Lifestyle

posted on January 7, 2019 by elizabeth

Learning to love Sunday

I used to hate Sunday; not in the ‘I have the fear of Monday’ kinda way I just got uneasy about them.

I could never put my finger on why but over the last few months I’ve been changing them in my mindset.

Spurred on by my friend I took part in the #last90days challenge which was to treat the last 90 days of the year like I’d treat the first 90 of a New Year.

Part of that was practising gratitude.
This small addition to my daily life has brought with it an abundance of positivity. Literally sitting down and finding the little things to be grateful for in that particular day has been a fantastic way to keep me present and not stuck ruminating over an argument I had a decade ago, cracking up because the words won’t get onto the paper or giving my husband a concussion with the toilet brush because he’s left a wet towel on the bed AGAIN.

Thirty seconds of thinking about something you’re thankful for can lift my mood or readjust a negative mindset and prevent me from getting a criminal record.

Today is Day 90 on my alcohol-free journey and I am grateful for a whole bunch of things but mostly it’s for not breaking this promise to myself.

It’s the last ten days and then I will sit down and write about the whole experience but one of the best parts of it has been my love for Sunday.

They’re no longer plagued with residual hangovers or anxiety; now they’re filled with trampoline park get-togethers, good food and feeling proud.

It’s a nice place to be.

posted on October 24, 2017 by elizabeth

Gym W*nkers Are People Too

Today a jumper fell out of the laundry basket and all I could do was look at it helplessly and say:
“I guess that’s where you live now, buddy.”
Don’t be alarmed that I spend my day talking to inanimate objects, it’s not wholly unheard of that I apologise to chairs and doors when I walk into them.
I would use the whole ‘it’s lonely being a stay-at-home mum’ line but:
1. I don’t think these things are my work colleagues (especially after Simon the mop made that inappropriate joke, that one time.) and
2.I’ve been doing it my whole life
Anyway, back to the jumper – the jumper is now a resident on my stairs because I can’t bend over to pick it – or anything else – up. In my 900th attempt to get fit and lose weight I’ve decided to start the gym.
So far I am not enjoying this experience and I am very vocal about it, especially to my ‘workout buddy’ Sarah. Buddy seems too kind of a word, more ‘workout bully’.

She’s one of these god-awful people who want me to push myself and try new things – ugh, the worst.

In my defence it’s really more of act of selflessness that I remain woefully unfit.
In the past, we’ve done bootcamps together but after a series of family members ended up hospitalised, I’m beginning to believe I’m jinxed.
At first, Sarah thought that I was exaggerating but every single time I join up to one of these bootcamps someone ends up in hospital.
Ozzy has had numerous admissions with croup, I had an inflamed artery in my brain, my sister was struck down by the curse at the start of the year and my mum was the final victim in my selfish attempt to be able to walk up a flight of stairs without a stitch.
Really it’s of benefit to the general public’s overall health that I stay away from any type of exercise.
Unfortunately, Sarah did not buy into this theory and managed to convince me to join a gym – rationalising that because it wasn’t an actual bootcamp then I may not be the cause of anyone else’s demise.
I managed to disprove this on the first day when Ozzy was taken to A&E with his poor breathing three hours after I signed over my direct debit details to the place.
I suppose I deserve all this bad karma, in the days that I go actually go to workout I’ve turned into one of those unbearable twats that HAS to post on some form of social media that I’ve managed to roll out of bed and go to the gym therefore making anyone that sees it feel bad for not doing the same.
In short: I am a gym w*nker.
I’ve become one of the people I mocked in the past and unfortunately my family members are paying the price with their own health.
Despite me telling them I will happily give up this latest quest to become the world’s shortest super model, they assure me I have to keep going but they’ve been given permission to punch me in the face if I start working in the phrases ‘clean eating’ or ‘no pain no gain’ into everyday conversation.
I have a day off from it tomorrow and that’s probably best, I will need the ability to bend down to pick up a child at some stage.
I’ve been told all this work will be worth it – no pain, no gain and all that. Ah fuck, just punch me.

posted on September 16, 2017 by elizabeth

We Need to Talk About Dougal

I’ve always fancied myself a nice person. I mean, I have my moments and all, but I don’t think that I’m truly deserving of karmic retribution for past indiscretions. So, why has the universe cursed me with Satan himself in the form of a tiny dog?

Yes, the love bubble for my grief purchase has well and truly popped and I only have myself to blame. Buyer’s remorse is real and it’s been personified as the hound from hell – who is currently chewing my kitchen door frame as I type.

I am not alone in my frustrations with this calamitous canine, Conor has hated him from the off and it’s only gotten worse. To say the feeling is mutual is an understatement. My husband is no longer allowed within six feet of me or Dougal will go crazy.

