Dear Vicky....

Little Harper Seven has been all over the news this week.
The new baby daughter of the Beckham household has caused quite a stir, not just for her unusual name, but because she’s the first girl in that particular house.
Now I know Victoria reads this column, I know she follows the lives of the O’Neillios in an almost stalkeresque fashion. Me and her can relate, you see. She’s all fancy shopping bags, groceries from Harrods and holidaying in Bermuda. I’m all under-eye bags, messages from Sainsburys and holidaying in Buncrana.
She, obviously, saw my stunningly beautiful baby daughter Maolíosa on these very pages and said to herself, ‘I want me one of them girl babies’. Well, Victoria is a follower of fashion and we do constantly strive to set trends, us O’Neills – look at our Finn’s hair for example. He has brought the curly haired bird’s nest look back. Where we lead others do actually follow.
Saying we’ve so much in common now – we both have husbands who are Adonis’s, are utterly fabulous ourselves and have found ourselves in the wonderful, fluffy land of pink things after three boys – I thought I’d write her a bit of a letter, offering some advice.
Dear Victoria,
How’s things? I bet you’re really knackered at the mo, what with the new addition and all. Take it easy, love, let that nanny earn her £70,000 a year. Just you sit back and keep looking fabulous like you did in that not-posed picture of you in your false eyelashes pretending to sleep after a long labour. I looked that good two hours after giving birth too, to onlookers who were a good 300 metres away and looking at me through heavy tracing paper with their eyes squinted.
You and me have led almost identical lives, Vic, and that is why I’m writing. I too met a handsome and talented man around 15 years ago. He wasn’t a footballer, he was a photographer but I suppose both occupations start with the same letter don’t they? When we got hitched we too had a million pounds in the bank, of love that is, not actual pounds like yourself and Dave.
And like you and your man we had three sons in a row. I too thought I’d never have a daughter to do girly things with – like not watching football, like not digging for worms, like not having burping competitions.
Your daughter is only a week old, Vic. What delights await you with her. You will, at last, find yourself in the baby girl department of Next and think you have died and gone to pink heaven. David will no doubt go a ghostly shade of white and take one of his turns when you inform him you’re going to the Debenhams sale and need his bank card. Don’t let him put you off, love, this is your right of passage.
Your house will look like a pink-coloured bomb exploded – pink blankets, coats and cute hats strewn everywhere like debris.
You will find yourself strangely drawn to random pink stuff – fridges, cushions, computers, curtains – and will try and introduce it to a household mostly used to manly colours like magnolia and brown.
You will find yourself dressing your girl up like a pink blancmange – big floaty, impractical dresses with sequence in the daytime, cute neon pink sleepsuits with little bunny hoods on them for night.
But remember this Victoria. Pinkness is not an illness, this compulsion is because you have been blueified for so long. Just roll with it, sister. Pink never did anyone any harm.
Enjoy your baby daughter Victoria. Scoop her up into your arms, take a big whiff of that gorgeously sweet newborn smell and savour it, for she will not stay small for long. In the blink of an eye she’ll transform from the cuddly little bundle with the squishy face to a giggly ball of gorgeousness like my own little star.
Much love to yourself, Dave and the fam,
Leona
x

Happy birthday Maggie Moo...

