A parenting website last week revealed the categories school gate mums fall into – from the uber glam model mothers like Elle Macpherson through to the bionic PTA mums who make the rest of us look bad.
Also featured were the lycra-clad, gym obsessed mum, Blackberry clamped corporate mum – either always running late or absent from the afternoon pick-up – and effortlessly glam mum a-la Gwyneth Paltrow.
As if we don’t have enough to worry on, it seems the lot of us have been pigeon-holed into several unforgiving categories including Eternally Late Mum, Mum of Disruptive Child, Competitive Mum, Fashionista Mum and Smugly Pregnant Mum.
Judging your fellow mother and marking her on her shoes, bag, coat and hair at the school gates is the new sport gripping modern parenting and apparently none of us are off limits. Turn up at the school gates looking less than photoshoot ready and you’ll be in for dog’s abuse.
Now I don’t know where the folks behind these various surveys are sending their kids to school – presumably to the same ones as Elle Macpherson and Stella McCartney’s offspring attend – but there ain’t no Elles, Stellas, Gwynnies or Claudia’s at any schools gates I’ve frequented recently and I’ve been at a few different school gates recently, let me tell you.
I dare say that should the people who compile this information take a quick jump over the water from the dizzy heights of middle England they might just discover an entirely new species of ‘ Norn Irish mas’ to pigeon hole.
‘Come as you are’ Ma
Turns up to school in full night attire, fluffy slippers and all. Prefers pyjamas of the pink flannelette variety rather than night dresses as the latter incurs a need to remove leg hair so as not to be ‘affronted’ at the school gates. Hair on head hasn’t seen the second sight of a brush since last Saturday night. Said hair is held in place – a rough off-centred ponytail – by grubby pink ‘scrunchie’. Kids walk 10ft either in front or behind so as to not be associated with ‘come as you are’ ma. Can also be spotted heading for the city centre to round off her pyjama wearing adventure touring various pound shops and budget clothing outlets.
The ‘hard ticket’ ma
Regales everyone with tales of her weekend escapades – involving cider, street brawls and screaming episodes with neighbours – in a loud and brash voice. Wears a t-shirt with an awfully bad word blazoned across it (rhymes with a witch, starts with a b). Shouts at her kids, shouts at their teachers, shouts at other parents, dogs in the street, flowers just minding their own business on the grass. Bullies dinner and lollipop ladies in the playground on her way home.
The ‘working’ ma
Is often found dragging half-dressed children along the path to school seconds before the bell. Is permanently in a rushed and panicked state. The art of finishing getting herself dressed is a well-honed skill to this particular ma. She can ruffle child’s hair while buckling the strap of her shoe, kiss farewell at the school gates while brushing her teeth, sort out lunch money while expertly applying her make-up. Seemingly has four sets of hands. Is rarely seen in the afternoon picking up session.
Organic ma
Has bright red or green hair and large wooden jewellery pieces that could literally render a passing parent blind. Smells of patchouli oil and often rides to school on an old-fashioned pushbike with daffodils in the front basket, regardless of the season. They may be fake.
Doesn’t believe in controlled religion or anti-perspirent.
The Smoke Talk Smoke Talk ma
Stands at the school gates in a large Smoking Talking tribe made up of other pram and cigarette-wielding mas until well after school break time. Topics discussed – the ‘state’ of Organic Ma, the ‘shape’ of ‘Come As You Are Ma’ and the ‘nerve’ of Working Ma.
Me? I don’t know where I fit in. I’d like to think I’m a mix of the best qualities from all of them.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Hello baby girl...
Got some great professional pictures taken of Maolíosa this week. I'm lucky enough to be married to one of the finest photographers this side of Mars, the fabulous Brendan O'Neill (www.brendanoneillphotography.com). I booked us an appointment and we arrived at the husband's studio all dolled up and ready to roll. Here are the results. The walls of my house are positively groaning under the pressure of pictures of our children. I doubt there is a space for these. I may have to build an extension....
So long 2010....
For me 2010 was a bit of a rollercoaster. I spent the first half of the year trying to pick myself up from the crushing grief of losing my Dad, the second half of the year brought us the joy of a new baby. And there were lots in between those two life-changing events. Here are a few highlights.
January saw my two older boys pen a letter to Santa, detailing his questionable decision to leave them educational toys and books in the stead of Nintendos, Xboxes and bikes that they had requested.
The month also saw a three-week run-up of hard core stressing over Caolan’s birthday plans. On the day itself we endured 30 screaming kids, kitchens on fire, kamikaze-related bouncy castle injuries, permanently painted limbs and mental trauma caused by discovering doggy graves in neighbouring gardens.
