The Screamin' Demon

Never mind the Commonwealth Games, I’d say to the BBC that there is something much more worthy of the licence fee unfolding in our house – the curly-haired lunatic’s terrible twos.
The youngest boy, who turned two just last month, has taken to screaming like it is an actual Olympic sport and he is gearing up to represent Ireland in London 2012.
No longer does he ask for stuff, he points and screams until said item is placed in his hand. If something troubles him he screams until that thing is put to rights. We are sometimes fearful of making eye contact in case we might inadvertently set of a catastrophic chain of events concluding with an hour of noisy and pointless screaming.
And this is no ordinary screeching. We’re talking ear-drum splitting, window cracking wailing which makes birds flee from nearby trees in fear for their lives. The boy’s noisy protestations can only be compared with what I imagine Satan’s motorbike might sound like with a troubled ignition throttle – rattling up from a whimper to a level seven hellish wail in five point six seconds.
He throws the odd strop at home, but in true kiddie tantrum fashion he saves the biggest hissy fits for when we are in public places.
But what the kid forgets is that we have been down this road twice before. We have quite literally been there, done that and are the proud owners of some fabulously colourful fitted ‘I survived the Terrible Twos’ t-shirts.
Just last week Finn had his two-year check-up with the health visitor and had I informed her that the boy was a placid soul, we had as yet to witness any tantrums and that perhaps we would escape the dreaded terrible twoness this time around. I wondered why she laughed so heartily.
Two days later the boy took great exception to my refusal to feed him chocolate cake for lunch and staged what I’m not afraid to admit was a very innovative protest in the cereal isle of Sainsbury’s.
He kicked off with a low and whiney cry, followed by a bit of arm swinging which could be compared to the actions of a drunken bare-knuckled boxer. The child, who unfortunately bears a frightening resemblance to the late Ollie Reed, then did this foot stomping dance – one foot stationery while the other stomps in a circle – and turned the volume up considerably. He concluded his performance with a big deep breath and an ear-piercing, eye-watering scream on the exhale which lasted an amazing one minute 20 seconds. I’m sure the Olympic swimming team would head hunt him if they knew. Not many people can hold their breath for that long never mind scream for the entire duration. Surely the Guinness book of records should be informed.
After consulting my mind’s vast catalogue of ‘tantrum dealing tips’ I practised my well-honed methods – pointing, laughing, more pointing and gradual withdrawal of attention.
We are, after all, the adults in this situation and therefore are not scared by loud screaming and stomping of feet. We are not even perturbed by the way he balls his fists, tenses every muscle in his body and turns his face beetroot red like he is about to physically combust.
We have seen it all. The oldest boy’s terrible twos were peppered with varying degrees of head banging. The boy would hit his head off the side of his cot/doors/floors etc while the husband and I stood back pondering why he was taking this particular line of action. Do kids not know that the pages of history are littered with these types of protest? You know the ones where they hurt themselves instead of inflicting pain upon others to make their point and that they rarely work.
The second boy used high-pitched screaming as a medium of expressing his annoyance at those troublesome twos. But this was no ordinary screaming either. We often compared him to the scary risen-from-the-dead bad guy in ‘The Mummy’ films. But whereas the Egyptian bad guy was aided by fancy computer graphics to look like he had unhinged his jawbone, our boy just opened his mouth impossibly wide and screamed au natural. The husband and I spent this particular phase laughing and pointing at him also.
So we have embarked on our youngest boy’s journey through the terrible twos and we don’t yet know what to expect. But we are secretly hoping that the London Olympics might open a ‘screamin’ demon’ category, for there will be no prouder parents than the husband and I when the child brings that gold home to Ireland.

