motherhood

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 January 4, 2015 by elizabeth

Lessons My Son has Taught Me (Part 1)

We’re told that parenting is a learning curve.
This implies some sort of gentle gradient from novice to expert over the first few months.
For me, and I suspect I’m not alone, it was more of a shove off a high diving board into quick sand.
If you don’t struggle, you don’t sink – this means: outwardly I look like I’m perfectly calm but inside I’m screaming…
I’m sticking with this theory.

Your Dad’s first panic and/or realisation he was responsible for another human was the first evening we were home from the hospital.
I asked him to go upstairs and get a sleep suit. He dutifully went and didn’t come back down for at least five minutes.
When he returned he was sweating and looked like he needed a strong drink.
It was then he explained in sheer panic: “I don’t know what a sleep suit is!”
This confession clearly meant he’d already failed as a parent.
Strike one, Daddy.
After he finally stopped pacing the floor like an inmate on death row I explained it was just pajamas.
Trauma over with minimal damage to you in later life. Phew.

Despite having nieces and nephews, this ‘practise’ in no way prepared us for what lay (and lies) ahead.
Although we look like we seem to have things under control, trust me when I say: “We are still furiously paddling under the surface.”
So, with that confidential tidbit shared on the internet, here are a few more things I’ve learned over the last 20 months.

1. I hate Postman Pat.
I mean I really hate the guy. I have a little rant every morning about his ineptitude as a postal worker and yet he’s still regarded as a hero. I mean, he got his own bloody movie.
For example: he RUINED a child’s birthday party by showing up hours late with their bouncy castle then his annoying cat wrecked it with her nails.
He covered the lot in tiny plasters so the kids could eventually go on it and he was celebrated as the saviour of the party.
Had everyone forgotten that he was the one that ruined it in the first place? Well, had they? Yes, apparently they had. Gah.
It’s been pointed out that if he was really ‘good’ at his job it wouldn’t make for a very interesting cartoon; but that’s not the point.
I wish you liked Dinopaws more, it’s hilarious.
You regularly put your hand over my mouth mid-rant when I talk over it though so I guess the real lesson is: I’m willing to put up with things I hate if it makes you happy.

2. Babysitters are Precious
B.B (Before Bear) Your Dad and I would go out. A lot. Then complain that we were always broke.
Now, we have to be select on what we are willing to cash in our babysitter coupons for.
The desire to leave the house and be part of the outside world has to be weighed up against if it’s

worth organising a babysitter for.
When we do call in the babysitting favour, we also have to weigh up ‘that’ next drink with the potential hangover the following day.
As I’ve said before: hangovers and babies do not mix.
When the stars align and we decide to head out like carefree adults and ignore the sensible voice in our head saying: “You don’t need that double”, we make the most of it.
The night’s out are appreciated a lot more than they were and are usually needed to be organised months in advance.
The lesson here is: We make the most of our ‘free’ time but still don’t know when to stop drinking.

3.Everything is potential death trap.
Anything and everything can be viewed as a killing machine. Yes, even that teddy you’re holding.
What if you squeeze it too tight, the eye pops off and somehow lands in your mouth, lodging itself in your throat?
Say ‘bye-bye’ to teddy and get back into your bubble of solitude.
It doesn’t matter how many times in the day I say: “Careful” or “Watch” you in no way heed me and I usually find you up to no good (this is definitely your Dad’s influence).

Electrocution, food poisoning, drowning… you name it and I’ve thought of some far-fetching and horrific scenario.
It’s because of this that I feel like I’m regularly preventing you from having any type of fun.
Fortunately your Dad is more relaxed than me and is seen throwing you around the place while a live electrical cable is around your throat (slight exaggeration, I grant you).
Lesson: Between the two extremes, you’re bound to make it through to your teenage years at least.

4. I’m affectionate (who knew?)
I’m not great at hugging. I find it awkward and I usually end up embarrassed by the whole situation.
Again, your Dad is the opposite. For years he was used to hugging me as I stood, stiff as a board, not quite sure what to do with my arms.
However, I find nothing embarrassing about smothering you with hugs and kisses – in fact you’ve got the whole ‘Mum, get off me’ teenager look down to a fine art.
You’ve become a very huggy baby and it’s lovely to get morning kisses from you – without having to ask for them.
The more I give you affection, the less embarrassed and awkward I feel about hugging other people.
At 29 I’m finally growing as a person – took long enough.

