The Best Stuff to bring on the ferry to France

We've been getting the ferry to France for a few years now. Prior to that for Summer holidays we rented a house in the West of Ireland. Which was lovely, but so wet and windy. I think it was the year we bought thermal vests for our kids, or maybe the year we got a half hour of sunshine in two weeks that prompted us that it might be time for a change.

So, we bought a tent and booked the ferry. Or ferrries, to be precise. The first year we got two - one to Holyhead where we promptly got lost, eventually found an Argos, bought a Satnav, and drove to a site outside Birmingham where we camped for the night. And the next morning we drove to Dover and got another boat to Calais. I would not recommend this journey if you have kids under four. Actually I wouldn't recommend it at all. Gruelling is the only word that comes to mind.

The next year we booked one ferry, from Cork to Le Harve with two cabins, one four bed with porthole and t.v. and one two bed with nothing. I got the four bed plus the kids, and my husband got the coffin, to himself.

It was almost worth the nightmare journey the previous year as by comparison this was the Four Seasons. We all particularly loved the porthole. And having your own private space on the ferry is really bliss. It means that while you are navigating the play areas and shops and "swimming pool", (surely no one ever actually puts their kids in there?)you know there is respite only a few minutes away.

Which brings me back to my main point. There are a few things you must bring wih you on the ferry. First up is Pot Noodles - one for everyone. Yes they serve food, but its pricey and not particularly nice .(I've never tried the fancy restaurant though). Theres a kettle in your cabin, so for anyone who is small or tired or not in the mood for venturing further, you have a smallish, dinnerish option. That is ready in about four minutes. Follow it up with a trip out for a treat and you've spent a fraction of the cost of the meals and everyone is happy. They're even more valuable on the way home, when everyone is exhausted after the drive to Le Havre, and the post holiday credit card bills are looming.

Second, I always bring my kid some new books. Yes, of course we bring as much charged up screeny stuff as we can fit in the car, but when they are all tucked in their bunks and everything is being recharged for the journey the following day, it is our tradition to have a new book for everyone.

I go for the Tom Gates/Wimpy Kid style. Basically, light, easy reads. This year I've already bought and hidden away for the holiday Wierd but True by National Geographic and The Tapper Twins go to War by Geoff Rodkey . Our biggest success in past years has been the Origami Yoda series by Tom Angleberger. I'd highly recommend them. Also good and a bit more girly are El Deafo by Cece Bell and Smile by Raina Telegemier. (all these are for seven or eight and up.) And I'll read Flat Stanley Goes Camping to my youngest.

Lastly, remember that there are narrow metal stairs that take you from your car up into the ferrry. Cross body bags really come into their own then. Especially if you are carrying a child. (Mango has a nice big tasseled one at the moment. It is white and black stripes and a good size. I think I might treat myself.) Also big bottles of water are heavy and a pain to carrry, but well worth it. Everyone will thank you.

Now what else comes in handy? Ok - I'll ask the family.

My husband says for him; a plastic coffee filter cone, paper filters, coffee, milk and travel mugs are imperative(it means we leave the Ferry with a cup each of freshly brewed coffee -which is very, very nice.)

My thirteen year old says food - any food! My nine year old says ginger snap biscuits, (they've warded away seasickness in the past), my twelve year old says food - lots of food! And my four year old says comics.

So there you have it. My guide to surviving the ferry. Has anyone anything to add? I'd love to hear.

meet me in MAC

I met my best friend in MAC the other day. That corner of Brown Thomas has been our meeting spot for quite a few years now. So long that I was thinking, as I was heading down Grafton Street(rushing, as I'd just got her text "I'm in bits!" which turned out to mean "I'm in B.T.'s!), maybe at our age we should be meeting at the Clarins counter? 

Its only when I think about it, (which is not a very good idea) the MAC girls are probably twenty years younger than me. Maybe its time we grew up?

Sure enough, she hauled me over to Clarins to show me her new serum. God, bloody serums. Aren't they so annoying? Costing a fortune and shouting "anti-wrinkle" and "aging" at you from the bathroom shelf every morning. This one, she said, just disappears as soon as you apply it. "Even worse."I said, "I want to see a sheen or a glow or something for my money." I could see the Clarins girl coming over, to tell us about the ground up diamonds, or the deep sea whatevers in it and dragged her away. 

If I was going to get one thing, and I did want to treat myself, I wanted to get one of those sticks that highlight your cheekbones, or at least give the impression you have some. The very sweet Clinique girl said "Of course" I wasn't too old for that kind of product. Now that I'm in my forties, its so much easier to talk to the make-up counter women. In my thirties I was permanently pregnant and as a result, luminous with the worst rosacea ever. And I hated talking about it. 

But as soon as I asked about any product whatsoever, they would tactfully mention "and if you happen to have any REDNESS or INFLAMMATION, this might be handy." 

And I was pointed away from the pretty glosses and shadows and towards the green creams and industrial concealers and boring, expensive serums.

In those days, because the home I had just escaped from had a small baby and/ or toddlers in it, I was exhausted and desperate to myself to buy the perfect product. To make myself feel perfect? It was never going to happen. But my thirties are in the past, as is (most of) the rosacea.

So I bought a Clinique chubby pearly stick the looked just like the NARS Copacabana Multiple but was €17 cheaper. "Just apply to the cheekbones and the temples and anywhere the sunlight hits really!" she said, being too diplomatic to add the necessary codicil "being careful to avoid areas of deep wrinkles, for example, your forehead."

thin feel for greater sensitivity

We had a choice. Drive to Ikea and buy a new chest of drawers and spend an hour or two assembling them and cursing all flatpack furniture. Or not drive to Ikea and fix our current, worn out chest of drawers.

