There are some weird phobias around. Many people have spider phobias, some a fear of heights, there are actual humans on this earth that are afraid of cotton wool. So I don’t feel so bad standing up and admitting that I, Leona O’Neill, am a card carrying people-carrier-aphobe.
With the birth of our new baby in July we will become a family of six. There are five seats in our current car. That’s one less seat than we have people, it simply doesn’t add up; no matter what way we do the sums.
Before the youngest child was born we had a few weeks of panic, not about the imminent birth, but about the fact that we’d have to get rid of our beloved Toyota Avensis. I wrote on these very pages about the husband’s elaborate plans to build an exterior extension onto the vehicle so as to keep it.
The mere thought of handing over his keys to a car salesman in return for a people carrier caused him actual physical pain. He scoured the country for an answer, and it presented itself in the form of skinnier booster seats, which would apparently fit alongside a baby seat and mean we could keep the car, and our relative coolness for another while.
That man spent three hours in torrential rain, fitting and refitting those seats, trying various configurations, while I paced the living room floor biting my nails.
Honestly when he eventually mastered it, when he made them all fit perfectly side by side, it was one of the proudest moments of his life. It was right up there with winning the boxing at the Reccy Club, North Queen Street, circa 1979. He was buzzing for weeks afterwards.
But now his bubble has burst. Now, there’s no alternative. When I look to the road ahead I see the O’Neill army in a big mini-bus-type contraption and it just fills me with dread.
I’ve nothing against people carrier drivers, nor do I think them nerdy or mumsy. This is a proper phobia.
I sit behind the wheel of one of those things and I instantly feel 10 years older. They are like a pair of boring, comfortable shoes. They’re a nice fit but rubbish to look at. I’m a perilously high heel kind of gal.
A lot of them are nice enough. Many of them come with great accessories – DVD players in the back seats, surround sound, panoramic windscreens, trousers with elasticated waists, a Susan Boyle CD and a life-long subscription to the Readers Digest, but that is just not me.
When we visited the showroom yesterday the salesman asked me if I was looking for a ‘Mummy Wagon’. I came over all dizzy and had to sit down while he fetched me a glass of water.
The husband, left unattended, scoured the small car section in a hair-brained scheme that would involve us keeping our current car, splitting the family into two vehicles and bombing down the road in a kind of O’Neill convoy.
We left without buying anything, again.
Time is fast running out. We either have to trade in for a people carrier or trade in one of the kids. Now there’s an idea…
Monday 29 March 2010
Wednesday 24 March 2010
Baby brain...
There has been some debate over the past few years about the existence of ‘pregnancy brain’, ‘pregnesia’ or ‘utter imbecility’ as my husband calls it.
The baby brain drain is an affliction, which affects mums-to-be and is characterized by short-term memory loss, clumsiness and forgetfulness.
Some medical experts say that it is a myth. I say to them, come follow me around for seven days and you’ll get your proof. You’ll also probably get lost, confused about what day it actually is, cry over washed-up pop stars and have any electrical equipment you own completely and utterly destroyed, maybe even blown up in spectacular fashion.
In saying this I don’t want employers to go around slapping this article on pregnant workers desks and showing them the door. I’m not saying all expectant mothers are imbeciles. Just me.
My normally highly functional brain has turned from sponge to sieve in a matter of months. In other words, my brain is mush.
There are days when I find it difficult to remember the most mundane of everyday tasks, like calling my mother on the telephone. My mother hasn’t changed her telephone number for 35 years. I’ve dialled that number without thinking every day for perhaps 15 of those years. Yesterday I dialled the local Credit Union by mistake and was further confused, if that is at all humanly possible, as to why a complete stranger answered.
I have placed the car keys in the fridge. I have gone to the shop for something really urgent and forgotten what it was. I have walked out of my house and left the front door wide open. I have forgotten the names of people I have known for years. I have parked my car beside a shopping centre and spent 40 minutes wandering around trying to remember where it was on my return.
Yesterday at the bank I had to calculate the total sum when one adds £200 and £80. I almost asked the cashier for a calculator such was my confusion.
And I’m also extra clumsy. I almost blew up the husband’s laptop by spilling a mug of boiling coffee over it. He has forbidden me to operate any form of machinery more complex than a vacuum cleaner until after the baby is born.
