family

posted on March 13, 2018 by elizabeth

The Joys of Potty Training

This evening, my eldest son came into the kitchen looking forlorn. I asked him what was wrong and he said:

“Oscar threw a poo at me.”

And with that, I decided it was time to talk about potty training.

It should come as no surprise, to those who read this blog regularly, that this next parenting milestone has turned into a complete farce.

Some people reading this may feel that I should reconsider sharing the poo-flinging incident on the blog for fear it will come back to haunt him when he’s older. However, I feel that this could be a teachable moment. For example: should he irritate me in his teenage years I will be able to teach him that is not advisable by printing out this post and handing it out to his classmates.

I have spent months trying to convince him to start potty training, explaining that he needs to learn for when he starts nursery.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him that he gets to wear super-cool pants.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him he’ll get a treat, every time he uses the potty.

He thought about this for a little while and ultimately decided: he didn’t care.

The only person he will remotely be convinced by is his older brother. He wants to be just like him – to the point where he repeats his sentences straight after Oliver says them and pines after him at the window when he leaves for school.

Oliver has had some success with the treat angle (mostly because every time Oscar gets a treat I relent and give him one too). I have a feeling, by the end of this, I will have a kid out of nappies but two children bordering on the verge of Type-2 diabetes.

Back to this evening…

I went to check on the poopetrator and found him innocently sat on the potty, whilst the offending turd was sat on the living room floor. I asked him what happened and all I could gather from the guilty party was that: ‘Offer did it’.

‘Offer’ (Oliver) denies this and I’m inclined to believe the good one. Yes, I said it.

He didn’t even try to keep the pretence up for long, for fear of losing favour with his hero. Instead he cut his losses gave me a ‘sowee’ and went back to basically not giving a f**k about being in my good graces.

This child will be the death of me.

I was going to attempt to put together a handy guide on how to deal with potty training but, as you’ve probably gathered by now, I haven’t a damn clue.

If you want advice, ask Oliver – he seems to have life figured out at four-years-old.

posted on March 1, 2018 by elizabeth

How to Survive PMS: A Guide for Men

Scrolling through the tinternet, yesterday, I came across a discussion about period cramps and how the pain associated with them has been compared to that of a heart attack – no shit, Sherlock.

When I finished reading I realised that because I am truly outnumbered by males in this house – and the fact that two of those are children and one is a dog, who therefore couldn’t care less that I feel like I’m dying a slow and excruciating death – I decided it was about time that I put together a handy guide for those of you who are living with women and need help during this precarious time.

Why, yes! I am referring to my husband in this bracket, because apparently being together for 12 years isn’t long enough for him to pick up on my subtle clues that during this ‘special’ time I morph into an unpredictable bitch and he should probably back off for a few hours, or I may stab him repeatedly with a very blunt butter knife.

I make no apology for this completely natural event or what my overdramatic uterus may ‘make’ me do, I just want to be able to hand him this post when he seriously thinks it’s ‘hilarious’ to make jokes about anything PMS related.

How to calm down a completely fictitious woman who in no way resembles me during her period:

Step 1: Always have a hot water bottle to hand; you know like the one she asked for YESTERDAY and you didn’t bring when she was doubled over in heart-attack-level pain? Just a thought, this isn’t a direct example of what happened in my house yesterday. This is all based on a fictitious woman – let’s call her: Splizabeth.

Step 2: It may be safer for you to wear a few extra layers over the next couple of days in case she accidentally throws objects – like a child or a laptop – in frustration in your general direction at the lack of hot water bottle.

Step 3: Make sure there’s chocolate to hand. Unless your wife has recently gone vegan and the only alternative is (frankly disgusting) dark chocolate. By all means hand her the dark chocolate if you want, but be prepared for her rant back at you about how it tastes like the devil’s ass and how you’re a disgusting human being for even thinking she’d want to eat it.

Step 4: Leave the chocolate, I – sorry, I mean Splizabeth– will eventually eat it in desperation.

Step 5: Try not to breathe in her general direction because even knowing you’re alive and not in pain is a bit of an annoyance.

Step 6: Don’t let her watch horror movies, it genuinely may give her ideas. It might be safer just to take the remote off her when she starts sentences like: ‘Now, if I were to murder you I wouldn’t do it like that. Firstly I would…’

Step 7: Just take the kids and the dog and leave her alone for a few hours / days and let her get on with things. Be warned: at any given moment her unpredictable mood may mean she wants to be around her family because she loves you all. Don’t worry, it won’t last long. Probably only until someone breathes on her, so don’t fall for it. Just send a picture and look miserable. That will keep Splizabeth happy.

Now, you’re all set for next month and the month after that and so on because unfortunately my her uterus plans on being dramatic for a few more years before she meets the whole new hormonal shit-storm that is menopause.

