with great power comes great responsibility

I was picking a pyjama top up with my toes last week when I suddenly thought of when I was a child and the doorbell would ring. Mum would answer to someone selling paintings by someone who did them holding the brush with their toes. I used to feel so bad when she declined to buy any, thinking of the person with no arms (there was always a leaflet left with us, to torture me) whose paintings no one wanted.

 But back to my toes. Why wasn’t I using my arms? I do have two of them. Well, having lived with little boys for the past eleven years, instead of me taming them, they have broken me. Now, rather than bending over and picking up stuff, I take twice the time and do it with my toes. When I recently read the joke “what do you get if you sit under a cow? A pat on the head.” my first thought was “I can’t wait to tell that to someone!” (Yes, while I had my afternoon cuppa, I read Horrid Henrys joke book). And now, when I sit down at the table to drink my tea, if there is a puddle of milk beside my cup I can ignore it and read on, without even thinking of reaching for a j- cloth.

Not only that, I know that Ned Flanders wife, Maud, is dead and if SpongeBob’s friend, Sandy the squirrel takes off her helmet, she will die too! (And that would really upset me.) Sometimes I say "Skillage in the village" and mean it and it’s only a matter of time before I walk across the kitchen floor dragging a perfectly clean t-shirt underfoot, just because. Or the first thing my husband hears from me in the morning is “Long sleeves or short?”

So I have a choice. I fight it and make them use their hands, or give in, put the kettle on and get used to living in squalor.

With great power comes great responsibility.

confessions of a Dublin housewife

It’s not first confession anymore. It's First Penance. And the word “sin” isn’t used so much as “I didn’t show love when..” but it’s still, in the life of an eight year old, a pretty big deal. My little confessee was singing at the service (with eight others. But still, chosen to sing!) And for the week before hand we practiced nightly. “Being gentle, being kind, that’s the way to be!” is a line I won’t forget for a while. Walking up to the church on a Tuesday evening, still light at seven, we were all a bit excited. There was going to be a trip to Mario’s afterwards for pizza and we were out as a family. No one crying, everyone in clean clothes, no snotty noses. It doesn’t get much better than that.

 When we got to the pedestrian crossing outside the school my ten year tells me we are ten minutes later than the letter on the fridge told us to be. I had the buggy and him and when the green man appears, we pick up the pace. The others are about twenty yards behind us. I can see that, even though the car park is full there is no one else going into the church, giving me the ominous feeling that we are the last to arrive. This is confirmed when I go in and see the teacher gesticulating madly from the alter. “We were waiting for you.” She says. “Paul is needed on the alter.” But he is still sauntering through the church yard with his dad.

I find them, we head back into the church again and then, as we are all standing at the back, flustered and fiddling with the buggy and coats, we hear his song beginning. Without him. Finally unzipped, he rushes up to the alter to join the group and I feel an overwhelming urge to hit someone. All the practicing, his relaxing bath that afternoon to calm the nerves, the carefully knotted tie, and I didn’t get him to the church on time. Casting around for someone to blame I turn to my husband who is gormlessly mooching into the empty back pews. I look at him with an expression that (hopefully) translates to onlookers as “Teamwork honey! Better late than never.” But really means “I am raging.” Oblivous, he responds with a smile and whispers “better late than never!”

 I feel, how can I put it? Do you know the poster for the Wrath of the Titans movie? Well, that about sums it up. “We have an allocated seat” I hiss. “Just follow me and keep quiet.” He does and I head up the middle aisle hoping divine intervention will lead me to our seat. I know we are sharing with a boy called James Kelly and his family but for the love of mike, I cannot put a face to the name. Miraculously, another mother catches my eye and points to a previously invisible space, two seats ahead of her. Almost weeping with relief we head in, past James Kelly. (Not remotely familiar. You know the mothers who greet every child by their first name as they leave the classroom at home time? Well, I'm  not one of them.) Behind me I hear my eldest say audibly “why is Mum so cross?” and the toddler immediately wriggles out of my arms and heads for the hills. One look from me and my husband disappears with him and I settle with the other three. One just back from the alter, hands clasped in prayer, the other two muttering about boredom.

It occurs to me then that just like his father, my eldest simply cannot whisper. And, as he had recently begun “experimenting” with language, the whole congregation can hear him say “What the hell is next? We never did this song.” Soon it’s time for the actual confession. I nominate myself as the accompanying parent and we queue up. I can hear my little angel whispering to himself “please don’t let me mess up!” and I take his hand and reassure him thinking to myself “Please don’t let me mess up.” Ahead of us I see a dad walk up onto the alter. Poor man, I think, where does he think he is going? It’s us next and in a feeble effort to redeem myself and seem like a conscientious parent, I say to the teacher, “Do I have to introduce him to the priest?” She nods with a look that says, “Yes. Like I said at the communion meeting last week. Like I said in the letter that I sent home with every boy. Like every parent ahead of you has done.”