Before you get the RSPCA involved, I feel like I should defend myself:

I know he’s a puppy
I know he’s teething (or so I’m reliably informed by my dog-loving cousins)
I know he’ll calm down eventually
I know a large part of his on-going ‘bad’ behaviour is down to me being totally rubbish at training him.

I know all of these things and I run this over in my mind as I pick up yet another ripped item of underwear that he’s found somehow.

I can buy my own crotchless pants, Dougal, I don’t need your help with this. Don’t worry, I’m kidding (I prefer proper latex ones).

Why does it have to be my underwear? It’s like he specifically targets just mine – and it’s always my favourite bloody ones. I am not afraid to admit that I have shed a tear over the senseless death of my favourite black bra. The one bra I owned that actually fitted and didn’t make me look like I had one giant boob. Does he care how hard it is to find a damn bra that I like? Does he f*ck. Damn dog.

Giving up is not an option, this dog will not break me. It’s easy for me to vow that because the strangest part of this whole debacle is: I love him. He drives me insane countless times a day but he’s also sweet, loyal and comforting to be around when he eventually calms down. He sits on (yes, on not at) my feet if I’m standing still for longer than thirty seconds, he still tries to sit on my chest like he did when he was tiny and I genuinely like starting and ending my day with a walk on our usual route – when he doesn’t run off to chase cars.

I think I have Stockholm Syndrome.

Perhaps I was a villainous dictator in a previous life to deserve this petulant pooch but he’s family and we don’t give up on family – we do want to drastically change their personality before they pull up more of the carpet on the stairs – but we don’t give up on them.

This is all a learning curve for me and at present these teachable moments feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare of my own making.

He will not win. If I say this enough I may even start to believe it. In the meantime, please excuse me while I stop the dog from using my small child as a teething ring.

posted on May 15, 2016 by elizabeth

The Cupboard of Shame

As I stand in my kitchen looking at the giant gaping hole in my back garden, I can’t help but thinking: ‘What in the hell have I done?’
No, I haven’t murdered my husband.

Apparently, I’m looking at a vegetable patch. Let’s back track a bit.
I’ve always loved the idea of a vegetable patch and having a beautiful garden in general. My mum has the lovelist little yard, filled with flowers and lights and chimes. She’s transformed this space into a haven and I’m very jealous. Ciara has a vegetable patch and in the summer has home-made fruit cocktails fresh from her garden (not going to lie, this was a major selling point for me).
My auntie Kathleen and cousin Bronagh are the go-to guys for gardening and also have an amazing garden – complete with vegetables and fruit growing. Even though I ask questions about how I could do something like it, I’m not really listening to the answers because I know the dark secret I’ve carried around for years:
My house is where all plants come to die. There is no exception to this rule.
So, the vegetable patch idea – like all my hobbies I take up and hide shamefully in a cupboard when I’m bored of self improvement and want to go back to Netflix – was just something I like to think about.
In my cupboard of shame I have 18 balls of red wool from the time I decided I wanted to knit a throw for my living room (after ball two, I went to IKEA and bought one which was a lot easier), a sewing machine which has never been removed from the box despite throwing a hissy fit that would rival a toddler because I had to have it. You know, for all the cushion covers and patchwork quilts I was going to make – I quit my dressmaking course after week 3 because I was left alone in the corner still trying to set the machine up while everyone else was marking out their patterns. There’s broken picture frames that I’ve yet to ‘upcycle’ and craft things for when I print out the 4,000 photos on my phone and transform them into personalised photo albums and other nonsense that I’m never going to use/do.
BUT if Conor thinks for one second I’m prepared to get rid of one of these items to clear more space in the house then he might end up under the vegetable patch, yet.

Talking about the imaginary vegetable patch with Mum and Martin was the topic of conversation at dinner this week. The fountain of all knowledge (ahem), Martin, had a plan of action and was off to search for a spade. We laughed it off.

Friday night dinner chaos came as usual – with added birthday cake, so I was running around trying to get the table set up and chase my sister (not the kids) away from the sweets table. The usual shouting match with Dad was going on about what was happening for dinner and as I looked up out the window to see if the kids were playing, there was Martin.

Spade in hand and digging up the left hand side of my garden. Now, I can’t remember if everyone could hear the internal screaming that was so loud my ears could have bled, but they certainly saw the crazy woman run outside towards the crime, who was also screaming.
Oblivious to any of the sheer panic that was reverberating from every part of my body, Martin explained his ‘vision’ for this patch and assured me by Tuesday all will be ready for planting. I’ve a feeling a pair of gardening sheers and Martin’s decapitated head is going to put in the cupboard of shame soon.