We chose the latter. 
That is how I ended up in our bed, reading stories to my four year old while his nine and twelve year old brothers pootered about, as we waited until their dad finished fixing the drawers in their bedroom. And how my nine year old noticed something under our bed. 

"Whats in the box?" he asked. There was no avoiding the question. 

"Daddys contraceptives. " I said. and quickly went on reading Tatty Ratty. 

"What did you say?" said his brother. My nine year old jumped in, always the expert. 

"She means they are things you use if you want to have sex but don't want any more babies." 

His brother looked suprised. 

"You don't want any more babies?" 

"No" I told him, "four boys are enough. I mean four boys are just perfect." And went on reading. My four year old was listening, but his brothers were thinking. And reading out loud themselves;

"Thin feel for greater sensitivity. Easy on shaped and teat ended for comfort and fit. Transparent and lub..lub..ricated for natural rubber latex condoms." 

OH MY GOD.

Not only could I think of absolutely nothing to say, I could feel a fit of the giggles coming on. Would this ever end? Not quite yet. The nine year old looked at me again.

"So, the two of you..I mean do you...?" 

Oh no. I was mortified and doing a bad job covering it up."Yes." I said. There followed a second of silence and the two elder boys leapt away from the bed as if it were on fire.

"Yuck!" 

"Gross!" 

"I can never get in there again!" 

I thanked my stars that my thirteen year old was in his bedroom, on his computer, wearing headphones. Not something I usually encourage, but such a blessing last night. 

So, I finished Tatty Ratty, and finally, finally the drawers were done.

getting the legs out

I can remember, I must have been about eight or so when I figured that I had narrowly missed out on having sallow skin. Skin without freckles or red patches that actually turned brown in the sun. Brown. God, I wanted to be brown SO badly. And at that age it was becoming apparent that it was never, ever going to happen. I was a child of a fair, freckled father and a dark haired, sallow skinned mother. The dice had been thrown and I came out pale. Actually, pale barely described me. I was as white as the driven snow. God, it annoyed me. I had been so close. So close!

Holding my arm against my mums was torture. It got to the point where she would refuse to let me compare our colours. "Look at your lovely young skin", she would say. I can't remember what my answer was but you can bet it wasn't a cheerful "Thanks Mum!".I was so jealous! She was so brown and never burnt. Life was so unfair!

Anyway, here I am after over three decades of getting burnt/trying sunbeds/experimenting with many fake tans and suncreams and I am now able to take a little sun. Finally, I go a very light, freckled beige. Like a pale version of Dove Summer Glow(fair to medium). 

So, I was getting ready to walk to the school to collect my kids this afternoon, and taking off the shorts I had been wearing around the house and garden, to swap them for a pair of cropped jeans. Hang on a minute, I thought. Why don't I leave the shorts on? Well, because no one over twenty five and sane wears shorts in Dublin. Certainly no one at the age of forty six. But the weather is, for once, warm! And I have put a lot of time and exercise into these legs. They're not perfect, by any means. But they're not blue, and they have served me well for many years. They deserve a day out. What's the worst that could happen? 

I walked out of my house in Dublin, on the 29th of June 2015, wearing shorts. And what did happen? Well, I met a Mum who said "God, I'd be scared to wear my shorts in Dublin, but you look great! So Summery!" 
I'm glad I did it. I was cool and comfortable and no one stared. My advice would be to other eegits like myself, who have for decades been hiding under opaque tights and jeans - go on, get the legs out. They deserve it.

Why my healthy family LOVES MacDonalds

We cook a lot in our house. Of course we do – there are six of us. A Mum, a Dad, and four sons ranging from four years to thirteen.  We roast chickens, boil the bones for stock and actually use said stock for soup. We knead our own pizza dough, peel our own carrots and bake fish in tin foil. But, we’re normal too. Our kids, as well as eating healthy dinners, guzzle Nutella like drunks at closing time and would sell their souls off for a pack of purple Chewits. And if we ever buy crisps they are greedily hoovered up, gone before the rest of the shopping is put away.

What I am trying to say is that we eat quite well. Pizza deliveries and Chinese takeaways are not weekly things in our house. We don’t eat tonnes of biscuits, although we do eat some, and our children can name most vegetables.

 And yet, since our parenting years began, the only restaurant we have ever comfortably eaten in was McDonalds. And even now that our youngest is no longer a toddler, it’s still the only place I think there is any point in spending our money. A four year old doesn’t sit still or wait any length of time. His siblings also needs a considerable amount of wriggle room and while they will not always knock over an uncovered cup, they will nearly do so many times. This is not something I am willing to pay the privilege to watch. When you think about it, those Macdonalds lids give you an extra millisecond or two to save a knocked cup, before the spill actually happens. My goodness, how wonderful is that?

It’s not that they adore the food –although they nearly always finish what we order. It’s the speed in which we are served in and the surroundings that tolerate noise, movement and the normal bustle that comes with a few children. Mine can move around without me constantly saying “mind!” The chairs don’t tip over, there’s no tablecloth to pull on and no knives and forks to send clattering to the floor. I am making them sound quite feral – maybe they are – but I think their behaviour is average for Irish children.

When I am in a restaurant, I need to be able to relax long enough to swallow my food and, for more than two seconds at a time, move my eyes away from my children. And they in turn need to be able to swap seats, swap back, wriggle, sit on their knees, stare at the people at the next table and sing quietly. I don’t mean loud enough to disturb other people, but they need to be able to behave like children.

Another bonus of this much vilified and yet continually profitable chain is that I can order just a latte for myself along with their meals. And why not? I am paying for both after all. No one at MacDonald’s queries this or says “ONLY a latte for you? No food?”