This day last year I was dandering around the corridors of Altnagelvin Hospital in my night attire, intermittently hugging walls and calling my husband very, very bad names.
I had not finally cracked under the pressure of being a super multi-tasking working mother of three noisy, messy boys. We were about to welcome our baby daughter, Maolíosa, to the world.
We had discovered we were expecting her the week my father passed away from cancer. From the very beginning of her life’s journey she was a light in the dark.
I had a pretty non-eventful pregnancy apart from epic morning sickness that had me pray, on board the Derry to Dublin bus, that the Lord might take me away from the awful nausea. Perhaps maybe to a seat across the bus, away from my Mum and her vast array of pungent egg and onion sandwiches.
I survived for three months on a diet of still water and fruity chews. Apple flavoured sweets were my only means of consuming five-a-day, although I did guess that the only true apple content was the picture on the front of the packet.
We decided not to find out if this baby was to be another boy. We had wanted to keep it a surprise. I had long ago resigned myself to the fact that boys were the norm in the O’Neill bloodline and I would probably never have a daughter. I prepared a cupboard of truck-themed sleepsuits and Bob the Builder t-shirts.
One of the best days of my life was when, three weeks before our baby was due, the midwife inadvertently informed us that our baby was a girl. I remember asking the midwife to check again as the husband turned a ghostly white colour. I’m in those 30 seconds it took him to move from a standing position to a seating one that his life flashed before his eyes – him standing with his just emptied wallet, him brandishing a shot gun as he answers the door to her boyfriend, him walking her down the aisle, a vice-like grip on her arm.
As we walked out of the hospital that day I felt pure happiness, undiluted joy. It had been a long time. We had been wading through suffocating grief for months. Suddenly I could see the pretty blossoms on the trees on the walk back to our car, appreciate the warm sunshine on my face, see the joy and beauty in the world. Such was the power of our baby girl.
Three weeks later we were back at the same hospital, walking the corridors as the midwives suggested. We turned one corner and came across a vast number of my media colleagues. Someone, it may have been the Queen, was opening a new wing of the hospital and they were there in force with their TV crews and cameras.
It may have been the shock of almost appearing on the TV news in my nightie, make-up less and hair in a mess, but our baby girl was born very shortly afterwards ¬– all plans for a peaceful waterbirth, whale music and dimmed lighting were forgotten.
Just months after my father passed away, descending our family into darkest grief, our baby girl arrived in the world, bringing with her sunshine and joy to our house.
She brought with her a sense of peace – and in a house positively brimming with male testosterone that was most welcome. She got a nickname – as is tradition in the O’Neill house. She joined Dango, Caolan Baylan and Finnbo O’Neillio to become Maggie Moo. She has absolutely no bovine traits at all, the name just had a nice ring to it.
She turns one year old this week. She is a gentle, giggling bundle of pink loveliness and we adore her.
Happy birthday Maggie Moo.
x

Memories are made of this....

Frank McCourt once said “Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.
I often fret about what kind of memories my kids will have of their own childhood. It’s obviously a million miles away from McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes but I want them to think back with fondness for our home, their parents, the adventures we had, the world-famous O’Neill holidays.
It’s the time of year we have to start thinking about taking ourselves off on holiday. In typical O’Neill fashion we have nothing booked and will probably head down south for a few days of relaxation and/or getting on each other’s nerves.
When I think back to my own childhood, my resounding memories of family holidays are blurry. My parents took us away somewhere every year ¬ – never foreign, we always stuck close to home.
We went to England one year and have an album full of photos of us at various historical sites, museums and general places of interest. I remember none of it.
What I can recall is the sinks on the ferry on the way to England positively swimming with vomit and the captain of said ship laughing as he announced that his superiors in Belfast told him not to sail because of the whole ‘worst storm in living history’ thing. He told us over the loud speak that it was his wedding anniversary and his wife would most certainly kill him if he missed their romantic dinner, thus forcing him to sail on. There were many prayers said that wet and stormy night. Many of them to the god of ceramic sinks.
On another holiday in Mayo my resounding memory is of my younger brother, Cathal, jumping on an old bed and unleashing a massive cloud of ancient country dust thus setting off my asthma. We also visited numerous touristy places of fabulous interest, which I don’t remember.
Then there was the time we went to sunny Sussex for two weeks; the windscreen of the car got smashed on the outside lane of the motorway and we all nearly died. And also we visited a few towns, museums and I think Glastonbury, none of which I remember.
I asked my boys what they remembered about our previous holidays.
We went to a hotel in Newcastle a few years back. We visited butterfly sanctuaries, mazes, museums, castles, had walks on lovely beaches, met a load of ducks. Caolan remembers absolutely nothing of our trip. Daniel’s only memory of the entire holiday was throwing up over his precious Ben 10 schoolbag in the car.
We went to Donegal last year to a gorgeous house overlooking an awe-inspiring scene of fields, cliffs and crashing waves. For 10 days we wandered around historic houses, dandered around beautiful lakes, went to adventure playgrounds, took on the wild Atlantic, relaxed on steam trains, had epic treks around mountains.
Daniel’s only memory of this particular trip is the husband struggling in gale force winds and punishing rain to determinedly dish up real BBQ food. He remembers us laughing out the windows of our holiday home as he threw petrol on the flames to keep it lit in the never-ending downpour. He even remembers the colour of the pathetically inadequate raincoat the husband wore that was so wet it became like a second skin. He remembers how he never gave up on it and we were eventually served delicious burgers in rain-soaked baps.
There’s really no point in us planning a trip to Disney World or New York anytime soon. The kids are too young. They would only come away from such an epic adventure with memories of chocolate ice cream and car sickness.
I dare say we’ll stick with Donegal again this year again.

Dear Lord....

