pulled out money for the bill and stood up, putting my coat on. I felt my elbow catch on something and then… there was the most almighty crash. I looked back to see a plate had fallen on the ground and broken into a hundred pieces. The entire restaurant went silent, with forks frozen on the way to open mouths.

Curiously multi-ethic crowd in tonight…

I sank out of there, my face as red as a nuclear bomb. Then I bought two brownies for himself and myself, and dropped the change. Then bumped into someone coming in. What the hell?

Right. Made my way to the bus stop, and waited next to a woman who complained about the rough crowds and buses, until finally my own bus arrived. The same driver, who still wouldn’t take any fare. I headed home, glad to be going to see my own family again, and promising myself I would get out again before Christmas….