 Nor do they carry piping hot plates to the people behind us, while our kids bounce excitedly in their seats, narrowly missing being burned. (I brought my then four year old son to a pizza restaurant once and he burnt his fingers on his own plate. Yes, a children’s meal was brought to the table on a scalding plate.)

Actually in recent years, if a MacDonalds employee approaches us at all, it is to clean our table, deliver some food or pass around balloons. (I know, those balloons on sticks are such a pain, but my youngest loves them.)

To be honest, I feel that in restaurants and cafes in Ireland, families like mine – noisy, more than two kids, are more tolerated than welcome. Not so in MacDonalds. There we are served our food and eat it in (usually) clean and bright surroundings. We can be ourselves and eat the food we have paid for.

There’s free parking just outside the door - in every MacDonalds – we take it for granted now but isn’t it nice not to think of parking for once? Surely I’m not the only person for whom the thought of circling for a space in a full car makes me want to cry? And looking for change for meters with hungry children breathing over my shoulder? I’m tired even thinking about it.

The fact that the food is grossly unhealthy and proven to rapidly deteriorate ones health is sadly, immaterial. We don’t eat in MacDonalds every week. But we do every time we need to eat out.

So, am I alone? Is there some fantastic child friendly, good value, healthy place I’m missing? If so, let me know!

Accident and Emergency

I'm lucky enough to never have had to actually run into the Accident and Emergency department. All of our visits have been paid at the speed of a brisk walk, and on the scale starting with quite high temperature down to needing stitches but not more than two and ending with aches that don't go away and need an x-ray but transpire to be nothing serious. All visits that can be categorised under "Nothing to see here."

So anyway, last week my eleven and nine year old's trooped into the kitchen at four o clock, having been picked from school in the car by their dad. They put their school bags down at my feet (for me to...put away? Do their homework? Scrape out uneaten sandwiches?), kicked off their shoes nowhere near our pointless but quite pinteresty shoe shelves and dropped their coats. God, just typing that makes me cross. How many times do I have to tell them we have hooks for coats? Ten million, I suppose. And then they will leave home and tears will drip down my haggard, wrinkly face because I will be an old lady with nothing to pick up.

One of them then told me that his older brother had been hurt at his rugby match. I frowned.  He was still in the car? Gone up to bed? Why had he not come in and dropped all his stuff on the floor?

He was in the hall having his muddy rugby boots and socks and jersey carefully peeled off, and was shaking and very white. Apparently he was tackled (you can only be tackled if you have the ball - he had the ball!) and his shoulder hurt. A lot. We put him into the shower and he stood and let the water flow over his muddy legs, (I think, as the bits of leg I could see afterwards sticking out of his pyjama bottoms were certainly still muddy when he got out.) He was still shaking though so I filled three hot water bottles and tucked them around him and we put a bag of frozen peas on his shoulder. Well, his dad did. I wanted to put a hot water bottle there too. So we bickered for a while beside his bed and he lay there looking pale.

To cut a long story short, or at least abbreviate it a bit, the next morning I took him to the Accident and Emergency Department of our nearest children's hospital and got in the queue. A miraculous fifteen minutes later we were through triage and with an actual doctor. I was delighted. Then he said it was probably a fractured clavicle, which took me a minute or two to figure out meant broken collarbone. So not that delighted.

We headed up to x-ray to get this confirmed and sat beside other mothers like myself with kids in their early teens tapping away at their phones. Mothers looking made up and suited and booted and kids looking royally pissed off. All holding iphone 6's, so one wonders why really, but I suppose there might have been some pain involved. (Why had I not put on any make up? Well, because I sort of feel that it will look to the doctors and nurses as if I have been preening at home in front of the mirror while my son suffered.I wished I had though. When I think about it, they are wearing makeup, and I don't picture them applying their liquid eyeliner while sick children wait beside them for their medicine.)

Quite a while later we were heading back downstairs to the first doc to sit in the first waiting room so he could confirm what he had suspected, where we met one of the booted mums with her teen. (Also, funnily enough, there was another mum there who had been waiting quite a while. I knew this not because she told me but because whenever the tannoy thingy said "So and so to triage please.", she mimicked it in an squeaky, pretty mental and very bitter way "So and so to triage please." I mean, I've done it myself, but always, always just said it in  my head.)

But back to the boots. Her son was in a wheelchair this time so his x ray must  have been positive too. I say positive because this time the Mum was beaming and he was on the phone to who I assume was the dad, giving details of the break in his leg. And them immediately ringing someone else to say the same thing. I was just thinking, good Lord, don't look so pleased with yourselves when I thought, why that's exactly how I felt when I heard the word fracture. For starters, I thought, for once I haven't queued here for nothing and we have an actual name for our ailment (rather than pulled muscle or "viral" which sounds so...nothing.). Still though, how daft were we? Broken bones are painful and take ages to get better.

I did at least get some comfort from the thought that she was as big an eejit as I was. And off we went home with our patients, to the reality of the healing process.

The Stripey Couch on a Saturday Morning - my new blog on Childrens Books.

So, next week or the week after this will look a lot better, but here is a preview of my new blog on children's books. Just a taster. The plan is, every Saturday morning I'll post on a different kids book, whatever we are reading at the moment or whatever has popped through the letter box that week to be hidden away till Christmas. Some may be new but mostly, I like the oldies.

 I only discovered The Tiger Who Came to Tea when my first son hit two or three. Most people have heard of it but maybe some need a reminder. If you are looking for a book for anyone between two and half and five, don't go any further. Kids up to ten or twelve will still lean over your shoulder when you read it, of course. Because it is perfect. (No doubt there is a simply way to rotate this photo, but I can hear a fight breaking out upstairs over Halloween loot, so this will have to do. Bear with me.)