We are five days into the summer holidays and tempers and nerves are already rather frayed. We’ve already had several meltdowns, apocalyptic rain and a level seven bug that swept through the house like wildfire.
I know for a fact that God reads this blog – Bishop Daly told me – so I thought I’d give him a shout with regards furnishing me with patience and strength for the next 64 days.

Dear God,
First off, a question. Why did you make the summer holidays so long? You made the earth in seven days. Seven is a nice round number. I’m thinking the school holidays should span a long weekend in July or maybe just a week in August.
And Lord, I feel that you’ve been too lenient on teachers. You should really introduce a new law that they must education and entertain our children at their houses throughout the summer when the schools are shut. Fire down a few lightning bolts for those that don’t comply. I’m not telling you what to do, Lord. I’m just saying.
Lord, please keep me from the temptation of giving into the begging of my small children and booking a week at Legoland. I know that the husband would consider a visit to Legoland on a par with sticking forks in his eyes. In the grand scale of things listening to the husband whinge for a week while we’d be there is infinitely worse than all my children combined expressing their disappointment at not being able to visit a theme park based on tiny colourful blocks. Give me the strength to say no to Lego.
This year, Lord, grant me the grace to keep a cool head on the O’Neill family holiday. I apologise for the string of obscenities you must have overheard that time in Donegal when I flipped under the pressure of trying to entertain three young children and a Belfast man. There really was no need for me to dramatically stop the car at the roadside and throw all my Bord Failte documentation into a field. I know I most certainly worried some sheep with my behaviour. Please bless them with your peace.
And grant me the serenity to prevent a synchronised meltdown on the scale of the famous Wicklow incident when maps were waved about in a threatening fashion and family members were called derogatory names. Please bless those American tourists who hurried away from the scene in case by gawking they would somehow be sucked into our world of madness and mayhem. I also realise Lord, that your name was taken in vain a number of times and for that I apologise.
I’m also awfully sorry for shaking my fist at the heavens and shouting ‘why me, Lord, why me?’ It really was unnecessary. Only you in your divine wisdom know why you sent me these fussy, easily bored, forever hungry, peace, quiet and countryside hating children.
Please also grant me the foresight to get to the shops before the good school uniforms all sell out and I am forced to alter (badly) ill-fitting rejects.
I don't want you thinking I'm always on asking for stuff so please allow me a moment to offer up thanks to Tescos for introducing the cheapest school uniform in living history, thus saving our nerves when the middle child comes home on the first day back at school with his trouser knees completely missing and totally indestructible stains on his new school jumper.
And while you’re on Lord, please let me thank you for sending the most fabulous of husbands my way, blessing us with four amazing, beautiful, awe-inspiring children and a great, great family. Good work, Lord. I couldn’t have chosen them better myself.
High five.
Amen,
Leona.

The Hospice gave my family the chance to say goodbye to our Dad

I wrote a feature last week in the Derry Journal to mark the 25th year of the Foyle Hospice in Derry. My Dad was a patient in the Hospice in October 2009.....

Two year’s ago my father’s prostate cancer went from manageable to terminal.

He had battled the disease for four years before that day the doctors told him there was nothing more they could do.

Over the next few weeks and months my Dad – who was a strong-willed, fiercely independent man – got sicker and weaker and eventually so tired that his legs couldn’t carry his weight.

We managed at home for a time, our family rallying around, trying our best to function under a black cloud that my Dad’s illness had brought over our lives.

Monica from the Foyle Hospice was a regular visitor to our house. She listened when Dad needed to talk, she was there with a shoulder when we needed to cry, she knew all the answers when confusion, fear and frustration overwhelmed us. She was honest, caring and comforting.

Dad didn’t want to go to a hospice, he wanted to stay at home with us, but as he entered the last few weeks of his life, and his body shut down, we all knew we needed extra help with his care and the Hospice offered Dad respite care.

I was at work when my sister and Mum drove Dad to the Foyle Hospice. As I sat at my desk I could only imagine what was going through his mind when he left the home he shared with my Mum for 40 years and made his way down the tree-lined avenue that led to the Foyle Hospice.

He was met at the door by a beaming nurse who showed him his comfy, cosy room, complete with TV and glorious view over the fields and Foyle Bridge.

When I arrived later that evening I found that in just a few hours the doctors and nurses had assessed him and made him comfortable – so comfortable that he was like his old self again, raving about the ensuite bathroom and asking what time the Man City match was starting. They took away his pain, eased his concerns, brought back his humour. The Hospice gave us our Dad back for a few weeks.