In February we announced that we were building an army and that baby number four was on the way. We felt so blessed after the horrendous year living through my father’s illness and death.
I spent most of that particular month eating prawn crackers with sweet corn and my favourite, apple crumble with melted cheese on top. And also being violently ill. That was the month I developed an unhealthy and obsessive addiction to sniffing disinfectant wipes.
The latter part of the month was spent watching too much 24-hour news and fretting about bird and swine flu. The husband was stationed on the roof of the house (while we hid in a big hole) with a yard brush to scare, maim or kill any feverish feathered creatures or flying pigs that might happen to float by. After a time the husband gave me this advice.
1. Switch off the TV
2. Wise up, shut up
3. Make his tea
In March I was shocked to discover that my seven-year-old son had an actual girlfriend.
Like any Mum I was curious to know about the girl who had stolen my boy’s heart from me. I asked him the normal questions – if she had a criminal record, a good job, all her own teeth and plenty of money. I also told the boy to inform his new squeeze that should she break his heart his crazy mother will bring her down. D.O.W.N. No questions asked.
My fears were calmed somewhat by the end of the month after they ‘broke up’ due to an altercation over the superbness, or lack therefore of, of her Hello Kitty handbag.
We also spent nine hours in A&E after Dan had an asthma attack. With 22 pence, no cards, no mobile phones and no means of purchasing consumables we had a rip-roaring time. Highlights included the husband attempting to convince the hospital shopkeeper to sell him a packet of crisps at 1979 prices, contemplating ram raiding the car park barrier to get home and me asking nursing staff to prescribe sedatives for the male O’Neill members present.
The end of the month saw me face my greatest fear – people-carrier-aphobia – and purchase a vehicle fit for a family of six.
In April saw the middle boy take centre stage in a police drama after a lady up the street had her car window smashed and her handbag stolen. Caolan had been playing out in our driveway at the time of the incident and we asked him if he saw anyone.
"I saw a man," he said.
"What did he look like?" says I.
"He was big and wearing a hat," he replies.
"What kind of hat?" I ask, thinking that the boy could possibly hold the key to the entire investigation.
"It was a burglar's hat," he says. "You know, like a black hat with the word burglar written in big letters across the front of it."
In May I suffered from awful pregnancy insomnia, and addiction to Murder She Wrote and all my boys got chicken pox. Daniel’s 7th birthday celebrations were marred by prison-style riots, burnt pizza, mutant milkshakes gone wrong and apocalyptic rain.
June saw us prepare for the annual school sports day and I geared my boys up with a pep talk on the proud O’Neill history of winning everything.
“Recall the sacrifices of your ancestors as you muster the strength to beat your classmates at the egg and spoon race. Your forebears may have proudly wielded shiny swords of iron and you may this day wield shiny spoons borrowed from the canteen, but the aim is still the same – beat your enemies and bring home the glory in the name of all things O’Neill.”
July saw us playing the waiting game and the eventual arrival of our darling baby girl. Maolíosa Grace O’Neill was born on the 21st of the month bringing even more sunshine into our lives. August was lost in a beautiful new baby haze of feeding and not sleeping.
September saw the blessed end of the summer holidays and the start of the lurgy season. The first bout of sickness kicked in three days into the school term.
September saw the phasing in of the youngest boy’s terrible twos. The weeks passed in a blur of tantrums, some of which were quite inventive. During October the child regularly channelled the spirit of the late Ollie Reed in fabulous displays of foot-stomping, drunken bare-knuckled boxing, line-dancing strops. It’s a wonder we survived October at all.
November saw me being branded a bad mother by a 12-year-old dentist after Daniel had to get a tooth filled, ruin another perfectly good family car in an altercation with a trolley bay at a retail park and be made to feel totally stupido at a parent’s meeting focusing on times tables.
December was an up and down kind of month marred by snow and infuriating car troubles. I taught my boys to fashion proper flesh freezing, face stinging snowballs and
we were snowed in for well over a week. We requested, through these very pages, for you good people to send help. And chocolate.
We rounded the year off with a lovely family Christmas and a peaceful and relaxing New Year celebration.
Roll on 2011 and the next big adventure.
January saw my two older boys pen a letter to Santa, detailing his questionable decision to leave them educational toys and books in the stead of Nintendos, Xboxes and bikes that they had requested.