"Once there was a little girl called Sophie, and she was having tea with her mummy, in the kitchen." I don't know, we seem to think our kids are craving excitement and adventure, but this first line has resulted in silent

attentiveness from all my four boisterous boys. And so the day begins, with a ring on the doorbell. Who can it be?

Sophie and her kind Mum welcome in a big, fluffy, stripey tiger, because he is hungry and they are after all, having tea themselves. And the quiet adventure begins. Nothing call fill this hungry animal as he politely and methodically eats and drinks them out of house and home. Because they are well mannered (and, dare I say it, English) they stand hesitantly by and let him. It's also because he is such a lovely cuddly tiger too, of course. And then he leaves.

After cleaning up the mess and realising that there is no food left for dinner, Daddy gets  home. One of the nicest pages in this book for me, is when Sophie and her parents have to go out to eat. We see through her eyes the streets at night and feel her excitement. It is exciting to head out for an unexpected treat!

We did notice the cat and I suppose it could be hint as to the identity of the real tiger in Sophie's mind, but to my kids that does not matter. I've read this to all of them from the age of about three and what I most often hear when we finish is "Read it again." And we do.

Judith Kerr has written many kids books, another favourite of mine is When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit, for ages eight and up, as far as I can remember. She lived in Germany until 1933 so it is based on real experiences. According to her facebook page, her fathers writing was burnt by the Nazis after they left. She grew up in England and her son, Matthew Kneale is a novelist, best known for English Passengers.
Here is a link to this new blog. I hope you enjoy it.

Hey Lorcan!

Arriving to board a car ferry is a great leveller.  You can travel the lengths of France and Spain, eat oysters, sleep under the stars, drink your coffee from a bowl and be as affected as I love to be and still, when you arrive at the Ferry queue and join the lines of roof boxed cars, full of sweaty kids and fractious adults scrabbling around for the passports you are what you are. An ordinary Irish person coming home from holidays. Someone who is just the same as the mother in the next car who brought her own tea bags and Superquin sausages. No better, just quite a bit more pretentious.

No rules of the road apply in this queue. Fathers sit without seatbelts with toddlers taking the wheel. Chewing gum is handed out to barely weaned infants (all other distractions in the car consumed miles ago) and people abandon their vehicles to get the air and see what interesting car registrations were to be seen.

Behind us was a sporty little BMW with a surf board strapped to the roof.  Which said, I have been on a beach with waves, probably near Biarritz. No big deal, just nine hours’ drive. In my nifty little BMW. The driver sat looking not a little smug. I don’t know why, because board or not, he was still getting on the Ferry.

“He looks a bit like Lorcan.” I said.

My kids, now feral from a few weeks on a campsite in their swimming togs and on a diet of fizzy sweets and chocolate milk immediately started waving and called “Hey Lorcan!”

He gamely waved back until our more adventurous eight year adding “You asshole!”

We had been travelling for five hours (one of which was spent doubling back to a rest stop to rescue sandals I had left on the path.) You can imagine the conversation the preceded that decision.

“Hang on, who has his sandals?”

“You didn’t take his sandals off? We were only there five minutes! Don’t tell me you took them off?”

“It’s ok!” I said, knowing it was not. “I know they’re in the car somewhere. Everybody look around your feet!” The following search resulted in a stray hand knocking the car DVD player lead, disconnecting it and causing National Lampoons European Vacation to stop unexpectedly. Now everyone was upset and The Sandals were nowhere to be found.

My husband reached for the French AA Road Atlas with the patience of someone who spent the hours between nine and twelve that morning figuring out the Krypton Factor that is loading our car with tent and belongings of a family of six. Among which was sadly, only one pair of shoes for our three year old. And we turned back.

So when we got to Roscoff neither of us had the energy to put together a coherent reprimand to outline how shouting insults at innocent strangers is not ok. He had been telling his brothers to sing zipadeedoodah out their assholes since Rennes and we had’nt said a word.  (Yes, it was the movie, an altogether inappropriate choice for children. And one we would definitely pick again. It really is very funny.)

So we shushed him, slunk down in our seats and put up the windows. Our youngest steered us very slowly towards the passport checkers, still waving in the rear view mirror at “Lorcan”.  And eventually, we boarded the ferry.

The Oil Cloth Shopper and other stories.

Oh dear. I know I don’t need a beach bag. I really do. But yet, I must have it.

 Hmmmnn, whats my excuse? The kids? Well, they're certainly a reason I shop online, considering how they cramp my style in shops.  They get into the middle of those circular racks of cardigans and disappear. They sit on display stands and companionably hold the hand of the model, who wobbles and sways and everyone in the place looks around for the mother of the child who is about to knock over the whole thing. 

Here I am! Tis I, the sweaty lady who badly needs her eyebrows waxed. Who is frantically rifling through a pile of t shirts fruitlessly looking for something that drapes in a disguising way over the tummy area in a youthful but not too youthful way.  Who is trying to do the type of shopping that really needs time and attention and at the same time watch a toddler who is in the process of successfully wriggling out of his buggy straps. And two little boys who cannot not fiddle with everything and anything.  And one tween who stands sentry at the door of Zara hissing;

“Mind them!”

“How much longer!”

“No, no! You promised ! You said no trying on!”

Other shoppers look at me sidelong. Luxuriating in their solo browsing, their: “hmmmnn, is this really me? Why don’t I try it on and see? Why not? I’m in no rush.”  

The parents among them mutter thankful prayers that their kids would never knock over a display model; the non-parents make a mental note to never forget to take their pill while at the same time looking for a second gold wedge in a 37.