For the next few weeks we circled around that room, around our new family headquarters, like satellites. Dad was kept happy and comfortable with constant care from the Hospice doctors and nurses. They treated him with dignity and grace. Nothing was too much trouble for them. He raved about the Hospice chef who, hearing how he loved lemon merangie pie, fashioned him one from scratch and delivered a slice to his room with a mug of hot tea.

They set up his WiFi connection so he could view photographs of his brand new grandson, the first to carry the Breslin name.

The Hospice was not somewhere my father went to die; in many ways it brought him back to life, back to us, before he passed away.

I would often arrive in the afternoons to find Bishop Daly and himself debating world politics animatedly, him joking with the nurses, my mum and him out in the garden, looking out over the city where they met, married and raised four children.

They handled everything physical, mental and emotional so that my father felt no pain at all in the final weeks of his life. He slept well, he was comfortable, he ate, he caught up with old friends that came to see him, he laughed. For that we will be eternally grateful.

The peace they gave him allowed us, in those final weeks, to be a family.

They afforded us the time to talk, to just be together in a beautiful, peaceful environment without beeping and whirring machines.

I often sat in the communal room. It was a peaceful place for reflection, filled with awe-inspiring paintings and art donated by the families of loved ones whose lives the Hospice touched in a positive way.

I remember reading a poem in a frame. It said…

“When the natural exhultation of this day fades into the reality of daily life, the doors of this hallowed place will welcome its first patients. For them the shadows will have lengthened, their evening has come, their busy world has hushed, the fever of life is all but over and the work is all done.”

My Dad knew when he was almost at the end of his own journey and requested to go home. The Hospice, knowing how very ill he was, respected his wishes and organised a team of nurses to help our family with his care.

He arrived home by ambulance on a sunny Tuesday November afternoon. Within the hour the nurses were there with us, explaining how his hi-tech bed worked, about his medication.

He wanted to come home and be surrounded by his family, his books, the sound of the trees and his grandchildren playing in the garden.

The nurses - Una, Paula and a band of girls - prepared us for what was to come. They gently helped us get ready to let him go. They kept Dad pain-free and happy. They talked, they listened, they answered our difficult questions openly and honestly. They picked us up from the floor when we couldn’t go on, they held our hands through it all.

Monica from the Hospice was a constant visitor. As Dad neared the end she spoke to us. I remember her standing by the window in Mum’s living room telling us that we must prepare ourselves and gather the family, that the end was very near for my father.

The sun was shining through her blonde hair, giving her a halo of sorts. Like all the staff in the Hospice, she was an angel on earth, doing God’s work.

My family will be forever grateful to all of them for the care they gave Dad and us during his illness.

My father passed away at home surrounded by his family on November 17th 2009.

He was 69 years-old. He was husband to Gloria, father to Aidan, Carla, me and Cathal and proud grandfather to eight grandchildren.

It is still difficult to see a landscape that doesn’t include him. Yet I see him every time my youngest son smiles, I feel him in my spirit.

When I’m lost, up he pops - philosophical, intellectual, consoling. He’ll forever be my guiding light.

Did I get the job?

The youngest boy is hopefully heading for playschool this September and I have him booked in with a place near where we live.
I got a letter from them today asking him to come in for an ‘interview’ at the end of this week. An interview. With a three-year-old.
I can only imagine how this is going to pan out.
So Finn, could you explain to the panel your day-to-day responsibilities in your last role?
Yes, well, I worked in production, mostly of sandwiches with half a jar of jam in them. And also demolition. I concentrated mainly on electrical items and furniture. My day to day duties involved critical analysis of mostly Postman Pat in the morning, then a bit of Peppa Pig in the afternoon. If I was lucky there’d be a Fireman Sam marathon on that I could study for an hour then question my collegue, my mother, repeatedly on why Norman Price wasn’t given an ASBO. I used the time between programmes wisely by asking for biscuits and overflowing the sink in the bathroom. In the afternoon I’d torture my brothers by screaming that everything was mine and keep my sister from sleeping by making sporadic loud noises. I had sole responsibility for household aesthetics – mostly drawing on walls with marker and smearing yoghurt on sofas etc.
What major challenges and problems did you face?
Well, basically the ma and da. For example they were forever telling me not to eat dog biscuits. They were a real challenge, but I overcame this by hiding up the stairs with the canine confectionary and stashing it in my jean pockets.
Why are you resigning from your current position?
I’m resigned from my role as Professor Chaos within the O’Neill household because I am interested in a new challenge and an opportunity to use my skills and experience in a different capacity than I have in the past, in here. Do you know I can take a kitchen cabinet door off its hinges or cause a remote control to malfunction just by looking at it?
What is your greatest weakness?
I would say that I can be too much of a perfectionist in my work. Like sometimes I would spend an hour drawing on the wall in the living room. I just can’t leave that little stick man until he is perfectly formed, curly hair and all.
Sometimes, I spend more time than necessary on a task, or take on tasks personally that could easily be delegated to someone else – like getting my brothers to throw cushions all over the floor or fully unroll a toilet roll into the loo instead of myself. Although I've never missed a deadline, I suppose it is still an effort for me to know when to move on to the next task, and to be confident when assigning others work.
What is your greatest strength?
My time management skills are excellent. I get my mum up every morning at 6.33am on the button. I shout ‘Mum-meee!’ constantly until she lifts me out of bed. So you see I'm organized, efficient, and take pride in excelling at my work.
How would you describe yourself?
I'm a creative thinker. I like to explore alternative solutions to problems and have an open mind about what will work best. That and a curly-haired lunatic.
How do you handle stress in the workplace?
Stress is very important to me. With stress, I do the best possible job. The appropriate way to deal with stress is to make sure I have the correct balance between good stress and bad stress. I need good stress to stay motivated and productive. I also scream in a high-pitched tone until the cause of my stress ¬– be that the switching over of Fireman Sam or not being allowed to consume ice cream at 8am – is resolved.
Is there anything about the playschool that you’d like to know?
Are Custard Cream and pension schemes available? And also are you insured against breakages?