The month also saw a three-week run-up of hard core stressing over Caolan’s birthday plans. On the day itself we endured 30 screaming kids, kitchens on fire, kamikaze-related bouncy castle injuries, permanently painted limbs and mental trauma caused by discovering doggy graves in neighbouring gardens.
In February we announced that we were building an army and that baby number four was on the way. We felt so blessed after the horrendous year living through my father’s illness and death.
I spent most of that particular month eating prawn crackers with sweet corn and my favourite, apple crumble with melted cheese on top. And also being violently ill. That was the month I developed an unhealthy and obsessive addiction to sniffing disinfectant wipes.
The latter part of the month was spent watching too much 24-hour news and fretting about bird and swine flu. The husband was stationed on the roof of the house (while we hid in a big hole) with a yard brush to scare, maim or kill any feverish feathered creatures or flying pigs that might happen to float by. After a time the husband gave me this advice.
1. Switch off the TV
2. Wise up, shut up
3. Make his tea
In March I was shocked to discover that my seven-year-old son had an actual girlfriend.
Like any Mum I was curious to know about the girl who had stolen my boy’s heart from me. I asked him the normal questions – if she had a criminal record, a good job, all her own teeth and plenty of money. I also told the boy to inform his new squeeze that should she break his heart his crazy mother will bring her down. D.O.W.N. No questions asked.
My fears were calmed somewhat by the end of the month after they ‘broke up’ due to an altercation over the superbness, or lack therefore of, of her Hello Kitty handbag.
We also spent nine hours in A&E after Dan had an asthma attack. With 22 pence, no cards, no mobile phones and no means of purchasing consumables we had a rip-roaring time. Highlights included the husband attempting to convince the hospital shopkeeper to sell him a packet of crisps at 1979 prices, contemplating ram raiding the car park barrier to get home and me asking nursing staff to prescribe sedatives for the male O’Neill members present.
The end of the month saw me face my greatest fear – people-carrier-aphobia – and purchase a vehicle fit for a family of six.
In April saw the middle boy take centre stage in a police drama after a lady up the street had her car window smashed and her handbag stolen. Caolan had been playing out in our driveway at the time of the incident and we asked him if he saw anyone.
"I saw a man," he said.
"What did he look like?" says I.
"He was big and wearing a hat," he replies.
"What kind of hat?" I ask, thinking that the boy could possibly hold the key to the entire investigation.
"It was a burglar's hat," he says. "You know, like a black hat with the word burglar written in big letters across the front of it."
In May I suffered from awful pregnancy insomnia, and addiction to Murder She Wrote and all my boys got chicken pox. Daniel’s 7th birthday celebrations were marred by prison-style riots, burnt pizza, mutant milkshakes gone wrong and apocalyptic rain.
June saw us prepare for the annual school sports day and I geared my boys up with a pep talk on the proud O’Neill history of winning everything.
“Recall the sacrifices of your ancestors as you muster the strength to beat your classmates at the egg and spoon race. Your forebears may have proudly wielded shiny swords of iron and you may this day wield shiny spoons borrowed from the canteen, but the aim is still the same – beat your enemies and bring home the glory in the name of all things O’Neill.”
July saw us playing the waiting game and the eventual arrival of our darling baby girl. Maolíosa Grace O’Neill was born on the 21st of the month bringing even more sunshine into our lives. August was lost in a beautiful new baby haze of feeding and not sleeping.
September saw the blessed end of the summer holidays and the start of the lurgy season. The first bout of sickness kicked in three days into the school term.
September saw the phasing in of the youngest boy’s terrible twos. The weeks passed in a blur of tantrums, some of which were quite inventive. During October the child regularly channelled the spirit of the late Ollie Reed in fabulous displays of foot-stomping, drunken bare-knuckled boxing, line-dancing strops. It’s a wonder we survived October at all.
November saw me being branded a bad mother by a 12-year-old dentist after Daniel had to get a tooth filled, ruin another perfectly good family car in an altercation with a trolley bay at a retail park and be made to feel totally stupido at a parent’s meeting focusing on times tables.
December was an up and down kind of month marred by snow and infuriating car troubles. I taught my boys to fashion proper flesh freezing, face stinging snowballs and
we were snowed in for well over a week. We requested, through these very pages, for you good people to send help. And chocolate.
We rounded the year off with a lovely family Christmas and a peaceful and relaxing New Year celebration.
Roll on 2011 and the next big adventure.
Resolutions...
After careful consideration I have put together a long list of resolutions for 2011 to help me to go above and beyond, if it’s humanly possible, my already stellar levels of greatness.
