Happy Birthday

Mum was seventy six last week.  (Yep, a post about ageing and nursing homes and all that cheerful stuff. Feel free to read something happier on Designmom.com or Vintagekidsbooksmykidloves.com. It’s fine. No offence taken. ) 

I went over to the nursing home on the evening of her birthday and she was in the sitting room with the usual motley crew (crue?). They were having a cup of tea and a nurse was sitting with them. A young one who, cringingly, felt she needed to keep some sort of cheerful three way conversation going.

“She was in good form today, weren’t you Dani!” I smiled and started the pretty pointless “Hi Mum! Happy Birthday!” Adding “It’s Lucy, your daughter!” for the benefit of the nurse, although why I didn’t introduce myself I really don’t know. Beaming, she (the nurse, not mum unfortunately) continued “I think she knew something special was going on!” which was so sad I couldn’t really answer.

I got a welcome distraction when I noticed the old lady who always says “who on EARTH are you?” was eyeing me up. Leaning towards the man sitting beside her she conspiratorially muttered “Certain people, hmmm….without so much as a by-your-leave…” and he was nodding knowingly. Although knowingly is an unfortunate term to be using about anyone in a dementia unit.

It was cheering to see their camaraderie though.  The way they sort of ganged up was comforting. God knows, if anyone needs a friend or a confidante, it is a resident of a nursing home. Judging by the hungry eyes when I enter the main sitting room on my way to mums unit, loneliness is pretty rampant. I used to stop and talk to some of them, but in the end figured I was just spending less time with mum, which didn’t seem fair. And also felt a bit guilty that it was so much easier to talk to someone who could understand what I was saying. 

There following a rather mortifying minute when I said to the older nurse who came in with some biscuits. “she’s seventy five today, at least I’m pretty sure she is?” and she said “Well, she was born in 1936..” and I thought she was asking me to tot up mums age, so I said “Hmmm 46, 56, 66…” and realised quickly that I was going to panic when I got to 96.  I know it’s not difficult maths, but I always, always freeze when someone asks me to do a sum in my head.  (Similarly, when someone says “catch!” I usually know for absolute certain I am not going to catch the keys they are throwing. )

The nurse said kindly “seventy six” and I wasn’t sure when I should be embarrassed about not knowing mum’s age or being so crap at mental maths.  But there was no need for either really, she was gone already, wheeling the tea trolley back to the kitchen. I chatted to nurse-young-and-cheerful, held mums hand for a few minutes and headed home. 

book mother

For the past year I have been trying to the drop the fact that my ten year old has finished The Fellowship of the Ring into conversation. Trying but not succeeding. I know, show offy parents are very irritating  but surely reading that book at ten is too impressive not to broadcast?

Maybe it is to my credit that I am not practised enough at said boasting that I found it impossible to crow bar the fact even into conversations with other mothers about what our  kids are reading. I don’t know, I faltered at the wrong time or the conversation drifted towards Harry Potter or else, in the case of my book club, my mouth was simply too full of cheese or crackers or cake to say anything at all. I’m more greedy than boasty I suppose.

So when said child told me that I only buy children’s books for my own gratification, I wondered. 

I'm just fluffing my garland

“No. “ I said “ I can’t get the play tunnel, I have to fluff my garland.”

My husband was sharing out the tasks involved in the preparations for our sons birthday party. He seemed to think my answer was too hilarious for words and got endless amusement for the rest of the day saying things like..

“My dear, will you be (raise of eyebrow and wink) fluffing your garland tonight?”

Or, shouting up the stairs,

“Sorry, can I disturb you? Or would you like to be left alone to fluff your garland?”

jolly hockey sticks

There is nothing like standing in your own kitchen, shattered after a birthday party with fifteen seven year olds to lower the inhibitions. To finally think “I am middle class! I am from the SOUTHSIDE of Dublin and damn proud of it!”

Think, of course, not say. I’m from Blackrock, don’t you know.

I thought it very loudly though, as I threw together a party bag for a visitor whose father was standing in my kitchen with his hands in his pockets looking uncomfortable, impatient and like he really hated my guts. (In my kitchen. As I searched for treats for his offspring who had broken a new Nerf gun five minutes previously.)

I think what irritated him particularly was for a start, that the party was in our house rather than Leisureplex, then the fact that I asked him in, subjecting him to my southsidey smiles, and finally that I delayed his stay by offering his other son a bun. He, like his Dad was taking the poker faced stance; toes in immaculate trainers pointing outwards, hands in pockets, shaking his head imperceptibly in response and making absolutely sure not to smile. But I went to Muckross Park and despite all the warnings, I simply couldn’t stop my mouth saying something warm about Darren(not his real name of course) and offering to have him over to play another time. Suffice to say there’s no date set for that as yet.  

In college I used to mutter Blackrock very, very quietly when anyone asked where I was from, having learnt early on that the usual response was either “You must be loaded then?” or once “Isn’t that posh? Are you very snobby?” I don’t know why I didn’t just say “Yes! I am! Away with you and your Dunnes Stores hats and scarves and real butter sandwiches. Have you never heard of Dairy Gold?” (It was 1988.)

After Darren and his family did that bouncy walk out of the house, reeking of hair gel and animosity I decided it was time to stop apologising for my existence.

So now, when I gaily say to a mother parked next to me in the packed school car park “Can you fit by me there?” and get an answer of “Yeh” said in a in a short f**k off way, I take my time, making absolutely sure that I delay her, if only for a little while. Instead of leaving my toddler in his seat I make a meal about getting him out, putting his shoes on and then we amble in front of her car, hand in hand, taking our time, chatting and looking at stones. She sits at the steering wheel, champing at the bit to get home to her, gosh, I don’t know, Take a Break magazine and instant coffee in a Heatons mug I suppose?