The Troubles... again

My oldest son was born six years after the ceasefires here in the north. At the time I remember wondering what world we had brought him into and if he would have a drastically different childhood than that of my husband and I.
Because, in all honesty, we were not afforded a ‘normal’ childhood. We saw things children shouldn’t have and we lived in fear for our young lives. For us murders, bombs, shootings, soldiers and tension were as normal and everyday as homework and hanging around street corners.
Like it or like it not our memories are forever peppered with the horrific events that shaped our early lives as well as Northern Irish history.
When I was a young girl, not much older than my oldest son, I saw a man shot dead by the army as I stood, bag of sweets still in hand, outside the shop at the bottom of our street. I, along with a lot of other people who call this place home, had many other traumatic experiences growing up. As a teenager fretting about boys was as normal as bomb scares, a first kiss more daunting than a full-scale riot. It is frightening to think back on what passed as ‘normal’ in our young lives.
Our street was a stone’s throw away from one of the largest and most frequently bombed army bases in Northern Ireland. The Europa Hotel had literally nothing on Fort George Barracks. My husband grew up within an area within Belfast affectionately called ‘The Murder Triangle’ and had many, many harrowing experiences that kids should not have had to bear witness to.
I know, in the grand scheme of things we two got off relatively lightly. We were extremely lucky in that none of our immediate family were killed in the Troubles here but we, like every single other child of the conflict, were affected deeply by our own individual experiences.
This is not something I want for my children.
Last week dissident republicans attacked our city again. They planted a car bomb across the street from where I grew up, where my mother still lives. My mother – ever the drama queen – was actually driving past the scene when it exploded after having persuaded a police officer to let her home through the security cordon. She wasn’t injured, just badly shaken up.
Dissidents activity is now the norm in this city, bomb hoaxes an everyday thing. We have come to expect the odd bomb, a fact in itself which makes me mad.
Despite what the police and the politicians say these people are doing a good job at dragging us back to the old days. Not only are they planting massive car bombs they are planting seeds of sickening fear and suspicion once again our minds.
And what’s different for me personally this time around is that I have children to protect. It is the most natural instinct for a mother to want to keep her children from harm and it’s relatively easy when that which may harm them is visible. When that danger could be in the car parked beside you in the shopping centre, being assembled in a house nearby or being transported in the van stopped alongside at traffic lights it’s all the more worrying.
It sickens me that the path we walk home from school is once again littered with debris from the latest bomb, that the shops we frequent have shattered windows and twisted shutters. It sickens me that I have to try to explain the reasoning behind this new conflict when I fail to understand it myself. The last time it happened, I was the kid and it needed no explanation, it just was what it was – the Troubles – as much part of our environment as the constant rain.
It’s all rather bewildering to me, what must it look like to a child?
I had hoped that when the time came I could explain the Troubles to my kids with the aid of dusty old history books, now it seems I won’t have to. They can just look outside their window.

Holier than thou. No chance....

Our oldest boy Daniel is currently getting quite extensive religious training in anticipation of his First Holy Communion, which he makes during this term.
This involves him colouring in a host of pictures of Jesus (orange curly hair, bushy beard, white t-shirt), learning a load of prayers off by heart and thanking God for a whole host of things which he apparently invented – like time, water Playstations and shoes.
This religious work involves bringing his ‘God book’ home and asking us to answer questions on various religion-related topics, something I find rather daunting.
Now I’m not one for wearing my religious views and opinions on my sleeve but the fact is despite being brought up a Catholic I have lapsed a little in my faith.
In years gone by I went to mass, said my prayers religiously, was (and still am) a good, kind, caring and loving person. I have sky-high morals, put people high above material things, love my neighbour and have never coveted goods, wives or things of that ilk.
I only ever asked for God’s assistance twice in my life. Both were big deal situations – I needed a miracle – but despite a lot of prayers, the big man didn’t hear my distress call and I suppose we haven’t been in contact for a while.
When I was a child I found mass – and I’m being brutally honest here – incredibly boring. It was a whole lot of chanting, kneeling, standing up, sitting down and a bit of repetitive praying. The smell of incense would make me nauseous and I resented shaking hands with the person sitting next to me after watching them pick their nose just 10 minutes before. I went to mass only because I felt my mother would kill me if I didn’t.
I honestly didn’t get a lot out of it. My parents taught me life lessons, morals, tolerance and compassion. I certainly didn’t learn those things at Mass as I spent a most of my time standing outside the Church chatting.
I know I’m not alone on my views. Whilst the older generation is mostly made up of God fearing church goers, my generation seem to be falling away from religion in their droves. This is not because we are a band of morally challenged yahoos, more that organised religion hasn’t really evolved in a way which speaks to us.
Therefore I’m going to find it difficult teaching my young sons about religion this term. Partly because I am void of blind faith and the fact that a lot of it is totally bewildering.
Already this week we have learned that God is THE most important person in his life, not Spiderman, not Red Power Ranger, not even me. The big man is more important. And he has been instructed to put God before all things and all people from now on. As always in religion there were no actually written instructions as to how exactly to carry out this task. I suggested that instead of fighting with his brother or wrecking the living room they might both spend a few hours praying quietly to God.
My kids have experience of many different religions. Our own extended family are deeply religious and it works for them. We have Japanese friends whose religion dictates that they pray before everything they do – even giving long and lengthy praise before allowing us to eat our Happy Meals at McDonalds. A small child of one of our Indian friends once told us that we like the ‘wrong God’ when he spotted the Sacred Heart picture on the wall. Each to their own I say, no one is more right than anyone else.
So now my son is starting his journey into his religion and needs me to hold his hand along the road. I believe it's important that he has an open mind, and when he’s old enough, to make those decisions for himself, without my or anyone else’s dogma running around in his head, and I will support any decision his makes on the matter.
Rant over, Amen.