In previous years I would have made a list, stick to those vows religiously for two days then crack under the pressure, eventually binging on all those things I promised the good Lord I would forsake – like chocolate, beer and bad language – thus setting the tone for the rest of the year.
So this year I am forgetting the lies and empty promises of self reform that I usually make and instead going for resolutions that I can actually keep.
I will take up a hobby, perhaps drinking whiskey?
I will never allow another piece of chocolate to pass my lips. I will instead have the NHS insert a drip directly into my bloodstream.
I will no longer waste my time relieving the past; instead I will spend it worrying fiercely and at great length about the future.
This year I vow to NOT join a gym, NOT pay a year’s membership fees and NOT attend a mere two and a half times. That method of weight loss hasn’t worked for me in the past, it’s not going to start working now.
I shall start being superstitious and become more neurotic about my children, my career and my life in general.
I will procrastinate more. Starting tomorrow.
I will attempt to give more strangers more advice on various topics on which I am an expert – eating chocolate, vacuuming, having loads of kids, crashing cars – in a smug and condescending way. I shall also try to be open to others' ideas on a variety of things, misguided and completely deranged though they may be.
I will stop worrying about getting fat and eat 50 per cent more cake. In fact I vow to gain approximately 12lbs.
I shall make a concrete effort to improve my concentration. Perhaps taking a advanced concentration course or.. oh.. maybe a flower arranging one? And I’ll make a big effort to keep my mind focused on one thing….oh look a bar of chocolate.. at any one time.
I will attempt to be at least 40 per cent more patient and tolerant of other people’s really bratty, annoying children. I shall not visualise shooting general household waste like compact dust bullets from an industrial strength vacuum at 30mph at small individuals who pick on my offspring.
I vow to spread out priorities way beyond my ability to keep track of them.
I vow to stop being so serious and pedantic about stuff, starting at precisely 8.03am on the morning of January 4th 2011.
I shall concentrate this year on perfecting my mental powers of persuasion and also the Vulcan death grip to get my way on everything from loan application approvals to getting someone else to carry out my housekeeping duties.
I shall aim for 15 hours of sleep per night, every night regardless of family or work responsibilities. And I’m going to be consistent about that.
And finally I vow to live well, love much and laugh often this year.
Now those are resolutions I can stand by.
Wishing each and every one of you a peaceful and prosperous 2011. Here’s hoping all your dreams come true.
Love and warmest wishes from the O’Neill clan.
In previous years I would have made a list, stick to those vows religiously for two days then crack under the pressure, eventually binging on all those things I promised the good Lord I would forsake – like chocolate, beer and bad language – thus setting the tone for the rest of the year.
So this year I am forgetting the lies and empty promises of self reform that I usually make and instead going for resolutions that I can actually keep.
I will take up a hobby, perhaps drinking whiskey?
I will never allow another piece of chocolate to pass my lips. I will instead have the NHS insert a drip directly into my bloodstream.
I will no longer waste my time relieving the past; instead I will spend it worrying fiercely and at great length about the future.
This year I vow to NOT join a gym, NOT pay a year’s membership fees and NOT attend a mere two and a half times. That method of weight loss hasn’t worked for me in the past, it’s not going to start working now.
I shall start being superstitious and become more neurotic about my children, my career and my life in general.
I will procrastinate more. Starting tomorrow.
I will attempt to give more strangers more advice on various topics on which I am an expert – eating chocolate, vacuuming, having loads of kids, crashing cars – in a smug and condescending way. I shall also try to be open to others' ideas on a variety of things, misguided and completely deranged though they may be.
I will stop worrying about getting fat and eat 50 per cent more cake. In fact I vow to gain approximately 12lbs.
I shall make a concrete effort to improve my concentration. Perhaps taking a advanced concentration course or.. oh.. maybe a flower arranging one? And I’ll make a big effort to keep my mind focused on one thing….oh look a bar of chocolate.. at any one time.
I will attempt to be at least 40 per cent more patient and tolerant of other people’s really bratty, annoying children. I shall not visualise shooting general household waste like compact dust bullets from an industrial strength vacuum at 30mph at small individuals who pick on my offspring.
I vow to spread out priorities way beyond my ability to keep track of them.
I vow to stop being so serious and pedantic about stuff, starting at precisely 8.03am on the morning of January 4th 2011.
I shall concentrate this year on perfecting my mental powers of persuasion and also the Vulcan death grip to get my way on everything from loan application approvals to getting someone else to carry out my housekeeping duties.