There’s plenty more where these came from; and I’d like to think that with the appearance of your brother at the end of the month there will be a whole heap more.

Love always,

Mum

posted on December 31, 2014 by elizabeth

The Big Fat Blog of the Year

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

posted on November 11, 2014 by elizabeth

Baby Brain is Real – and Dangerous

‘Baby Brain’ is a phrase that’s thrown around a lot when a woman is pregnant.
Unfortunately, over the last few months (well, weeks to be fair) I’ve done very little to dispel this stereotype.
In my defense, I’ve always been pretty clumsy.
One of your Dad’s favourite memories of me is when I accidentally punched myself in the face while I was lying in bed.
Auntie Ciara regularly hears me curse down the phone when I forget that you need to push a door open before walking into it and I constantly drop my phone onto my face when trying to read a message lying down.
I’m also the perfect height for whacking my sides off tables. A lot.

Although this pregnancy has resulted in less stays in hospital, it has exacerbated the dreaded ‘Baby Brain’.
I find myself mid sentence not remembering what on earth I was talking about or asking questions like: “Why don’t the ice caps fall off and go into space?” That gem was met with a stunned silence from your Father at lunchtime today.
To be clear, I know it’s because of gravity but for those two minutes I just couldn’t get my head around it.

The bad news is: this ridiculous condition is getting worse.

Last week, I decided that you and I would have dinner in the Living Room (it was gammon, mash, gravy and veg – this is important).
I sat my plate down and got you settled on your seat with dinner.
In the thirty seconds it took to do this I completely forgot that I’d already brought my dinner in and I settled myself on the sofa…right on top of the plate.
The cream, fabric sofa is now nicely decorated with gravy stains that squelched out the sides.
Your dad came home to find me sitting on the sofa with my trousers off watching tv.
He didn’t ask any questions and accepted this as normal behaviour – which should really tell you the level of insanity he’s been coming home to on a regular basis.

I’ve not let this culinary disaster stop me from being my usual domestic goddess self *ahem*.
I decided to make some butternut squash and red pepper soup to bring into work.
Being organised, for a change, I had it sitting waiting in the blender for me this morning.
You can see where I’m going with this can’t you?
I came downstairs ready to leave and switched the blender on.
If you’re curious, blenders work fine without the lid on.
You and your Dad came into the kitchen to find me covered in soup. It was a lovely orange shade that did nothing for my colouring unfortunately.

You may be reading this and thinking it’s all harmless fun but I haven’t got to the worst one.

Continuing with my domestic goddess-like behaviour, I was recently cleaning the kitchen before we were to head out to visit Granny Annie and Granda Seamus.
Before leaving, I could swear that I smelt something ‘odd’ but decided that it was my hyper-sensitive pregnancy nose.
When we arrived home, weary and ready for bed your Dad opened the door to the unmistakable smell of a gas-filled house.
I’d successfully managed to leave the gas on the hob on. For seven hours.
So after opening all the upstairs windows, we decamped to Granny Betty’s for the night.
Que sobbing Mummy who kept saying: “I nearly killed us all.”
As you can imagine, it was a fun evening for your Dad.
By the next morning the house had properly aired and it was safe for us all to come home again.
This incident has now resulted in me checking the hob at least six times before going to bed.

Now, I’m not one to be paranoid but I’m beginning to sense that you are not helping my condition.
You’ve started a fun habit of hiding things around the house which is making it difficult to figure out if it’s me losing things or you purposely finding new places for them.

So far I’ve found the house phone in the letter box, my keys in the tumble dryer and my glasses were last seen on your mischievous face. Don’t deny it, here’s the proof:

I’m begging you for a truce. My brain isn’t working at full capacity and this is just bullying.
I will remember this in later life – who am I kidding I won’t remember this by the time I hit ‘publish’.

Love always,

Mum

posted on April 29, 2014 by elizabeth

Coming out of the fog

You might have noticed I’ve had a break from writing your letters.
It’s not because there hasn’t been much going on.
You FINALLY have some teeth (two at the bottom, they’re very cute), we celebrated St Patrick’s Day, your Dad’s birthday, my first Mother’s Day and Easter.
You even went to the zoo.
When I say ‘went’, I mean you fell asleep through the majority of it.
Don’t worry, we took pictures.