I’m now eagerly awaiting the crying and weeping phase of pregnancy, although to be honest I’m not as big a sufferer as some. My pregnant sister wept like a child for a solid hour when Peter Andre got to number one with his re-released ‘Mysterious Girl’ single a few years back. My friend spent the first two weeks of her maternity leave crying over NSPCC appeal adverts and set up a massive monthly direct debit from her already groaning bank accounts.
Pregnancy does funny things to us ladies – turns a lot of us into maniacal, gibbering, wailing wrecks – but we all go back to normal eventually. Well here’s hoping.
The baby brain drain is an affliction, which affects mums-to-be and is characterized by short-term memory loss, clumsiness and forgetfulness.
Some medical experts say that it is a myth. I say to them, come follow me around for seven days and you’ll get your proof. You’ll also probably get lost, confused about what day it actually is, cry over washed-up pop stars and have any electrical equipment you own completely and utterly destroyed, maybe even blown up in spectacular fashion.
In saying this I don’t want employers to go around slapping this article on pregnant workers desks and showing them the door. I’m not saying all expectant mothers are imbeciles. Just me.
My normally highly functional brain has turned from sponge to sieve in a matter of months. In other words, my brain is mush.
There are days when I find it difficult to remember the most mundane of everyday tasks, like calling my mother on the telephone. My mother hasn’t changed her telephone number for 35 years. I’ve dialled that number without thinking every day for perhaps 15 of those years. Yesterday I dialled the local Credit Union by mistake and was further confused, if that is at all humanly possible, as to why a complete stranger answered.
I have placed the car keys in the fridge. I have gone to the shop for something really urgent and forgotten what it was. I have walked out of my house and left the front door wide open. I have forgotten the names of people I have known for years. I have parked my car beside a shopping centre and spent 40 minutes wandering around trying to remember where it was on my return.
Yesterday at the bank I had to calculate the total sum when one adds £200 and £80. I almost asked the cashier for a calculator such was my confusion.
And I’m also extra clumsy. I almost blew up the husband’s laptop by spilling a mug of boiling coffee over it. He has forbidden me to operate any form of machinery more complex than a vacuum cleaner until after the baby is born.
I’m now eagerly awaiting the crying and weeping phase of pregnancy, although to be honest I’m not as big a sufferer as some. My pregnant sister wept like a child for a solid hour when Peter Andre got to number one with his re-released ‘Mysterious Girl’ single a few years back. My friend spent the first two weeks of her maternity leave crying over NSPCC appeal adverts and set up a massive monthly direct debit from her already groaning bank accounts.
Pregnancy does funny things to us ladies – turns a lot of us into maniacal, gibbering, wailing wrecks – but we all go back to normal eventually. Well here’s hoping.
Tuesday 16 March 2010
O'Neill baby gift list...
With a new baby due in the summer I have begun the traditional gathering of ‘stuff’ that every new baby needs – Bob Marley toupee, vampire teeth, Mum heart tattoos and helmet.
Yes indeed I’ve spent the last few nights trawling the internet for those essentials that a newborn and their weary parents simply can’t function without, and I’ve come up with the following.
Baby tattoos
No street-cred concerned newborn can be seen without a heart motto Mum tattoo. Available at just $4.99 at the www.blueq.com website, these little gems are FDA (Food and Drugs Administration) approved. There are a whole host to choose from – they’ve got Belfast Docks issue sailor’s anchors to cutesy dummies. There’s also a section with tattoos for the elderly so Granny can get into the action as well with her ‘Arthritis Sucks’ temporary ink.
Baby bottom fan
This miraculous Chinese invention promotes dry, healthy skin. To the naked eye it appears to be a run-of-the-mill hand-held fan, but closer inspection reveals a perfume dispensing function and spongy finger friendly blades. One would imagine that fresh air would serve the same purpose, but then again sleep deprived and deranged new parents might feel that shop bought jars of fresh air take up precious cupboard space.
Baby Toupes
Nappies – check. Babygroes – check. Steriliser – check. Dummies – check. Bob Marley wig and woolly hat – check. Yes indeed, the latest craze in the States is wigs for kids. We’ve got the Lil Kim, The Samuel L and the Donald to choose from. But my favourite, bought and paid for already, is the Bob – a Bob Marley inspired bunch of mellow dreads capped with a Rasta hat, a bargain at $21.99. Superb. Available at www.babytoupee.com.