I shall aim for 15 hours of sleep per night, every night regardless of family or work responsibilities. And I’m going to be consistent about that.
And finally I vow to live well, love much and laugh often this year.
Now those are resolutions I can stand by.
Wishing each and every one of you a peaceful and prosperous 2011. Here’s hoping all your dreams come true.
Love and warmest wishes from the O’Neill clan.
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
School play season...
My boy’s school play took place last week.
I had it written in the calendar, which is hidden behind the mountain of important letters, which are pinned behind the funny postcards on the notice board in our kitchen. How could I possibly have missed it?
On Wednesday morning my youngest son asked me where his ox costume was, that the school play started in an hour and he would much prefer to just wear it in instead of his school uniform.
I know that I promised that child that I would fashion him an ox costume, I remember nodding as he described how it should look, however the manifestation and materialisation of promises department in my brain let me down badly.
I stood and nodded again as the boy told me how nervous he was about his big performance and tried not to let him see me hyperventilate as he impressed upon me the need for a really good costume, not one fashioned from something stupid like, I don’t know, plastic bags. The boy may well have psychic abilities.
Now, I know how important these things are for any kid’s school cred and I also know that this express costume challenge is payback for the predicament I left my own mother on many a December morning back in the day.
In fairness my own mother was slightly less flamboyant in her Christmas play costume design. There was no faux fur or silky material wasted on us. Regardless of what role I was playing she fashioned my outfit from those striped flannelette bed sheets that were all the rage with Northern Irish housewives in the 60s.
‘You’re a donkey eh? Well you’re a donkey of the faded bed sheet variety that is common in Peru.
‘You’re a little star? Where are those bed sheets? You can be a washed out bed sheet star and we’ll give you a belt make from tinsel, that’s Christmassy eh?’
I suppose she had to get it spot on once, the year I was a shepherd. Well, everyone knows that the standard issue shepherd’s uniform consists of faded stripy bed sheet and tasselled tieback from the living room curtains.
I vowed to spare my son from rushed and ill-thought out Christmas play costume humiliation.
So I sent the boy upstairs to get in the zone and spent the next 30 minutes running around the house picking things up and putting them down, throwing stuff overhead out of cupboards and muttering maniacally.
Despite being half country girl (mum from Donegal) my eyes have never once gazed upon an ox of any description. Do they even exist in Ireland? Where do the teachers get these wacky ideas?
Yes. Well, apparently the Bible.
A quick search on Google revealed that the ox was, in fact, the main man to keep Baby Jesus warm in the Manger. All thoughts of using that Scooby Doo Halloween costume went straight out of my head. A giant, talking dog just wouldn’t have fitted in among all those deeply religious men that bore witness to the birth of Christ. This was a serious role and demanded a serious costume.
I decided that Caolan’s interpretation of this blessed ox would look shockingly like the sandy coloured fluffy faux fur throws I bought last week in a well-known fabric and furniture store to cover my sofa.
I sewed those throws like my life, and the reputation of my boy as a serious actor, depended on it. While Caolan got himself into the role I fashioned the best dog-gone ox costume I, or anyone else whose eyes fell upon it, had ever seen. We’re talking BBC props department stuff here. In fact I’d say there were a few parents in the front row on the day of the play feeling more than a little nervous about the inclusion of an actual live ox in the proceedings. It was that good.
My older son played an inn-keeper. Everyone knows inn-keepers circa 1AD sported washed out stripy bed sheets, much like their sheep shepherding pals. Daniel added to the effect by drawing a big bushy beard and elaborate curly moustache, using a permanent black pen. And, surprisingly, it was a good look for the boy. Good job too because it’ll be weeks before it comes off.
Daniel might just be the man to bring drawn on facial hair back into fashion in primary school age kids. You mark my words 2011 will be the year of the fake beard.
I had it written in the calendar, which is hidden behind the mountain of important letters, which are pinned behind the funny postcards on the notice board in our kitchen. How could I possibly have missed it?
On Wednesday morning my youngest son asked me where his ox costume was, that the school play started in an hour and he would much prefer to just wear it in instead of his school uniform.
I know that I promised that child that I would fashion him an ox costume, I remember nodding as he described how it should look, however the manifestation and materialisation of promises department in my brain let me down badly.
I stood and nodded again as the boy told me how nervous he was about his big performance and tried not to let him see me hyperventilate as he impressed upon me the need for a really good costume, not one fashioned from something stupid like, I don’t know, plastic bags. The boy may well have psychic abilities.