Anyway, the reason it’s been quiet on the old letter front is because you’ve had something of an absent Mother.
I didn’t have a holiday or run off with Colin Firth; I’ve just not been very present.
There’s no point in sugarcoating these things, Oliver.
The truth is: Mummy went mad.
That sounds more dramatic than it is, lets go for ‘mentally interesting’.

For the last four months I’ve been fighting (and losing) a battle with depression.
Things finally came to a head four weeks ago, and since then I’ve been trying to claw my way back home to you.
People describe depression and being under its influence in many different ways.
A dark cloud, a black dog, a dark passenger (that’s more Dexter than depression, to be fair).
For me, it’s like a poison.
It seeps into my consciousness so slowly and in such small amounts, I don’t really notice it’s there until it’s too late.
My usual self-deprecating humour starts to get a little sharper, the criticisms a little too harsh, the ability to get out of bed in the morning a little too hard.
The poison nestles nicely into place and a darkness takes over.
I become nothing more than a vessel for this poison.

Christ, I sound like a bad gothic writer. Emily Brontë can rest easy.

Anyway, despite my rubbish attempts to carry on as normal I had become saturated with my own particular brand of poison.
Sleep was the first to go, next was my ability to concentrate, then my memory and finally my drive to even fight the poison off.
I let it wash over me and to my surprise, things became easier.
There was no need to fight it anymore, this was who I was now.

To my shame, I started to avoid you.
I would hand you over to Daddy as soon as you were given to me and pretend I had to go upstairs to get something, or I had to make dinner, or I had to alphabetize the saucepans – my excuses got weak, fast.
It’s not that I didn’t want to spend the time with you, I couldn’t.
I thought if I held you for any length of time you’d somehow soak up my misery – like a chubby sponge.
I was terrified.

It didn’t take long for your Dad to notice that I had become the incredible disappearing Mummy, but he was at a loss as to why I was acting like this.
Even when he asked outright, ‘What’s wrong?’ I still couldn’t admit what was going on in my head.
What if I finally admitted that I couldn’t look after you and a random social worker walked passed the window and heard?
It’s a stretch, I grant you, but that was probably one of the saner things that went through my head at the time.

It didn’t take long for the crash to happen.
The facade of my normal life became too much of a burden and I came to an obvious decision: you and your Dad would be better off without this miserable stranger sucking the life out of those around her.
As soon as this realisation hit, my noisy head became very quiet.
The poisonous words that were on repeat, day and night for the last four months finally made sense.
There was a very simple solution and I just needed to be brave enough to take it.
I left one Thursday morning for work, with no intention of ever arriving.

**Spoiler Alert, I’m still here**

As I came closer to my chosen final destination, I began to think about you.
How I waited for years to see those two faint lines on a pregnancy test, how I smiled at those who were pregnant around me and I had no baby in my arms, how I saw the first grainy flutter of your heartbeat on a scan.

My noisy head began to awaken as it realised I was starting to put up a fight but the memories kept coming.

I remembered the first flutters of your first movements, how your Dad’s face looked when he felt you kick for the first time, how you loved when I drank orange juice first thing in the morning, how I sang to you in the shower every day and how your Dad read to you every night so you’d recognise his voice.

A fresh wave of poison hit me and once again I was floored.
There weren’t enough memories in the world that could make me change my mind.
I had to die, in order for you to live.
Live a proper, unburdened life – it was simple.
I didn’t want to go, but this was the only way.

I’ve never considered myself a particularly strong person but what happened next was the singularly strongest thing I’ve ever done.
I picked up my phone.
I rang your Father, I confessed my plan and he did what he has done so many times in the past: he saved me.
He told me to keep thinking of you and he was on his way.

As I sat in my car waiting for him to arrive, I thought of your smile, your infectious laugh, that mischievous look when you’re up to no good, the way you snore louder than an adult, how you look so smug after you sneeze, how you refuse any finger food (unless it’s something I’m about to eat).
I thought about every minute detail of you and as I lay in pieces I knew you were so much a part of who I was now, it was impossible for me to leave.

If I couldn’t keep myself safe for me, then I could do it for you.