Wrestle Mania!

A few weeks ago I reported that my eldest son wanted to attend his First Holy Communion Mass as Darth Vader.
At the time the boy refused to wear an ordinary suit and was convinced that the Darth Vader get up would render him virtually unstoppable, with an off-the-chart midichlorian count and a deep, smoky heavily computerised voice that would render his classmates speechless when he did the whole ‘Amen’ thing at the altar.
A few other people were concerned also. I was stopped no less than 20 times over the course of the week by complete strangers, spoken to by the school principal, offered a slot on the radio to talk about my family’s would-be jaunt to the chapel in funny gear, offered money to go to Mass in a metallic bikini and a television camera crew were all set to document our family as we got into our Star Wars attire and attend the church. The lady trying to sell me the TV idea – using her level seven Klingon powers of persuasion I imagine – described the proposed programme as being kind of like ‘my Big Fat Gypsy Wedding in Space’.
That wasn’t really the theme I had envisaged when dreaming about my boy’s special day, so I declined.
Besides Daniel has gone completely off the idea, and completely off Star Wars. There’s a mountain of expensive Star Wars toys lying dormant in the corner of his room. Obie Wan Kanobie sits on an idle space cruiser waiting for a space adventure that will never happen. Yoda sits cross-legged on the shelf waiting to converse in condescending and confusing tones to anyone who will listen. A battle cruiser sits silently under the bed, it’s little plastic pilots stare out at odd socks and missing jigsaw pieces, dreaming of the glory days when they flew missions around the rose bushes in the back garden.
My boys’ new fad is wrestling. The bane of mothers everywhere.
We must spend Saturday mornings watching giants of men – with silly names such as Triple H and Ric Flair – jump around a boxing ring in their pants to the soundtrack of bad eighties rock.
My boys spend hours out on the front lawn practising dangerous moves with their wrestler mad mates. There is an injury approximately every 33 minutes and I’m there, like the St John’s Ambulance, with ice packs and ice cream when Indian Deathlock or the Modified Swinging Neckbreaker goes wrong.
I am now forced to go into shops and pay actual money to purchase magazines with really cross-looking, sweaty, brief-attired gentlemen on the front for £5.99 a pop. My boy’s bedrooms are adorned with posters of big scary undertaker impersonators and men with names like ‘Smack Down’. What ever happened to gently, cuddly Winnie the Poo who used to gaze in a friendly manner down from their walls?
This week my boy and his friend had the wrestling match to rival all wrestling bouts out on the street. The fight got dirty – somebody tried an illegal Running Over-the-Shoulder Powerslam – and my boy came home with a shiner which covered half his face.
Yes the bluish tinge of his bruised skin matches his shirt to near perfection.
Yes, it looks awful.
Yes, I have pondered the thought that the Darth Vader mask and cloak might look better in the photos than a big black eye.
I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies and that the boy isn’t insisting on going to the church dressed as a wrestler. At least he will be wearing a proper suit. I feel turning up at the chapel in a pair of red pants with lightning signs on the sides and a silver cape might be a bridge too far.