So, please feel free to share any gardening tips or the number of someone who can concrete the lot. If we are going down the concrete route, give me time so I can empty the contents of the secret cupboard underneath it and stare at it nervously, Brookside style.

posted on May 28, 2015 by elizabeth

Domestic Goddess… in training

Dear kids,

As you grow older and obviously start to notice your mother float around the house in her apron with a feather duster, you would be mistaken to think that I have always been this mystical, organised creature.
I don’t want to shatter the perfect image that you’ll clearly have of me but I think it’s only fair that I own up to my failings.

It’s true, kids. I’m a rubbish housewife.
In the six years that your Father and I have lived together I’ve been trying to find my inner domestic goddess.
So far, this has not gone exactly to plan.

Like I said The Big Move, it’s been a bit of a learning curve adjusting to life with your Dad. In fairness, he’s not a bad lad to live with, the adjustment was more trying to run the house. I had visions of me as the quintessential 1950’s housewife, greeting your dad as he came home with dinner on the table, clean house and possibly handing him a cold beer. It all seemed doable in my head. It wasn’t.

Even days pre-children when I actually had time to achieve these things Conor was usually greeted at the door by the sight of me fanning the fire alarm with a towel to make the noise stop while smoked billowed from the kitchen, the cats would be going crazy with the beeping and I was glaring at him for looking at me sympathetically. It was clearly all his fault.

I was completely bemused as to why I couldn’t figure this out.

I thought I would take it one step at a time and concentrate on cooking. I started small and opted for soup, I mean even I could figure this one out, couldn’t I?

I didn’t need to look up such nonsense as a recipe, I was a smart independent woman who didn’t need help.

I brought my tomato soup into work the next day keen to show off my natural skills. I proudly announced to my colleagues, Lisa and Ray, that there was plenty to go round. Lisa innocently asked what the recipe was and I cerfuffed and said: “God it was so much easier than I thought. I just put a tin of chopped tomatoes and chopped an onion into a pot for 5 minutes.”

She asked if I had “sweat” the onion, clearly this was some made up term so I ignored that question. Amateurs. Funnily enough Lisa passed on the opportunity to try this beauty out but Ray wasn’t so lucky. I poured him a bowl and sat it on his desk.

That’s when the coughing started. Oh, so much coughing. His eyes watered and there was definite gagging sounds. To this day I’ve never lived that down.

Fortunately, things have improved. I make my own bread these days thank you very much! BUT I still burn steak. Our first Sunday dinner in the new house was accompanied by the chorus of fire alarms around the house and I gave up and drank wine.

It’s still a learning curve and you guys are lucky enough to be the guinea pigs. Maybe wait and let your dad eat the soup first though.

Love always,

Mum x

posted on February 12, 2015 by elizabeth

What I Really Want For Valentine’s Day

I love Valentine’s Day.

After nine years together it’s nice that we are forced to spend one day a year remembering that there was once a romantic side to our relationship.

I love the clichéd roses and chocolates (I’m currently eating mine as I type), I love seeing giant, over-priced teddies in every shop and my personal favourite: catching nervous looking men trying to nonchalantly head into Ann Summers before they’re spotted by someone they know.

However, romance in a long-term relationship is a world away from what’s pushed upon us on February 14th; and as much as I love the clichés there are a lot better things out there that would make this romantic holiday perfect.

After a little bit (ok, quite a lot) of thought I’ve put together what would make my day amazing:

Sleep: a bit of an obvious one for the mother of a new born, but it’s on the top of my list. How good would 12 hours of uninterrupted kip be? Just think about it for a moment. I can’t think about it too long or I may actually nod off. Let’s be honest, at this stage I’d settle for five hours. That would be pretty fantastic too.

To go to the bathroom solo: I remember a time when going to the bathroom was a private affair. You went in, you locked the door and you weren’t living in fear of a tiny person walking in for a bit of a chat. In this new house the door handles are annoyingly low which means nowhere is off limits to the Bear. Yesterday we had a nice ‘chat’ while I was in the shower. As much as I love my children, I’d really like to be able to bathe on my own.

To have egg cups: an extension of the low handles, the cupboard door handles are just as accessible. Bear has taken a shine to my surprisingly extensive collection of egg cups (apparently I’ve been subconsciously collecting these). Since he’s discovered them I’m finding them everywhere. It’s not the worst thing to find but he’s leaving them like a serial killer’s calling card which is beginning to frighten me. Today I found one on my bedside table and I could have sworn that it wasn’t there when I went to sleep…

To stand up and just leave the house: I’d really like to just decide that I need to go somewhere, pick up my keys and walk out of the house without it being a military operation involving at least two bags, a feeding schedule and a window of opportunity. It took over a hour to get out of the house this morning, and that was with my husband’s help – this doesn’t bode well for the rest of my maternity leave. I predict that we will all be lacking Vitamin D quite soon.