Now, I know how important these things are for any kid’s school cred and I also know that this express costume challenge is payback for the predicament I left my own mother on many a December morning back in the day.
In fairness my own mother was slightly less flamboyant in her Christmas play costume design. There was no faux fur or silky material wasted on us. Regardless of what role I was playing she fashioned my outfit from those striped flannelette bed sheets that were all the rage with Northern Irish housewives in the 60s.
‘You’re a donkey eh? Well you’re a donkey of the faded bed sheet variety that is common in Peru.
‘You’re a little star? Where are those bed sheets? You can be a washed out bed sheet star and we’ll give you a belt make from tinsel, that’s Christmassy eh?’
I suppose she had to get it spot on once, the year I was a shepherd. Well, everyone knows that the standard issue shepherd’s uniform consists of faded stripy bed sheet and tasselled tieback from the living room curtains.
I vowed to spare my son from rushed and ill-thought out Christmas play costume humiliation.
So I sent the boy upstairs to get in the zone and spent the next 30 minutes running around the house picking things up and putting them down, throwing stuff overhead out of cupboards and muttering maniacally.
Despite being half country girl (mum from Donegal) my eyes have never once gazed upon an ox of any description. Do they even exist in Ireland? Where do the teachers get these wacky ideas?
Yes. Well, apparently the Bible.
A quick search on Google revealed that the ox was, in fact, the main man to keep Baby Jesus warm in the Manger. All thoughts of using that Scooby Doo Halloween costume went straight out of my head. A giant, talking dog just wouldn’t have fitted in among all those deeply religious men that bore witness to the birth of Christ. This was a serious role and demanded a serious costume.
I decided that Caolan’s interpretation of this blessed ox would look shockingly like the sandy coloured fluffy faux fur throws I bought last week in a well-known fabric and furniture store to cover my sofa.
I sewed those throws like my life, and the reputation of my boy as a serious actor, depended on it. While Caolan got himself into the role I fashioned the best dog-gone ox costume I, or anyone else whose eyes fell upon it, had ever seen. We’re talking BBC props department stuff here. In fact I’d say there were a few parents in the front row on the day of the play feeling more than a little nervous about the inclusion of an actual live ox in the proceedings. It was that good.
My older son played an inn-keeper. Everyone knows inn-keepers circa 1AD sported washed out stripy bed sheets, much like their sheep shepherding pals. Daniel added to the effect by drawing a big bushy beard and elaborate curly moustache, using a permanent black pen. And, surprisingly, it was a good look for the boy. Good job too because it’ll be weeks before it comes off.
Daniel might just be the man to bring drawn on facial hair back into fashion in primary school age kids. You mark my words 2011 will be the year of the fake beard.
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Send help. And chocolate....
I don’t know how much more I can take. We have been stranded for more than a week now. The six of us together. In the same house. I’m hoping that the following information will go someway to allowing the proper authorities to piece together the circumstances running up to the assaults, criminal damage and various other crimes that happened in the week from hell.
If by some miracle this message reaches you, please send help. And chocolate.
Day one, Saturday
Mood – Christmassy
Housebound for the day due to failure of car that never starts to start.
Snowflakes falling gently outside, fire roaring in the hearth. Children’s laughter rings out throughout the house. The smell of sweet cinnamon cookies hangs in the air. The baby coos in her pram. The husband tinkers lightly under the bonnet of the family car, whistling a Christmas tune. All is right with the world.
Day Two, Sunday
Mood – concerned
Snow fall significant. Children laugh and fashion various snow-related characters in the garden before walloping their heads off with spades. Have to fashion an imaginative dinner from what supplies are left in the fridge. Children demand new, warm, clean clothes at 15-minute intervals due to snowy conditions. Car that never starts still wont start. Husband floats between broken car and Google, hoping that random people on the internet might send good vibes and advice on how to fix it.
Day Three, Monday
Mood – Increasingly worried
Children ready for school and packed into the car that never starts, which doesn’t start. Husband risks combustion by asking passing bin lorry for a jump-start. Trek to school in Arctic conditions, wearing boots that can unbelievably hold several inches of snow inside. Husband decides a week working from home is only option as five years worth of snow falls outside our windows. Mechanic doesn’t come. Husband tries beating his fist on the bonnet of car and waving other fist to the heavens as a method of starting car. Doesn’t work.