Weird soothers
Billy-Bob Pacifiers is an institution in the states. There are so many to choose from – we’ve got the Lil Vampire, Lil Piglet, Baby Bugs and my favourite, the Little King, fashioned on the quivering lips of Elvis himself. If you’re into causing a stir by giving your bubba realistic looking rotting, brown, and yellowing teeth then this is the place for you. www.billybobpacifiers.com.
Knee pads and helmet
No, not for you, for the child. Your baby will never suffer grazed, sore or red knees again. They can even be worn outside. Check them out on www.snazzybaby.com. To compliment their cool pads why not furnish your bubba with a Thudguard helmet? While it looks soft and cute, be conscious that your child will never forgive you for trussing him up in pads and helmets while his piers cut knees and learn life lessons.
Baby snot sucker
Yuk. Don’t even go there. If you must you can check it out on www.nosefrida.com.
So there you have it, my baby gift list is sorted.
Monday 8 March 2010
Prescription sandwiches and sedatives
We spent all day yesterday in Accident and Emergency with our oldest boy, Daniel, after he suffered a scary level five asthma attack. He’s fine now, dosed up on steroids and pills, and thankfully he recovered enough during the day so that we didn’t need to stay in.
The day will probably go down in O’Neill history. Not for the drama element, more for the positive spin we put on what was a totally rubbish experience. There’s a saying in our house – if you don’t laugh, you’d cry. And despite everything yesterday, we all kept our chins up and laughed.
To be honest we were very ill prepared for an eight-hour stay anywhere. We arrived in a big rush, leaving bags and coats behind us at home. When they got Dan’s breathing under control we all got comfortable on the excruciatingly uncomfortable wooden chairs in the waiting room for the long haul.
We waited, we got called, we waited in a different room, we got called and we waited some more. And this process went on for eight hours – waiting in different places for different people. But on the bright side there were a variety of fairly graphic posters on the walls of each place explaining scary diseases and injuries that may or may not kill us.
And as is standard in casualty departments the patients and their carers aren’t allowed to leave their very uncomfortable chairs, for the minute you even pop to the bathroom or avert your gaze away from the treatment room doors your name will be called and you’ll miss your spot.
So five hours in and Dan, who could now breathe, had switched his attention to the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since the previous evening. This started the husband pondering on the fact that he, too, was extremely, extremely hungry. The pictures of greasy chicken burgers and fat chips on the walls, reminding us all of the unhealthy food that we must avoid to keep our hearts in tip top condition did not help matters a jot.
We searched our pockets and threw our findings on the hard wooden chairs for perusal – thinking that at the very least we might be able to muster up the price of a packet of crisps for the boy. We had a grand total of 22 pence, zero bank or credit cards, one mobile phone with a dead battery, a chewed bubble gum from yesterday (Dan) and a set of car keys.
A quick race to the hospital shop revealed the fact that it is not still 1979 and a packet of crisps now costs 45 pence. We could hear the husband’s hollers of despair from the other end of the hospital.
We also discovered that the car park cost 80 pence an hour. We were £4.58 in the red already and were facing the prospect of having to ram raid our way out if we were ever to see a bite of food ever again.
As the two boys got increasingly grumpy and irritable I considered asking one of the passing nurses if roast chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches were available on prescription.
After an hour of listening to the husband whinging about lack of sustenance and the boy pacing constantly and making food-related inquiries with random injured drunk people I considered asking if sedatives were readily available in injection form from reception.
I have to say it was the longest eight hours of my life but we all survived and thanks to a kind old school friend we met in the corridor between waiting rooms we were able to get crisps, get home and get fed.
Sincere thanks to the staff at Altnagelvin Hospital A&E for looking after us.
The day will probably go down in O’Neill history. Not for the drama element, more for the positive spin we put on what was a totally rubbish experience. There’s a saying in our house – if you don’t laugh, you’d cry. And despite everything yesterday, we all kept our chins up and laughed.
To be honest we were very ill prepared for an eight-hour stay anywhere. We arrived in a big rush, leaving bags and coats behind us at home. When they got Dan’s breathing under control we all got comfortable on the excruciatingly uncomfortable wooden chairs in the waiting room for the long haul.