So now I shop online.   Whilst ignoring my kids in a slightly safer setting, I browse through the online shops that deliver to Ireland and then the postman brings me stuff. It’s awesome and joyful and amazing and I love it. I love the Boden bags and the Zara boxes and the tissue paper and the return slips. I love ringing the Gap people who tell me that they will make a “goodwill gesture” by not charging me shipping a second time if I want a different size. And most of all I love that there are no tyrannical changing room mirrors involved. 

Actually, there are very few mirrors involved at all. Our full length had to migrate to the shed to make room for a cot so now I make do with standing on various steps of the stairs to see myself in sections in a wall mirror in the downstairs hall. Or, look in the bathroom one where I can see a perfectly clear image of myself from the hips up. To look at shoes I just need to bend one knee up. Then I know how they look if I am Morris dancing but am never quite sure how they look otherwise. So are my new clogs nice or awful? I’ll never know.

The only thing is that the buzz one feels after clicking confirm payment is a little bit addictive. As is the euphoric feeling when I hear the postman ringing the doorbell because the parcel he has is too big to fit in the letterbox. 

Which brings me back to the beach bag. It’s been a few years since I’ve purchased summer clothes (there really isn’t a lot of call for them during Irish Summers) so this year there was a good excuse to get the shorts, and the t shirts, and the skirt and the dress. They’ll be worn and they were in the sales. That’s all fine. The only thing is after that that the doorbell fell silent, the parcels and boxes were unpacked, folded and recycled and I felt a bit empty. (Nicely dressed, but empty).

Which is why I started lusting after “accessories.” And decided I “needed” a beach bag, or a tote or a shopper or something that was bound to be laden with buyer’s remorse. Resistance was easy at first. Banana Republic was never going to reduce that bag. Day after day I checked but no, it was always, always €64.95. And Boden! Boden with their selective sales and their empty clearance sections. That oilcloth shopper was £54! No way!

So I kept myself happy (and the postman laden down) with a few little purchases from The Book Depository. And practiced my ever growing cache of excuses. Summer was cheaper than a bottle of wine, The Trumpet of the Swan was a little more than the parking fee in Dundrum and the Mary Blair Treasury? Well, that was a treat. I would have been a bad mother if we didn’t have a copy. 

And then Boden had a sale, making the bag not much more than a treaty shop in Marks and Spencers Food Hall. Which I couldn’t indulge in because of the kids. Ah, the kids. The best excuse of them all.

Hellboy

I can hear my son talking to his friend on the Xbox.  

He is on the couch in his school uniform, controller in hands and one of those officious bouncer headsets on his head. The half of the conversation I can hear goes like this;

“Hi.”                                                                                          

“Pasta.”

“No.”

“Yeah. I finished it ages ago. Did you not? Did your Mum not make you?”

“Oh my God I just died!”

“No I said I just died.”

“No. That I died.”

“Hugo?”

“Hugo?”

“Hugo are you still there?”

“No, I said that I died on the game I’m playing.”

“That I died on the..

I sit in the kitchen clenching and unclenching my fists. Surely I couldn’t be the only person who has to restrain themselves from chewing on the edge of the kitchen table at this point? For his own safety I bark:

“Time up! Turn it off! Now!”

“I have to go. “

“Hugo? I have to go.”

“No I..”

“NOW!”

Dear God, when his dad discovered the headset a few weeks ago I thought it was a good thing. Or at least that it made the Xbox less a bad thing, introducing a little conversation (of a sort) to the painful sight of him sitting on the couch, leaning towards the screen and prepping his hands for years of repetitive strain injury. 

When we bought it I hadn’t realised the console we chose was the one with least parent approval. 

Our eldest reached eight and we thought it was reasonable enough to have a games console in the house. I think I based my choice of the Xbox on a memory of staying in a cousin’s house and helping my kids get started on their Wii. Finding the sensor or waiting for the controller to synch up with the screen seemed random, irritating and near impossible and convinced me that I never wanted to deal with a Wii on a daily basis.

Of course once we owned the Xbox it became clear(to his great pleasure) that almost every game available was of the shoot-em-up variety. And so, the shelves beside his bed now display, alongside The Wind In the Willows, Let’s Make Great Art and Nicholas And Friends, Hellboy, Dragons Dogma and Armoured Core.

And I have grown accustomed to hearing, when I mention the Xbox in mothery circles,  that I am the only one. All their children are quite happy with the Wii. And it is great! It gets them moving! It really is exercise!

Come on? Really? Actual exercise?  The games do look like they were designed for children though. I’ll give them that. Mario and his pals are inane, but they don’t look like they would haunt your nightmares. Hellboy, on the other hand is more or less guaranteed to.

He’s been asking for more games recently, of course.

Games, when I checked some online forums that are “fine for kids. Apart from the busty but skinny prostitute who stands in the bar that the hero races through and offers him “a special.””

No, I'm not quite sure what the special consists of. (Yes, I was curious too.) I'd have to buy the game to find out and that's not going to happen any time soon.

Unless, I could do a trade and get him to give up the headset for it? Oh my goodness. Did I just think that thought? Bad, bad mother.

Mum

My mother was a science teacher. She taught chemistry, but I think biology was her first love.  This meant I always had to wait ages after school for a lift home as it takes a long time to clean up a science laboratory and prepare for the experiments of the next day.

I sat in the passenger seat (or more often stood leaning against a tree near the car, feigning nonchalance “who, me? Oh no my mother isn’t a teacher, I’m just hanging here.”) watching the French, the German, the English and the maths teachers come out the staff room door with their bags, climb into their cars and drive home. And still no sign of Mum.