Day Four, Tuesday
Mood – Deranged
Children off school due to the 10-foot of snow and deadly daggers of ice hanging from every surface. Car that never starts sits on the driveway like a giant ice cube laughing at us as we huddle in the house, with dangerously depleted coffee supplies and bereft of proper sustenance. Husband walks to the shop three miles away, leaving us with the words ‘I’m going for a walk, I may be some time’. He arrives back some time later with news that the shop has sold out of most things except beans, of which he has purchased 14 tins. Struggle to plan bean-related breakfast, lunches and dinners for the next few days or weeks. Spot four horsemen of the Apocalypse outside our window, pointing and laughing at our frozen car.
Day Five, Wednesday
Mood – Beyond crazy
Mechanic promises, for the third day in a row, to visit and fix our stricken vehicle. Mechanic has weather related problems and doesn’t turn up again. Youngest boy falls ill with bokey, screaming, and insomniac bug. May be cabin fever, may be over-consumption of baked beans.
Day Six, Thursday
Mood – End of proverbial tether
Two more children fall victim to the horrible bokey bug. House now filled with whingey, screaming children and crazy-haired, deranged parents. Still snowing outside with some freezing fog thrown in for good measure. Am awaiting the arrival of locusts to top off the apocalyptic atmosphere.
Day Seven, Friday
Mood – Oh Dear God, NO!!!
TV broken.
Loose wire at the rear means TV flickers on, teasing us with a brief glimpse at our favourite programmes before going blank. Toddler beside himself with Thomas the Tank Engine withdrawal symptoms. We are forced to listen to the radio for news of the outside world. Older children punch each other and destroy furniture for entertainment. It’s still snowing. We are still consuming baked bean-based meals.
Day Eight, Saturday
Mood – Fair to middling
Mechanic made an appearance six days late and fixed the car. Husband used scientific method to fix TV (hit screen with propelled shoe in fit of frustration). Celebrated by skidding sideways in fabulously fixed car to Sainsbury’s to purchase essential supplies – chocolate and coffee.
If by some miracle this message reaches you, please send help. And chocolate.
Day one, Saturday
Mood – Christmassy
Housebound for the day due to failure of car that never starts to start.
Snowflakes falling gently outside, fire roaring in the hearth. Children’s laughter rings out throughout the house. The smell of sweet cinnamon cookies hangs in the air. The baby coos in her pram. The husband tinkers lightly under the bonnet of the family car, whistling a Christmas tune. All is right with the world.
Day Two, Sunday
Mood – concerned
Snow fall significant. Children laugh and fashion various snow-related characters in the garden before walloping their heads off with spades. Have to fashion an imaginative dinner from what supplies are left in the fridge. Children demand new, warm, clean clothes at 15-minute intervals due to snowy conditions. Car that never starts still wont start. Husband floats between broken car and Google, hoping that random people on the internet might send good vibes and advice on how to fix it.
Day Three, Monday
Mood – Increasingly worried
Children ready for school and packed into the car that never starts, which doesn’t start. Husband risks combustion by asking passing bin lorry for a jump-start. Trek to school in Arctic conditions, wearing boots that can unbelievably hold several inches of snow inside. Husband decides a week working from home is only option as five years worth of snow falls outside our windows. Mechanic doesn’t come. Husband tries beating his fist on the bonnet of car and waving other fist to the heavens as a method of starting car. Doesn’t work.
Day Four, Tuesday
Mood – Deranged
Children off school due to the 10-foot of snow and deadly daggers of ice hanging from every surface. Car that never starts sits on the driveway like a giant ice cube laughing at us as we huddle in the house, with dangerously depleted coffee supplies and bereft of proper sustenance. Husband walks to the shop three miles away, leaving us with the words ‘I’m going for a walk, I may be some time’. He arrives back some time later with news that the shop has sold out of most things except beans, of which he has purchased 14 tins. Struggle to plan bean-related breakfast, lunches and dinners for the next few days or weeks. Spot four horsemen of the Apocalypse outside our window, pointing and laughing at our frozen car.
Day Five, Wednesday
Mood – Beyond crazy
Mechanic promises, for the third day in a row, to visit and fix our stricken vehicle. Mechanic has weather related problems and doesn’t turn up again. Youngest boy falls ill with bokey, screaming, and insomniac bug. May be cabin fever, may be over-consumption of baked beans.
Day Six, Thursday
Mood – End of proverbial tether
Two more children fall victim to the horrible bokey bug. House now filled with whingey, screaming children and crazy-haired, deranged parents. Still snowing outside with some freezing fog thrown in for good measure. Am awaiting the arrival of locusts to top off the apocalyptic atmosphere.
Day Seven, Friday
Mood – Oh Dear God, NO!!!
TV broken.