Good luck!

posted on May 27, 2015 by elizabeth

The Big Move

With the final box unpacked, it’s officially time to say we are moved into the new house.
If I have my way, this will be our final move.
We have found the first home that is ours and it’s right back where I started: Newry.
Despite Conor’s protestations, his children will be Nyucks. Sorry if I’m spelling that wrong but I never thought I would ever need to type that.
Those unfamiliar with the word: don’t worry I’m not having a stroke, it’s a local word for Newry residents.

In total, Conor and I have lived in three houses before this one.
This doesn’t take into account the university houses, so by now you think we’d be used to living with each other; but with each new house we find whole new ways to annoy each other.

Our first house was very much about us trying to find our feet. This is a general term for ‘house of the continuous hangovers’. We’d just got engaged and although we were convinced that this obviously meant we were proper grown ups it didn’t work out that way.
We were still going out every weekend, dinners were whatever frozen ‘meat’ the supermarket had to offer and laundry was shipped out to the laundrette at every available opportunity.
Don’t get me wrong, I tried to summon my inner domestic goddess: I bought Conor a lunchbox and started making very thoughtful, fancy lunches for him to bring into work and reassure his mother that he was being well looked after.
That lasted three days.

Next up was the move to Hilltown. I affectionately call it the village of the damned. We lived in two houses during the four years we stayed there and it was a lovely place to live. Truth be told, I would have liked to buy a house and stay but I wasn’t able to convince Conor.
He claims he wanted to be closer to family, but I think it was more that he wanted to be closer to the golf club.

The first of the two houses was the one we started our married life in.
There were still plenty of hangovers and parties in that one but I did manage to conquer the art of making soup, I could work the washing machine (but I still knew the lady at the laundrette on a first name basis) and we even tried wallpapering to make it a bit more ‘ours’.
The house ended up being sold out from under us and we had two weeks to find somewhere else to live.
The final house in the village was only meant to be a temporary move until we had more time to find another place.
It didn’t work out that way. We stayed another two years there, had Oliver and only started to look for a new place in earnest when I was pregnant with Oz.

Clearly the most sensible time to throw your life into disarray and find a new home is when you’re battling hyperemesis with a toddler in tow.
When we finally decided to go ahead with this house we were faced with the prospect of having a blank canvas to work with. Up until now we were trying to work around choices and decor outlined by the landlord but this one was all ours.
Despite spending every available minute on Pinterest, it was soon obvious I had no idea what I was doing.
What the hell did I know?
I have zero imagination and as we walked around the house which needed everything from floors to door handles picked out, I was completely panicked.
To top this off I was suffering from a severe case of baby brain and didn’t trust myself to pick out matching socks never mind countertops and shower heads.

Despite these obvious reasons not to go ahead with uprooting our lives, we did anyway.
We finally got the keys at 5pm the evening before Oz made his appearance. We like to cut things fine.
We managed to have our first night in the house a week after he was born and then spent the next seven weeks living out of bags and boxes.
Little by little we’ve managed to unpack and now it feels like we’ve always been here.
It’s great being closer to family (and the golf club) and now I’ve finally embraced the wonder that is the washing machine and boy is it a load of shite.
Not the machine itself, just the general never-ending drudgery that is laundry for a family of four.

So far, I haven’t regretted any of the baby brain decor choices and even if I did I’m not foolish enough to admit that to anyone publicly…
So if you hear me complaining about the house or I start getting itchy feet again please remind me that moving house is hell and I’ve accumulated quite a lot of crap over the years; it’s not worth packing it all up again.

We are Nyucks and that’s good enough for me.

posted on October 14, 2013 by elizabeth

An Outlaw in South Armagh

There’s nothing more nerve-wracking, when you start to date someone, than meeting your potential in-laws.
This is magnified ten-fold when you are introduced into a family even bigger than the Carroll/McCamley clan.
Something I didn’t think was possible.
As you know, your Dad has a strange sense of humour. This was never more clearly demonstrated than five minutes before I walked through the door of your grandparent’s house for the first time.
He thought it would be hilarious to tell me your Granny had recently been released from a psychiatric unit and if she offered me any alcohol we should leave pretty quickly in case she got violent.

This should explain why I was sweating profusely when we walked in to find her and Grandad watching television enjoying a glass of wine.
I was greeted warmly by them both and, despite my obvious worry that I was going to be attacked by your
Granny if she got too close to the knife drawer, I soon relaxed.
Over the coming weeks and months I was introduced to a sea of Toner and McGivern relatives and it became clear that my family weren’t the only ones that had their own quirks and traditions.
So, in the spirit of full disclosure I should probably tell you about a few of them. I wouldn’t want them to get off too lightly.