It’s been a very difficult few weeks since that day.
Some good days, some bad.
People keep telling me to take it slowly; one day at a time and to be honest, that’s all I can do.
The best thing is: I’m in no way alone.
I’m surrounded by the most amazing, supportive family and friends who have helped pick up the shattered parts of me; and every time I get a text message, a phone call or a visit from any one of them they help to put that little piece of me back to where it belongs.

I can’t ask for anything more.

Love always,

Mum

posted on March 3, 2014 by elizabeth

Change isn’t always a good thing

This post started out as something completely different.
I was trying to tell you about the ‘unique’ way your Dad likes to be romantic – often a far cry from the movie-style scenarios I hope for – but it ended up being a 2,000 word essay bashing his efforts.
This isn’t fair.
I had a think over the weekend and this morning I had a light bulb moment.

So what if your Dad doesn’t fit my concept of romance? That’s my fault, not his.
He does things a little differently and it’s one of the reasons why I love him.
I’m feeling philosophical, so bear with me and take my advice:

Don’t change.

If you meet someone, they should love you for who you are, not who they want you to be.
It’s taken most of my adult life to figure this one out, so I’m trying to save you a lot of time self-analysing.

All this rubbish self-analysing starts in your teenage years.
Teenage years are hideous.
The upside is you’ll never be a teenage girl, so I’m led to believe (from your Dad) things won’t be that bad for you.
BUT you will be in contact with teenage girls so don’t be a douche to them or I will break you.
Anyway, these teenage years will set up how you form relationships later.

If you get hurt, if you get your heart broken or if someone breaks your trust in them, this will inevitably play a part in the next relationship (and the next).
Try not to do this. Don’t punish the next person, for what the last one did to you.
It wasn’t their fault.
Obviously I hope none of the above happens to you, but at least you can break out this letter should the need arise.

Don’t waste your time, energy or love on those who don’t deserve it – this goes for friends as well!
This is really just an extension of my first point.
Don’t spend time changing for those around you. You’re a unique, wonderful and fantastic person and if the people around you can’t see this, then they only thing you should change is the people around you.
Don’t apologise for who you are, because the right people will love you for those exact reasons.

I spent a stupid amount of time with people that were not right for me and yet thought it was a failing on my part that things didn’t work out.
The simple fact is, we weren’t right for each other – and that’s ok!
I wish someone would have shook me and said: “Let it go.”

As I write this I’m completely aware that you won’t actually heed any of this and this is a lesson you’re going to have to figure out for yourself.

Anyway, back to the point.
I have a temper – yes, yes I am a stereotypical redhead – and I have tried (and failed miserably) to get it in check.
I’m also: impatient, fussy, quit almost any project I start, overly sensitive, critical and I’m going to stop there before I get too down on myself.
The thing is, your Dad knows all this and he doesn’t care.

When my temper (frequently) gets the better of me, he calls me passionate – or laughs when I throw a hissy fit.
When I’m impatient, it doesn’t matter because he has enough patience for the both of us.
When I’m fussy, he calms me down with a hug.
When I give up on something, he doesn’t judge me for it, he simply puts my things away and encourages me when I to go back to it again.
When I’m overly sensitive about a comment aimed at me, he has a witty comeback on hand to protect me.
When I’m critical he simply says ‘stop’ and I usually do.

When you find someone that has seen your less than attractive qualities (not that you’ll have any) and turns them into something that they love without asking you to change them, then you should thank your lucky stars.
They are hard to find.
I’m always going to have a temper and fuss over the simple things and be stupidly impatient but at least I won’t have to apologise to the wrong people for being this way, your Dad loves me just the way I am.

So, don’t settle for someone that will try and change you – you’re perfect for the right person, and that’s what you deserve.

Love always,

Mum

posted on February 26, 2014 by elizabeth

Keep Calm and Carry On

Fear and worry are horrible things.
You’d think being the monumental wimp that I am I would be well used to this feeling, but I’m not.
By the time you’re old enough to read these, you will have realised that Mummy is best described as a ‘worrier’.
This has always been the case.
I can remember not being able to get to sleep one night in Primary 3 because I knew Sr. Philomena was going to make me recite something in front of the class and I couldn’t remember the words.
I hated that nun.
She fell down the stairs a few weeks later and had to take months off to recuperate, and I remember feeling like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
I think it’s important to point out that I had nothing to do with this woman falling down the stairs.