 Finally, bag rattling with pipettes and test tubes and arms full of copies to correct, she came down the steps and we hit the road. Me sulking about the wait but relieved that it was so late I didn’t have to wave at any fellow pupils, knowing that after we drove past someone would say, “Is that her mother?”

At home, the biology lessons continued. Absolutely no bodily functions were considered unmentionable in our house. Mum was consistently practical, knowledgeable and mortifying.

“It’s natural!  We all have bottoms!”

“Everyone gets PERIODS!  (Why don’t you say it a bit louder Mum? I don’t think they heard you in Malahide.”)”

 “Constipated? Have some prunes! And water!  “Paul, are those prunes still in the cupboard? Lucy’s CONSTIPATED!”

Diahorrea? Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate!” Lucy’s got THE RUNS!”

I remember the very first time I realised I wasn’t entirely comfortable with her body-friendly attitude. She was on the phone to one of her sisters and outlining the details of my latest rash (I was a rashy child.)

“Poor Lucy! Her eyes are all swollen and the rash has gone right inside her bottom!”

I stopped scratching to give her an agonised look and whisper “Don’t tell!”

Enough was enough. Was nothing sacred? 

“Oh no! She’s asking me not to tell you! Poor Lucy! Isn’t she funny!”

That was probably the first time I raised my eyes to heaven and muttered something not very complimentary about Mum.

As I grew up, I learnt that not every home was like mine. Some people’s parents never mentioned bowel movements. Others never even said the word toilet. But along with their more attractive prudery, they also didn’t have her knowledge. Being cared for by someone who knew how the body worked was an education. And when I had my own kids, everything that had been cringingly shouted down the stairs in my childhood home came back to me. And it was very, very handy.  Knowing when to get the antihistamine, the ibuprofen, the fluids, the fig rolls and the Echinacea is in my blood. And I have mum to thank for it.  

And yes, the rash was inside my bottom. You hadn’t heard? Well, spread the word! It’s natural!

Festival lip

Not long ago, I decided, for the millionth time, that I would make a small but dramatic change to my appearance that would give (this time!) stunning results.  

So I made the pilgrimage into MAC and told them I wanted a dramatic lip colour for “evenings”.  Sounds good right? Like when I sit outside Parisian Cafes at sunset in clunky sandals crossing my gazelle like legs and chatting to someone in a band. Or wandering, chilled glass of white in my hand, the other tucked into my husband’s American Apparelled elbow as we inspect art in a beautiful, light filled gallery in Brooklyn. Alexa Chung glances over at us curiously. Who is that couple and where did she get that lipstick?

 I nearly believed it myself.

I was outside on Grafton Street before I admitted to myself that weekend evenings for the foreseeable future go like this. Fridays are spent, from 6pm, trying to stay awake until the kids are in bed so I can watch Sarah Beeny Selling Houses with camomile tea before crawling up the stairs at about ten. Sometimes I have been known to sleep in my clothes. What can I say? I’m tired on Fridays. Saturday “evenings” are spent in the viewing gallery of the local secondary school swimming pool watching my kids do their lessons. Despite the fact that I can see them shivering by the poolside, the heat from the pool seems to skip them and rises to us parents as we sit in the fug, sweating and a bit bored. No one wears lipstick. After this we pile into the car, I hear who laughed at who’s underpants in the changing room, who skipped the queue for the shower and get home for eight o clock, to see the end of the Big, Big Movie. Then the kids are whooshed up the stairs so my husband and I can eat Indian Takeaway and watch our Parks and Recreation boxset.  In my pj’s. 

Before pressing play I give my face a good scrub and slather it with night cream in preparation for the glamorous week ahead.  Obviously I look very attractive.

So that’s evenings.

But, hang on a minute, the MAC girl said that the colour I chose would also be perfect for a “Festival Lip.” 

She actually said this with a straight face to my forty four year old one.

 “This colour would be perfect for a festival lip.”

wiener level

My husband has gone running.

About a year ago one of my book club friends lent me Run Fat Bitch Run and even though I read it and found it pretty motivating, it could not tempt me to run. Nothing can, running hurts my knees.

So, thinking myself very clever, I read it and used the motivation to swim more regularly, gradually building up the number of lengths I did. This all lasted about three months until the tiring reality that goes along with regular vigorous exercise hit home and I slumped on the couch instead. The endorphins never really kicked in, or if they did, I must have missed them.

Also, one night when I was coming out of the pool a very drunk/drugged young woman asked me for a lift and I found myself on a dark street refusing her and then feeling sure that the minute I opening the car door to drive away she was going to dive in. So, for a few nervy minutes I hovered at the drivers side and she hovered by me. Eventually, when I started walking casually back to the pool, she shouted “I’m not going to do anything to you, you stupid cow!” and then walked onto the main road into traffic. A taxi swerved, missed her and the last I saw she was arguing with the driver.  Just another grim night in Dublin city centre and not really an excuse to stop swimming, but it was enough for me.

My husband, on the other hand, did exactly what it said in the book; he found a circuit, timed it, chose his running days, stuck to them and most importantly, kept it up and now, about a year later(deservingly, sickeningly) is still at it.

So I suppose I can understand how he might get peeved when I start questioning why he has to do the run straight from dropping the kids at school. You see it’s not the running, it’s not the timing; it’s the running pants. After about eight months of running, he treated himself to new shoes and a pair of running pants, which are like leggings.  Lots of men wear them; it’s just that when I gave him the school tour form this morning to give to my son’s teacher, along with a tenner, I couldn’t help thinking that this particular teacher is usually sitting at her desk in the morning. And unless my husband went down on his hunkers, any conversation they would have would be at wiener level.