The obvious one to start with is: Golf.
A huge family of golfers – this even extends to your Great-Granny Peggy – and yet you will never catch me on a golf course. Ever (Sorry Ann).
They can’t seem to get enough of it, to the point where holiday destinations are simply excluded if there’s nowhere to play.
They keep telling me it’s a sport but I’m not convinced.
I can see plastic golf clubs being presented to you in the very near future. You’d better get busy playing or get busy pretending to like it because either way you’re going to be on a green very soon…

They love a good party
Any excuse will do really; a wedding, a christening, a birthday, a Tuesday…
And they know how to do it right.
If you don’t see at least 3am or have a kitchen disco then it was a quiet night.
At Auntie Jenny’s pre-wedding party, I got up to go to work while the singing was going on in the garden.
Speaking of singing:

No party is complete without a singalong
Obviously when you’re older and you’re attending family parties (sober), you will witness this for yourself.
There comes a certain part of the night when the music we’re listening to simply isn’t good enough.
This is when people decide to sing themselves and talking will not be tolerated.
I’ve yet to be convinced to share my dulcet tones at one of these gatherings but I’m sure I’ll have my shining moment soon.
You should start thinking of what ‘your song’ is going to be because you’ll be called on to do this number for the rest of your natural life.
Poor Uncle Hack has been tortured at every party by me since I found out he sings a brilliant rendition of Christy Moore’s ‘The Voyage’.
It doesn’t matter if he hates this song and wants to do something else, he will forever be asked to sing this at 4am.

They really are a large bunch of varied characters – or lunatics – and these are just the bits I can tell you about without incurring the wrath of the in-laws.
To be fair I did very well inheriting this family, your partner won’t be as lucky.
I have every intention of being the mother-in-law from hell and I don’t remotely feel guilty about it.

Love always,

Mum

posted on October 9, 2013 by elizabeth

Meet the Carrolls

You come from a very large extended family.

I think this is a great thing.

It means that you’ve a whole host of wonderful influences in your life that span several generations and continents.

For the purposes of this letter, I will be concentrating on Granny Betty’s side of the family (don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about your Dad’s side – they just need a separate letter. Like I said, it’s a very large family.)

The first thing you should know about the Carroll family is: they like traditions.

When they find something they like, they stick to it. And boy, do they stick to it.

Saturday and Sunday evening get-togethers have been going on since the dawn of time, and not even an earth shattering apocalypse will prevent this from happening.

I envision a time when the modern world lies in ruins but the Carroll siblings will find a way through the debris to have apple tart in Frank’s house.

There are a lot of, shall we say, quirks and traditions that make the Carrolls’ unique and I literally can’t go into them all because I would like to get to bed at some stage this evening.

So I thought I would pick a few of my favourites and the rest you can find out for yourself.

Let’s be honest, some things need to be seen to be believed – like the collective dance to Queen’s ‘Bicycle Race’ (your Dad nearly ran for the hills the first time he saw that one at a family party).

1.Christmas Night / New Year’s Eve

After everyone has stuffed themselves at their houses on Christmas Day, they all congregate at your Granny Betty’s house for the night.

This consists of everyone standing in the kitchen and drinking.

We used to have a play every year – usually a satirical look at what happened over the last 12 months within the family.

You will soon find out that A) Nothing stays a secret for long in the family and B) There’s no personal tragedy too horrific that we can’t can’t make a joke out of – it’ll toughen ye.

In recent years though, we’ve turned to a quiz instead.

Your mummy had to retire as quiz master after just one year on the job because I allegedly ‘shouted too much’. Whatever.

Personally, I find my passion for the rules a commendable quality but no one else appreciated being shouted at for three hours.

New Year’s Eve is celebrated at Auntie Kathleen’s house.

On occasion, the evening is marked by something special – and potentially deadly.

Fireworks are fun. We all like to look at the impressive display of about seven rockets and say ‘oooh’.

One year however there wasn’t a proper stand to put the rockets in so someone *coughUncleBriancough* thought the best way around this was to put them in a glass milk bottle, light the fuse and run away.

The rest of us just stood there like lemmings undisturbed by the fact that at any moment the bloody glass could shatter in our faces.

Happy New Year!

Then there was the year of the Chinese Lanterns.

Midnight came and we all stood outside in the gale force wind to watch someone *coughUncleBriancough* light those death traps and release them into the air.

One eventually caught the air and floated onto next door’s oil tank – cue screaming.

Happy New Year!

2. Jesus Christ Superstar

You will know all the words to every song to this musical whether you like it or not.

The whole way through my pregnancy I sang ‘Heaven on their Minds’ to you when I was in the shower.

I believe the acoustics in the bathroom make my rendition awesome.

Your father disagrees.

3. If all else fails, go to Kilbroney Park

You will be spending a lot of time here.

It’s the go-to place in sunshine or rain and you will have fun.

Whether it’s walking through the Fairy Glen or trekking up that godforsaken mountain to the ‘Big Stone’.