As I got older, your average fears and phobias took hold.
I’m not good with heights, spiders are a no-go, going on planes isn’t particularly pleasant for me (or your Dad who has to keep me calm the whole time), I spend more time than I should thinking about what I should do if a tsunami / asteroid / Godzilla-type monster / alien invasion were to hit Ireland and of course I’ve made sure we have a plan in place should a zombie apocalypse occur – you know, average, everyday fears.

I figured, when and if I got pregnant my penchant for worry would escalate slightly, but it didn’t.
It exploded.
I spent nine months in a state of utter terror.
I was comforted regularly by Mum saying: “If you think you’re worried now, just wait until they’re born.”
She couldn’t have been more right.

I dreaded the thought of you ever being sick. I was certain I wouldn’t have a notion what to do and it would be a free-fall into blind panic.
You’ve had a couple of colds, a virus and a cough that you couldn’t shake.
This cough wouldn’t quit, and with it came projectile vomiting.
It’s not been fun.
There’s still a faint aroma of regurgitated banana yogurt around the house that I just can’t shift.
To be fair, I think I’ve handled all these fairly well, without hauling you to the doctors every other day.

But this week the was a whole other ballgame.

You woke up on Monday in a bad mood and refused to sit anywhere but beside me. Normally, this is a nice way of sneaking in a few cuddles before you realise it and demand to wiggle elsewhere.
However, you sat on. Glassy-eyed and lethargic, not really bothered about anything around you.
You wanted nothing but to sleep, and then the vomiting started.
Fountains of the stuff.
This continued on for the rest of the afternoon, then when you tried to heave some more you just gave up, and fell limply into my arms.

If I thought I knew what fear was, I was wrong.
Anything before that moment pales in significance to the ice-cold tremor that hit my heart when you flopped down.

Your Dad is good at these times. He keeps calm and gets things done, whereas I get panicked and frustrated and want immediate answers.
This combination wasn’t good in a packed A&E Department.
You just have to be vulnerable and helpless and let complete strangers look after the person you swore you would protect.
When they said your temperature was high and you needed to be seen right away, your Dad’s mask of calm slipped for a second and I knew we were both as lost as each other.

The Doctors and Nurses couldn’t have been nicer and when we were told you needed to be kept in I even managed to keep up the pretense of a normal person who understood it was for the best – instead of the sobbing, raging, control freak who wanted to walk out with you then and there.

You had an upper respiratory tract infection that was making you dehydrated, and we were assured you were going to be fine.
The admittance was precautionary but I was still a mess.

I stayed the first night – your Dad knew better than to try and send me home at that stage – and I spent most of the night watching you sleep.
My mind, which would normally be working in overdrive at this stage, was numb.
Nothing mattered outside that little cubicle.
My surprisingly tall child, looked like a tiny baby in the giant bed and there was nothing I could do to make you feel better.
It was the longest night of my life to date and not something I wish to repeat in this lifetime, or the next.

The next day you tried to rally round as best you could, but even after a few minutes of sitting up you wanted to lie down and sleep again – in between vomiting.
We resigned ourselves to another night in captivity.
In life, there are only so many times people can say you look rubbish before you start to take heed.
For me, it was 10.30pm the second night when Dad gently explained that I looked like “an escaped mental patient who was ready to snap” and I should let him stay the night.

When I eventually got home, I went straight into the nursery and cried. It was all very touching – nothing to do with sleep deprivation and me being melodramatic at all…
With my jacket and shoes still on, sleep was instantaneous.

This morning you were nearly back to yourself, just fed up of staring at your prison cell-eqsue cot.
The relief at seeing the return of the wiggly, fidgeting baby was amazing.

You spent two nights in hospital and there was barely a peep out of you.
You were amazing.
As brilliant as you were, there were even braver little children there.
That first night, as I lay (on what I can only describe as a plank of wood) beside your cot, I knew you would be fine; but I was thinking about all those other children and families who are faced with so much worse.
I can’t fathom the fear and worry they have to go through, or the strength they summon each and every day.
I salute you all.