Loose wire at the rear means TV flickers on, teasing us with a brief glimpse at our favourite programmes before going blank. Toddler beside himself with Thomas the Tank Engine withdrawal symptoms. We are forced to listen to the radio for news of the outside world. Older children punch each other and destroy furniture for entertainment. It’s still snowing. We are still consuming baked bean-based meals.
Day Eight, Saturday
Mood – Fair to middling
Mechanic made an appearance six days late and fixed the car. Husband used scientific method to fix TV (hit screen with propelled shoe in fit of frustration). Celebrated by skidding sideways in fabulously fixed car to Sainsbury’s to purchase essential supplies – chocolate and coffee.
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
No level seven mummy's boys...
We have a cupboard under our stairs, which plays host to a vast array of broken, useless and long forgotten stuff. It houses ironing boards with bits missing, prams, odd wellies and doubles up as a vacuum cleaner graveyard.
I don’t know why I don’t throw these vacuum cleaners out, perhaps I hold onto the hope that the husband might one day be overwhelmed with the notion to fix them all, therefore providing me with a different vacuum for every room in the house.
I am also bewildered as to why I have such a high turnover of the things. Am I the black widow of vacuums as well as motor vehicles? Why does everything mechanical I touch turn to dust? These questions and more I pondered as I rummaged about in that dark, spidery closet under the stairs.
And then I saw it. The industrial vacuum cleaner that the husband purchased when I let him off the leash one day in B&Q. A big, angry brute of a thing that sounded much like a jet airplane and sucked up everything, including rugs and small pets. I believe he was sucked in, so to speak, by the pictures on the box – a boiler-suited gentleman vacuuming up leaves on a building site, a woman wearing goggles vacuuming a pond of all things, an astronaut using the machine to hold on to his friend in outer space. The thing was a monster and, for reasons known only to himself, my husband felt that it was right up our street with regards our household vacuuming needs.
The thing could not only handle household dust and dirt it could also suck up leaves from your driveway and there was a reverse button on it which allowed the operator (as in me) to shoot the contents of the drum out at 30mph. For the five years we owned the thing I never did figure out what that particular function was useful for, until now.
The husband has to constantly remind me not to ‘mother’ our boys too much. He’s from the ‘let them find their own way’ school of parenting. Whereas he would like them to make their mistakes, learn from them and not make them again, the mother in me tries to ceaselessly shelter them from the hurt and harm that life can bring.
He allows them to swing from trees, tussle in the garden, learn to box. I, on the other hand, make sure that not an inch of skin is exposed to the elements when we go out, I would honestly prefer they wear helmets and knee pads when they play football and that they do not reach speeds of more than 3mph while running around the playground. I also find it rather difficult not to want to throttle other people’s children when they hurt or insult mine.
Perhaps my way is detrimental to their development but the mothering instinct is inbuilt and at this stage I’m afraid I can’t be reprogrammed. Nevertheless the husband continues to try and train me to stop with the ‘mummying’ so as to prevent my lads growing up to be level seven mummy’s boys.
My training was put into practice this week when the middle boy returned home from playing in the street with an angry red slap mark on his face and his shirt filled with freezing snow. One of his pals had walloped him, close range, with an icy snowball, then helpfully filled his clothes with leftover snow. He was rather annoyed about the affair, and so was I.
My first thought was to go ‘psycho mum’ get that industrial vacuum cleaner from the deepest, darkest depths of the under stairs cupboard, suck up all the snow from the front garden and shoot it 30mph from the front porch in the general direction of the perpetrator while laughing maniacally. My second thought was to stop mummying the boy and allow him to stand on his own two feet.
I spent my later teenage years in a mixed sex school in Strabane. It was hell let loose at the best of times; when the snow fell, it was all out war. Being a teacher’s daughter meant I was a target for the snowball brigade. I had to learn to kill or be killed so to speak. That is where I learnt how to fashion proper flesh freezing, face stinging snowballs. There are people in that Co Tyrone town that whisper of those snowballs in hushed, worried tones. There are people there who will never smile again because of the trauma my snowballs inflicted.
So I bypassed the old aggravated assault with a vacuum route I had been planning and decided instead to teach the kid to make my world-famous, stuff of legends snowballs. As we stood there in the front garden making our snowy ammunition we had one of those universe aligning mother son moments. Here I was giving my son the tools (and the snowballs) to fight his own battles and he felt empowered enough to head right back onto the battlefield that was our street without fear (while I paced the living room floor while biting my nails).
Watch out kids, there’s a new mini-sheriff in town.
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