Which is without a doubt the most immature sentence I have ever written.

His answer was brief and to the point.

“for goodness sake, we’re actually on time this morning. Come on boys! And yes, I am wearing them. They are very comfortable.”

I have said those words to him more times than I can count; most recently when I got my brogues. I purchased both the natty two-tone and beige, so stylish in the magazines, so horrendous on my foot. Matron was the only word that came to mind when I looked down. Nothing could have made my ankles look thicker.

But I still wore them. They were comfortable! But those running pants were giving me pause for thought. Could I cut a deal? I walked across the kitchen in my fleecy lined red Crocs which, I then realised, were tolerated daily. Wiggling my cosy toes I knew I could not. I suppose life’s too short not to be comfy.

For both of us. 

Christmas magic

It started with the pompoms. Even with all the shopping and planning that goes into Christmas, I’m a sucker for “creating Christmas magic”. I blame those blogs that make everything;  house, kids, bookshelves and decorations look so darn pretty and cool. So, when I spotted this little tutorial on pom-pom garlands, I thought wow, something I could actually pull off. I remembered making pompoms in school, with rings of cardboard cut from a cereal box and, unlike any of my other knitting or sewing projects, they turned out quite nice.

So, on the first of December I told the kids that yes, they were allowed discuss what they were putting in their Santa letters, that Christmas was no longer a forbidden topic of conversation and headed to a wool shop to get the makings of a pom pom garland.

I don’t know, maybe I should have driven, because when I got to the shop I was tired and irritable. When the shop assistant noticed my bike helmet, she moved from her current customer, to whom she was droning on about the gloomy weather to me, and segued straight into rain, cycling in it and taking your life into your hands, all the while knitting, I wanted to scream.

Anyway, I made it home alive, and we started raveling wool.  My plan was to produce plump, roundy, fluffy snowdrops and ended up with a smaller, stringy variety, but that was OK, they bore the stamp of homemade, which was the look I was going for anyway. I dug out my Tesco gold chains and draped them along the picture rails, dotting the display with pompoms. It didn't look remotely like the tutorial, but do they ever? They looked fine and it was time to put the kettle on.

Then my husband came in, had a look and said, “You didn’t use sellotape did you? Cos that’ll take the paint off.”

So down they came, (as you can imagine, there was a “magical” atmosphere in the sitting room, what a lovely memory for the children!)to be re-hung with masking tape, where they stayed for a day before coming unstuck and dropping to the floor, snowdrop by snowdrop, chain by chain.

 Anyway, trying again, at bedtime I told the kids there was a magical treat in store. I had purchased a CD of Dylan Thomas reading his poem A Child's Christmas in Wales.

.

Turning off the bedside lights, I told them to snuggle down and listen and stuck the CD into the player. It was immediately obvious that Dylan Thomas’ voice was not what they are used to and a nervous little boy said “Is this a ghost story?”

I lay beside him and promised that I would turn it off if the feeling of terror didn't go away, and he began, I think, to enjoy it. The response from his brothers was mixed;

“I liked that, it was really Christmassy.”

And

 “Is it over? My leg is sore.”

(For the record, I LOVED it and would highly recommend it to anyone. It was really beautiful, just maybe better for the over tens.)

Turning off the Christmas lights on their window sill, I let them go to sleep. I had offered to leave these lights on and turn them off later, (creating Christmas magic!)  but was told gently that it would probably be safer not to. The lights might over heat, they said, all nodding sensibly in their pyjamas, or keep us awake. So I said goodnight to my three little wise men, and their not quite so wise baby brother, and went downstairs. Having them safe in their beds was magic enough.

Best Book Guide

Best books for best friends: Bossypants which is, as you would expect, funny and well written. And has a great bit about a shared suit that alone is worth the price of the book.

Starter for Ten; I saw the movie of this, which was fine, but didn’t prepare for the brilliance of the book. Particularly funny if you have ever had bad skin.

A Humble Companion. I love everything Laurie Graham ever wrote, and this is no different.  Well researched, brilliant writing, not a sentence wasted, just great.

 Get Her Off The Pitch. I have read this twice and intend to do so again over the Christmas holidays. It’s about the authors experiences as a sports reporter. I like reading about sport anyway, but this is something special.

Best Books for someone who likes lovely books with even lovelier covers:

The Diary of a Provincial Lady. This was first published in a magazine called The Lady. (Which, as it happens, Lady Edith visits on her trips to London. I don’t need to explain who she is, do I? Downton!)  It is a classic.

Cranford. This has been on my wish list since my friend showed me her collection of Clothbound Classics. There were times when I ooohed and aahhed over my pals clothes or shoes, but now it’s their books that make me envious. The Little Women one is gorgeous too.

French Kids Eat Everything. This has a pink gingham cover, which is why I picked up the hardcover edition in the bookshop. It’s about an American mother learning to feed her kids the French way. Not a subject for everyone, but I found it interesting. And very pretty.

Best book for new baby:

Paul Thurlby's Alphabet. This is a beauty. So nice that I persuaded my sainted husband to measure the pages, cut three sheets of mdf, paste the whole alphabet to them and nail them to my kid’s bedroom wall.

Best Books for little boys and girls (age’s three to seven): Fortunately. I would be AMAZED if any child walked away without hearing the end of this one.

Children of the Northlights. Every time I show this to a friend, they go out a buy it.

Best book for slightly older girl: (eight to twelve): From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs Basil E. Frankweiler.

Or boy: Cosmic. This is silver, which might not seem important, but is. Good book too.

Best book for teenage girl: I Capture the Castle. This has the best first line ever and is, overall, fantastic.

As I have never been nor do not yet own a teenage boy, I simply cannot guess a title for one. Anyone got any suggestions?