Today, we were allowed to bring you home and you’re currently snoring in your cot.
Your Dad has collapsed on the sofa and of course my brain wouldn’t shut up long enough to let me sleep so I thought I would write this.
There’s more I could write about these last few days but I think it’s finally time for me to admit defeat and take a nap before you wake up.

Love always,

Mum

posted on February 12, 2014 by elizabeth

The Gummy Bear

Teething is a terrible time for the whole family.
Tears, broken sleep, temperatures, rashes. Ugh the worst, right?

I wouldn’t know. Nine months in and there’s no sign of one damn tooth.
Nowt, nada, non, niet – you get the idea.

From about six weeks you’ve been showing the common ‘signs’ of teething: everything going in the mouth, rosy cheeks, drooling etc, but still it’s all been an elaborate ruse.

There are no steaks in your future.
The tooth fairy is waiting, exasperated, with her head in her hands.
What is going on?
Cousin Faólan – a mere six weeks older than you – has SIX.

Your Dad has told Paddy and Marie that their brother has stolen your teeth, to which a panicked Marie offered: “I’m sure he didn’t mean to.”
I’m not so sure, behind that docile, doughy exterior that Faólan one has a mean streak in him…

We thought for sure there was one coming last week.
The rosy cheeks, the cough, the broken sleep but instead of celebrating your first tooth, you came out in a terrifying rash all over your body in the space of twenty minutes.
Cue your mother hysterically screaming down the phone demanding a doctor appointment.
Now, not that I’m one to jump to the worst case scenario but I think the fact that I was screaming “IT’S MENINGITIS” down the phone may have been the reason for the instant appointment.

It wasn’t meningitis.
It was a common virus and you spent the entire appointment laughing and trying to grab the doctor’s mouse pad.
I must have seemed like a raving loon.

So the next few days were spent with you in awful form while we were trying to function on zero sleep.
Don’t worry, you were quite content to sleep the whole night – as long as your whole body was on top of me at all times.

You’re not a new born anymore, son, you’re a heavy kid.

Anyway, the rash subsided, the good humour returned and you even wanted to go back to the nursery; but there was still no sign of any teeth.
Another false alarm.

I’m currently researching ‘baby dentures’ I’m not sure it’s a thing – but if not, hey it’s a new business venture to look into…

I’m not in a rush for the horrible bits that come along with teething but come on, Bear! Sort it out.

Love always,

Mum

posted on January 10, 2014 by elizabeth

The Traitorous Baby Strikes Again

So, here we are at the end of our first week back to porridge, and as you happily play with your Dad I’m trying not to pull my hair out.
Your adjustment to the new routine has been, as suspected, absolutely fine whereas I’ve been in bed by 9pm for most of the week.
Today, we had the day off together and I haven’t quite decided if it was more or less stressful than being in the office.

We are currently cutting down your three short naps during the day to two longer ones so you’ll sleep better at night.
So far it’s working and you’re sleeping 11 hours which is pretty amazing after months of broken sleep (for us all) but it also means you’re like a demon in the evenings before getting into bed.

To be clear, this demon child only tends to show up for me. Not Dad.
Not that I’m keeping tabs or anything, but what the HELL, Oliver??
I gave you life!!!
I sat on the floor with you for hours today to keep you happy (to no avail) and all thon eejit had to do is walk into the room, with that stupid face on him, and you’re all sunshine and smiles!
Life, Oliver. LIFE!

Anyway, I loved being back at work but it’s going to take me a while to find a balance; and I’ve realised switching modes from office to Mummy is harder than I thought.
I find my train of thought consumed with things that need sorted, or find myself mentally making plans, while accidentally hitting you in the eye with a spoonful of your dinner.
Maybe that’s why you’re giving off?
Meh.

You love your days in the childminder’s house.
She does a little report of what you’ve been up to, which makes it easier.
It also does my heart good to see your face light up when I come to get you.
It’s followed by your version of a kiss: grabbing my hair and sucking on my nose.

It’s because of this welcome, I’m willing to let the fact you’ll eat anything she gives you slide.
I’m still wearing the majority of what I try to feed you and by the end we’re both crying.

For now, it’s the weekend and I’m looking forward to hibernating at home with you.
So please cut me some slack and share the love – your Father’s not all that; he steals children’s pocket money…
Ok, he doesn’t – but I mean, he could! I don’t know where he is 24/7!

Love always,

Mum x

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