The baby is now six months old and it’s time I started thinking about returning to some manner of paid work. I saw this advert and thought I might apply:
Positions Vacant
Northern Irish family seeks professional worrier, must be certified (generalised anxiety disorder diagnosis preferred), to perform weekly worrying duties re: possibilities of dissident terror attacks, economic meltdowns, random shootings at supermarkets, cyber attacks, various health scares. English-speaker, references required. Live-in only, need worrying assistance 24/7. Excellent pay and benefits.
So I put pen to paper and posted off this reply:
I am a professional worrier.
I started my career early; at around the age of five-years-old, while on a bus trip to Kinegoe Bay in Donegal. I felt the first explosion of worry erupt then as we teetered along a bumpy cliff top road on a school bus that had seen better days. I looked out that window to the waves crashing below and I worried. I worried that the bus driver (who, if I remember correctly, had only one fully functioning eye) would send us over to a watery demise.
From that day forward I worried on a part-time basis. I worried about earwigs, school, about boys, about if I was smart enough, tall enough, good looking enough, funny enough. I worried so much that when life was going good and I didn’t have anything to worry about I would worry about the ravaging effects the chemicals released by not worrying would have on my mind.
I quite frequently worried sheep just by looking worriedly in their direction.
I took my worrying to whole other level eight years ago when I started off on the path to motherhood. As soon as that little blue line appeared I worried over what I ate, how many hours I worked, how worry can affect unborn babies.
When the boy was born I worried about how much he ate, how many hours he slept and if me worrying would somehow transfer over to him in some kind of worry-vibe mother-son transition.
In the passing years I have diversified somewhat, worrying at great length and depth about subsequent children and also heading off in different paths of worry.
I worried so much about the oldest boy heading into hospital this week for a minor procedure on his teeth that I came out in a worry rash. Quite the achievement I think you’ll agree.
I also told the hospital staff that if they didn’t take great care of my precious firstborn son I would have them all sacked, run out of town with pitchforks and their names blackened in the world of modern medicine. And I vowed, between maniacal sobs, to step out in front of a train, or leap from a tall building, if that was the sacrifice required, to prove to surgical staff the depth of my love for this boy and how so very precious he was in my world. Then I worried for the entire stay at the hospital that they would have me committed. So, you see, I am capable of diversifying to neurotic and even psychotic behaviour.
In my current position I perform weekly worrying duties such as possibilities of asthma attacks, terror attacks, anthrax mail packages, further dislocations in economy resulting from catastrophic loss of life and/or office space, sars, bird flu, flesh-eating bugs, swine flu and MRSA.
In my spare time I worry about my finances, my kid’s futures and if our neighbours will keep burying their deceased family pets in the garden that my kitchen window looks out onto.
I’ve had no reply as yet.
I’m worried.
Monday 31 January 2011
Monday 17 January 2011
Lessons I want my children to learn....
The year 2010 will go down in my book as one of the toughest on record. I started the year without my father, after losing him to cancer just before Christmas. What with his illness and death, the recession, job losses, financial worries, grief, birth, sleep deprivation and everything that comes with a new baby the year was a total rollercoaster and, looking back, taught me a few things about myself, my family life and life in general.
There are a few words of wisdom I would like to bestow on my children about life, the universe and everything. I must do it through this newspaper – and pray that they will someday read this – as I am not permitted to hold serious conversations with my children that do not revolve around sharks and robot dolphins and who would fair better in an underwater altercation between the two.
I don’t profess to know it all but I’d say I’ve been down a few roads and, while there, took a few notes for future reference.
These are the lessons I want to teach my children.
Stop and smell the roses
One thing the last 12 months has taught me is that life is much too short. Life should not be spent worrying about material things and their attainment. Live should be lived and loved. Shake every fibre out of it and enjoy every single minute. Stop and smell the roses, appreciate the small stuff. Live well, laugh much and love often.
Money means nothing
At the end of our life we leave this earth with nothing. All that we fashioned, gained and accumulated in our lives is left behind. Love and memories linger, £10 notes do not. Chasing wealth ravages the soul. You’ll never have enough, never be satisfied with what you’ve got. You’ll always be working towards a bigger house, a bigger car. Be still, look around. If you’re standing tall and breathing air you have everything you need right here, right now.
Get tough
You may have scoffed when your Dad taught you to sword fight with the brush pole or trained you up Gladiator-style in the garden but the world is a tough place, kid and you have to be tough to survive. The main reason we haven’t been to Disneyland or bought you a DS yet is to build character and give you some manner of woeful story to tell about your traumatic Irish childhood.
Resiliency is the ability to properly navigate stress, major or minor, and then return to the business of living. Myself and your Dad will continue to ensure you have the tools to better deal with stress and trauma in a positive manner. We will also show you that we can face our dramas head on, deal with them and come out the other side in the hope that it will give you good armour for life’s ups and downs.
Family First
Not to get all Italian mafia on you but family must always come first. Children are a gift, appreciate them, spend time with them, and love them. They are only little once. Time waits for no one. Appreciate your mother and father, your grandparents. Loved ones are taken from us in a heartbeat. Don’t waste time squabbling or being preoccupied with other less worthy stuff.
Be happy
Don’t waste your time with envy. Work hard, have goals, be happy. Be happy in the here and now and have faith that your dreams will come true when they are ready, not one day before.
You are amazing
Never forget that you are a unique and brilliant individual. You have brought so much colour, laughter and joy to many lives, mine and your father’s especially. You are utterly amazing, remember that.
Sunday 16 January 2011
The schoolgate wars...
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