Who needs a tropical destination when you can go camping 10 miles up the road in the summer and be eaten by midgies?

Keep Paris, we have Rostrevor!

4. Queen’s back catalogue

Again, it’s irrelevant if you actually *like* Queen (but come on, how could you not?), you will know the words of their songs and should be prepared to dance to the aforementioned ‘Bicycle Race’ at family parties.

5.What’s for lunch/dinner?*

*I’m not sure if this is extended to the entire family but Granny, Auntie Rachael and I like to do this.

It’s important for us to know exactly what people we meet have eaten. I don’t know why, we just like it.

Everyday we will phone each other just to find this out.

If Granny has gone on holidays the first thing we want to know is what she had to eat while she was away, at every mealtime, for every day she was away.

I used to ask work colleagues this and it was usually responded with a bemused ‘Why?’

It didn’t cross my mind that this was a strange thing to ask.

6. Don’t think Brian will not throw a mop – he will.

When your Uncle Brian says ‘if you don’t stop that I will throw this mop at you’, he means it.

I was traumatised by this as a child, TRAUMATISED.

(Come on Brian, you didn’t think I wasn’t going to tell him this did you?)

One sunny afternoon, I was playing with cousins Cathy and Bronagh and we decided it would be funny to soak Uncle Brian with the hose.

We were warned that if we didn’t stop he would throw the mop.

In his version of events I was given at least 30 seconds to move from under the trajectory of the falling object while he looked on in horror at it falling in slow motion.

I didn’t move.

It fell, it hit me on the head and I’ve been living off this case of child abuse for about 20 years now.

and finally:

7. Nothing is more important than family

There may be 900 in the extended Carroll family as a whole but each and everyone of them is family and will be treated accordingly.

It’s always nice to know you have that support surrounding you no matter how much of a mess you’re in.

There are so many weird and wonderful things that make this family what it is and I love being part of it.

I’m confident you will too.

Love always,

Mum

posted on October 3, 2013 by elizabeth

Always stop at Cat Number 2

This morning my cousin Kevin, your second cousin, sent me a link about a very funny cat blog.
This solidified the decision that it’s time I talked to you about a dark family secret.
When I say ‘secret’, I mean the opposite of that. If I had a sign, it would probably have been erected at the front door a few years ago.
I digress.
The truth is, we are crazy cat people.

You may have noticed there are two furry, yappy things roaming the house from time-to-time trying to sniff you.
These are cats.
(As I type this Louie is staring at me making me think he knows I’m writing about him. Or he’s hungry.)
George, Louie and Hugo (I’ll get to him) are a big part of this household so it’s important that you learn to live with each other.
The only problem with this is – they hate you.
It’s nothing you’ve actually done, it’s the mere fact that you exist and they are not happy about this.

I knew things were going to be strained between you all from the start.
Even as a bump you would automatically kick them away if they came anywhere near me.
It’s gone downhill for them since then.
No longer is your Dad roaming the streets at night shaking a box of food to find them; now we’re lucky if they call by every three days.

In an attempt to build bridges, I’ve decided to tell you a bit more about them and maybe you can form an uneasy truce; you know, until you get a puppy and we send them out to pasture.

George
He is the most overindulged feline you will ever meet.
He earned this title when he used his sonic-boom meow to wake us up every morning to be lifted (yes, lifted) upstairs to us.
This was cute when he was a kitten but by the time he grew into the gargantuan moggy he is now, it got a bit grating.
He’s just so yappy.
I think this got worse after the time he was locked in the cupboard for 12 hours and we couldn’t figure out where he was.
Or the time he was stuck on the neighbour’s roof on Christmas Eve, or the time he was stuck in the chimney…
He can laugh about it all now though. I think.
On the upside, he’s affectionate! He will give you a nice headbutt of appreciation when you please him.

Louie
He’s a special little guy.
He has one working eye, stumpier than the average guinea pig and is pathologically violent.
Like I said, special.
He has trouble jumping on high things and sometimes gets bored of walking so collapses in front you – usually when you’re carrying a large load of laundry up the stairs.
He’s also affectionate, until he decides that he was wants to take a clump out of your hand.
We think he might be a bit bipolar.

and then there’s Hugo

Hugo and I have a strained relationship.
This came about because of a difference of opinion.
I like my house not to be covered in pee, he disagrees.
It’s because of this party piece he is never allowed in the house, so he skulks outside plotting his revenge.
(Ask Auntie Ciara about the time he left a special present in a bag of her underwear.)

So there you have it.
I’m sure you’re going to get along great when you can crawl and chase them around the house, I bet they’re going to love that…

Also, can I humbly suggest that when you’re old enough to ask for what you want for your birthday you tell your Dad you want a pug named Colin?
Just putting that out there.

Love always,

Mum

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