Best book for husbands. I’ve gone for two pretty different ones here, but both have been popular on the bedside table on the far side of my bed.  My Booky Wook 2 and A Tale of Two Cities.

And books I want: The Art of Fielding, Where'd you go to Bernadette and NW.

According to Amazon, we have eight days left to order for Christmas, although probably make that five if you’re ordering from Ireland. Happy Christmas!

Choosing a Secondary School or.. Where are the crisps?

The phrase school tour has a whole new meaning for me now. It no longer involves buses or pocket money or treaty lunches, now it means simply, touring a school.

Yes, it is that time; I have to choose a secondary school for my eldest son. Anyone who knows my husband or I will be aware that decision making is not our strong point. So, for the past year I have been asking anyone who will listen for information about the second level schools within driving distance of our home. And agonising of course. As it happens, agonising is probably our great strength.

I could have just looked around me, and observed the pretty normal looking teenagers walking and cycling home from the schools in our vicinity. I could have watched them pick up their younger brothers from my children’s schools and checked the league tables in the newspaper to see all the exam results. But somehow, instead I found myself lapping up and memorising every scary sound bite about our local senior schools that I could lay my hands on.

I learnt that some schools only “take the cream, the very bright boys”, some “only kids who have been expelled from other schools”, some have pupils “known by the Gardai” and some produce “really cool people, in bands”. Why is that scary? Oh come on, don’t be silly, unless its U2, how on earth are they going to pay a mortgage?

Eventually I learnt that it might be wise, instead of gossiping over coffee and grasping at any nonsense I overheard in the school yard, it would probably be a good idea to look at the schools for myself. So, mortgage repayments of 2030 on my mind, I booked a tour of each the schools under consideration.  Hopefully, my husband and I could be sensible adults and make a decision based on what we saw.

We saw science labs, “Note the light reflecting off the countertops” said the teacher guiding us, French classrooms, where my husband, unlike me, who looked blankly around, took in the square footage, the air vents and probably, the longitude and latitude. “Good natural light,” he muttered. We saw music rooms “a centre for excellence” said the Head of First Year, woodwork rooms, “a centre for excellence” said the same guy, and toilets “a centre for excellence?” we said quietly.

We heard about buddy systems, home school liaison officers, anti- bullying procedures and breakfasts served at school (my son LOVED that. “I’d really get toast?” he said with joy in his voice. The boy who turns down toast most mornings at home.)

We listened to the no-bullshit Principal “I don’t talk rubbish” he said, and his opposite number; “Under this roof, as we speak, each and every child is learning, being enriched, absorbing knowledge like a sponge.” I raised my eyes to heaven and immediately panicked that he had seen.

Each tour ended at the gym hall, where there was a chance to chat to other parents and, more importantly, get crisps for my weary toddler and bored younger boys. To be honest as I had all my (restless, noisy) children with me on three out of the four tours, “Where are the crisps?” was the question at the forefront of my mind for most of the time.

We got all the prospectuses, the application forms and the school rules. On close inspection, apart from font and layout, they were all very similar.

And after a brief kerfuffle about whether we should put “video games” under the “Interests” section, we filled in the form of the school of our choice. It’s in a drawer now, waiting for a Christmas card stamp, or a change of heart.

The Wind in the Willows

A broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and the Otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat. “Greedy beggars!” he observed, making for the provender. “Why didn’t you invite me, Ratty?” “This was an impromptu affair,” explained the Rat. “By the way, my friend Mr Mole.” “Proud, I’m sure,” said the Otter, and the two animals were friends forthwith.

There are many versions of The Wind in the Willows around. Novel sized paperbacks, various chapters in children’s classic compilations and audio versions by great actors, namely Alan Bennett and Richard Briers. Just recently, yet another one, illustrated by David Roberts in an art deco-y way was released. And Julian Fellowes, of Downton Abbey is penning a musical version for the stage, to be seen in the West End in the new year. Since its publication in 1908, it has never been out of print.

I found this one  on Amazon last week. It’s a steal at £9.97; not only does it include every chapter (many versions of this book skip a few), it has beautiful, lush illustrations by Robert Ingpen and a little biography of the author, Kenneth Grahame. It

was published to celebrate the 100^th birthday of the books first release.

In my head Kenneth Williams was always the author of this classic, he of Carry On fame. I don’t know why I thought that, maybe he voiced a character in a BBC production and I associated his name with the book? I just thought the guy was multi-talented; a great actor and a brilliant writer. Anyway, I was wrong. Kenneth Grahame was not an actor, he was a banker. Born in Scotland, his mother died when he was five and he was then sent to be raised by his grandmother by a river bank in Berkshire. I’m thinking it had to have been a happy(but maybe solitary?) childhood to have resulted in this treasure.

The main reason I got this one though was because, a few months ago my eldest moved into his own bedroom. At first delighted to have some space (he had previously shared with two siblings), he got lonely. One rare evening, when I wasn’t in demand in the other bedroom, we looked together though an old christening present, a collection of children’s stories. Included were the chapters The River Bank and The Open Road from The Wind in the Willows. We chuckled and chuckled. “Toad is such a show off,” He smiled, “Is there more?” But there wasn’t.

I needed no more encouragement and got online as soon as he went to school the next day to see what I could find. And am so happy with the result. (I did try to scan pictures onto this blog, they are so lovely, but failed I'm afraid. It could'nt be that difficult, I know, but is at the moment, beyond me.)

 So now, to even things up under the tree next month, I have to find two more interesting, biggish sized, hardcover books for his brothers. Oh dear, what a chore.

Who am I kidding, I know exactly what books to choose. I just needed an excuse to buy them.