Someone to unpack the rest of the house: we are still drowning in boxes since the move and although I can’t stand the disorganisation, I don’t really seem to be doing anything practical about it, like actually unpacking. The mere thought of tackling the spare room scares the beejasus out of me. Best to just close the door and pretend there’s nothing in that room. Who needs a change of clothes anyway?

And that’s that. My idea of romance has drastically evolved since becoming a parent but I’ll still gladly accept the flowers and the heart-shaped card; but if someone could just volunteer to do the laundry that would be swell.

posted on December 31, 2014 by elizabeth

The Big Fat Blog of the Year

Dear Oliver,

Now, just to warn you: if you’re looking for some inspirational quotes set on a background of a sunset to take you through to 2015 then you’re in the wrong place.
I’m also not stupid enough to put my resolutions down in writing so they can be held against me in a court of law when I give up on January 3rd.
This is simply a review of our year.
Before I started this I’ve had a very negative view of 2014 but now that I’ve sat down and written this I realise that I’ve let one (albeit massive) bad point paint the whole year as a rubbish one.
So, let’s start with the good:

The High Points (Chronologically)

I’ve had to look back through my photos to remember the start of the year. I would blame the baby brain I’m currently experiencing but the truth is – despite what I tell your Father – I’ve a woeful memory.

I finally got a hobby.

It’s hard to believe that prior to February this year I had never even attempted running. It’s even harder to believe that’s it’s now something I miss and can’t wait to get back to properly once this baby makes an appearance.

We went to Rome – well, your Dad and I did.

Daddy and I are home birds. We never caught the travelling bug and by the end of our two-week honeymoon in Kenya we were happy to get home. However, anyone that knows me, knows the only place I’ve ever really wanted to go to is Rome.

Specifically to stand at the Trevi Fountain, and this year I finally got to do it.

To be fair, we got continuously lost on one of the days and ended up back at this bloody fountain about five times (the carafes of wine didn’t help our sense of direction).

I made my wish and threw the coin in the water, I was awed by the Colosseum and Pantheon, we trekked up the Spanish Steps and went to visit the Pope.

We also managed to find an Irish Bar (obviously) and befriend a French couple – unfortunately a lifelong friendship wasn’t formed because I can’t even remember their names now…

The trip I’d waited many years for was everything I’d hoped it would be.

You turned One

This was my favourite day of the year. You couldn’t stand unaided yet so hiring a bouncy castle for the day seemed like the sensible thing to do.

My justification of this was: your older cousins would need entertaining. In reality it was mostly your uncles and Dad making the most of it.

I wrestled you into a shirt and dickie bow which lasted an hour before you got sick everywhere – I know you did that on purpose – and when we all stood around the table to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ you never looked happier.

My heart could have burst.

I forgot how much I hated pregnancy

Case in point of how naff memory is: you’re getting a baby brother!

There’s no need to rehash old ground on how rubbish I am at the whole pregnancy thing – you were there first time round so you know.

It’s been marginally easier this time round, with only one hospitalisation, two iron infusions and 74 nights with zero sleep (thanks pregnancy insomnia).

We’re into the last four weeks and I’ve nothing ready – our house doesn’t even have floors never mind a Moses basket sitting serenely in the corner.

You’re a talking, toddling, terror

By talking I mean you say a few words NONE OF WHICH ARE MUMMY.
Everything is ‘dada’. Traitorous baby.
The overall change in you in the last year is amazing. You’re a proper big man now and sometimes I catch myself looking at you not quite believing you’re here and at the same time not remembering what life was like before you.

Christmas Day

You don’t quite ‘get’ Santa – although you can say his name and ‘ho, ho, ho’.

Despite this, it was lovely having a proper Christmas back in the house and watching you play with your presents.

You’re going through a bit of a Minion obsession so there was a definite theme this year. I even managed another year of avoiding the cooking as we shipped ourselves out to Aunty Jenny’s. It was amazing, although I’m starting to panic that they may actually think it’s my turn next year.

I relish this challenge.

Here’s hoping they like beans on toast.

The Not-So High Points

A Glitch in the system

All the great parts were overshadowed by that whole pesky mental breakdown thing but I’ve written enough about it here so it’s another point I don’t need to go over again.
It’s staying where it belongs: 2014.

And beyond

I’m very excited about the New Year.
We’re currently homeless, I’m heavily pregnant and surviving on very little sleep.
It’s starting off well…
Don’t worry it’s not as bad as I’m making out – the homeless part I mean.
We’ve packed up our lives in the village of the damned and bought a house in Newry.
Well, technically the bank owns the house we just have a mortgage.
January will be an ungodly race against the clock to get the house sorted and moved into before the time bomb, or your brother as we should be calling him, arrives.
It’s a great kind of stress to be under so I’m not going to complain about it.

And that’s that.
A year summed up, just like that.
Here’s to the next one.

Love always,

Mum

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