We waited, we got called, we waited in a different room, we got called and we waited some more. And this process went on for eight hours – waiting in different places for different people. But on the bright side there were a variety of fairly graphic posters on the walls of each place explaining scary diseases and injuries that may or may not kill us.
And as is standard in casualty departments the patients and their carers aren’t allowed to leave their very uncomfortable chairs, for the minute you even pop to the bathroom or avert your gaze away from the treatment room doors your name will be called and you’ll miss your spot.
So five hours in and Dan, who could now breathe, had switched his attention to the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since the previous evening. This started the husband pondering on the fact that he, too, was extremely, extremely hungry. The pictures of greasy chicken burgers and fat chips on the walls, reminding us all of the unhealthy food that we must avoid to keep our hearts in tip top condition did not help matters a jot.
We searched our pockets and threw our findings on the hard wooden chairs for perusal – thinking that at the very least we might be able to muster up the price of a packet of crisps for the boy. We had a grand total of 22 pence, zero bank or credit cards, one mobile phone with a dead battery, a chewed bubble gum from yesterday (Dan) and a set of car keys.
A quick race to the hospital shop revealed the fact that it is not still 1979 and a packet of crisps now costs 45 pence. We could hear the husband’s hollers of despair from the other end of the hospital.
We also discovered that the car park cost 80 pence an hour. We were £4.58 in the red already and were facing the prospect of having to ram raid our way out if we were ever to see a bite of food ever again.
As the two boys got increasingly grumpy and irritable I considered asking one of the passing nurses if roast chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches were available on prescription.
After an hour of listening to the husband whinging about lack of sustenance and the boy pacing constantly and making food-related inquiries with random injured drunk people I considered asking if sedatives were readily available in injection form from reception.
I have to say it was the longest eight hours of my life but we all survived and thanks to a kind old school friend we met in the corridor between waiting rooms we were able to get crisps, get home and get fed.
Sincere thanks to the staff at Altnagelvin Hospital A&E for looking after us.
Tuesday 2 March 2010
Dan's fancy woman
My oldest son mentioned something in passing the other day which made my heart literally stop beating.
On the way home from school, my form is to cross-question him about his day in quick fire mode. I like to know what he’s been up to, what work he’s done, what he ate for lunch, what homework he has, how many windows he broke and how many times he was threatened with expulsion on that particular day.
It was while he was explaining the delights of his school dinners that he happened to mentioned that he shared his shortcake biscuit and custard with his girlfriend.
HIS GIRLFRIEND.
Well, when I managed to restart my heart I almost lost control of the car.
“Who is this woman?” I demanded to know.
And so the subject of the quick fire questions changed slightly.
Me: “Is this woman of sane mind?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Has she ever been in prison?”
Him: “I don’t think so, she’s only six. She was in Disneyland once though.”
Me: “Well, does she have a criminal record?”
Him: “She likes High School Musical”
Me: “Has she a good job?”
Him: “She’s really, really good at reading.”
Me: “Has she all her own teeth?”
Him: “Her two front teeth are missing, does that make a difference?”
Me: “Has she plenty of money?”
Him: “She had 50p the other day, she said she’d half if with me.”
Me: “Listen to me, my precious firstborn son. You go in tomorrow and tell her your mother is a crazy woman. C.R.A.Z.Y. You tell her that if she breaks your heart your crazy mother will bring her down. D.O.W.N. No questions asked.”
Him: “OK, I’ll tell her.”
This startling news shocked me to the core. My boy is only six years old for heaven’s sake. I wasn’t expecting to have to fight the ladies off at this tender age. I would have much preferred that his heart belonged to me, and only me, until he was, say 40 at least.
The boy informed me that it was perfectly normal for boys in primary three to have a girlfriend. While I sat, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, he told me that his best friend was going out with a girl but they ‘broke up’ last week due to an altercation over the superbness, or lack therefore of, of a Hello Kitty handbag.
I’m sure my Dan’s girlfriend is a cutie, I’m sure we’ll love her like he does (until they break up over his SpongeBob Squarepants obsession).
In the meantime I’m off to buy myself a shotgun and a pair of stone-wash denim dungarees. If this girl calls at the house to visit my boy I want to answer the door in fully Hillbilly getup – hair a mess, lumberjack shirt, dungarees, chewing tobacco and straw, cocking a shotgun – just to give her a feel for what the O’Neills are really about.
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