 Both heads bent in remorse, we climb the alter steps, go to the priest and I tell him my sons name, and that he is a bit nervous and then suddenly think I might start gabbling insanely. Thankfully, I don’t and seconds later find myself sitting on the front pew and realise the vaguely familiar wail in the background is my youngest, in his dads arms, at the side of the church. I wave over to them, my little boy comes back to me and all sins forgiven, the four of us go back to our seats together.

Grazia

I was coming home after the school drop off the other day, looking forward to an undisturbed cup of tea and an absorbing browse in Grazia, when I met my husband leaving for work. He was in the garden clipping a saddle bag to the back of his bike looking worried. “Did you see the article about Victoria Beckham?” he said. Having expected to be told something about milk or bread and the lack of either or both, I paused, but then thought about it and yes, I had. An incisive commentary on the former spice girls’ drawn face at a fashion show. Breaking news in other words. I nodded. “You mean the article about her being tired?” and waited for a sarcastic comment about the shallowness of celebrity magazines, the waste of time and space they cause and the general patheticness of it all. But was left standing with my mouth open when he said (and I’m quoting directly here) “I mean, of course she’s tired, that’s a lot to take on, with a small baby. New York fashion week, the Oscar parties, the diffusion line. It’s no wonder she’s worn out.”

 There wasn’t a lot to say other than “I suppose..?” and quickly scan the neighbours’ windows to see if they were open, just in case they are even worse eavesdroppers than I am. (you know you have a problem when you hear your kids saying “why are you telling me to shush?” way too frequently.)

 I know, worrying about what the neighbours think is a very middle aged response but I can’t help it. (You think that’s bad? Whenever the doorbell rings I tear off my apron, kick my slippers under the couch, beseech the children to act normal and open the door with a nonchalant “relaxed smile” on my face.)

 I was a little bit worried though. (No. Not about Victoria.) and as he cycled off in a reassuringly vigorous, masculine way, made a mental note to hide the Grazia from now on.

cadburys flake

Yesterday, when we had the homework done, the lunchboxes in the dishwasher, the dinner planned and all children were sitting quietly, bathed in light from a screen, whether TV, laptop, Xbox or Nintendo ds, I felt a desperate craving for chocolate. Visceral I think it was, although I really should look that up in the dictionary before I use it. Even though I was sworn off afternoon treats after overdosing on reduced price Lindt reindeer after Christmas, I decided to give in and indulge myself. However, because of this self imposed ban, our cupboards were bare. There were no six packs of Kitkats, no biscuits, no hidden Aeros, not even any Maltesers left over from cinema trips.

And so, that is how I found myself on my hands and knees on a bedroom floor, sifting through Lego, peering under shelves and rifling through old shoe boxes full of Bakugan cards, searching for a Flake. My eldest, in an unprecedented display of generosity had agreed to let me have the bar he had saved from his Christmas selection box. But it was nowhere to be found. Difficult as it was to restrain myself from grapping him by the collar of his school shirt, foaming at the mouth and screaming “where is it? WHERE IS IT?”, I managed.

I did sit on my shaking chocolate addicted hands and ask him to think VERY carefully about when he had last seen it but the answer was vague. “I think it was beside my bed. No. No it’s definitely not there. Maybe on a window sill?”

And when I gave up searching and stomped downstairs muttering that I just couldn’t find it, he didn’t even bother to look up from his book as he said “Tough. You’ll just have to do without.”

Which I suppose gave me a tiny taste of what it is like to have me as a mother.

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?

swimming pool dads

As I drive home from swimming lessons, instead of praising my wonderful children for their efforts, I find myself ignoring them and trying to thing of apt nicknames for the mums and dads I see in the changing rooms. This is what I came up with last week.

First is rugby dad. When he thinks no one is looking he is perfectly nice and normal towards his kids. But when anyone is close by he feels the need to display what excellent control he has over them. Barking out one word commands he has the whole room on tenterhooks to see if they do what he says.

“Max! Shoes! Now!” 

Max, unperturbed, takes his time. Dad breathes through his nose and pretends he is answering an urgent message on his iphone. Then he ties the laces on his huge, huge shoes.

Then there is blow dry dad, who spends a minimum of forty minutes drying his daughter’s hair. When they finally leave, giving the rest of us a chance to get at the dryer, her hair is salon perfect.  Gleaming, smooth, shiny and bouncy without a flyaway in sight.  Actually I have to hand it to him, he does a fantastic job. I'd say something if he didnt look so smug.

Next, parenting book dad.

For starters he is a show off. For seconders, his hair is cut in a pageboy style, which I am definitely narrow minded enough to judge him by. He arrives nonchalantly swinging his daughter’s teddy.

“Look at me! I carry a teddy without a thought for my own image. The safety of teddy is my first priority!”

Then, when the lesson is over and they are ready to leave, he gets down on his knees in front of the children to very slowly and carefully explain the day ahead. Following the usual parenting book advice (I can imagine the pile on the bedside table) he makes eye contact and outlines exactly what is going to happen next. Both to the children and to the rest of the people in the changing room. All of us are of course, closely following the whole exchange. Then they all skip happily out. Him flicking his pageboy and giving teddy a swing. First to Daddy’s office to check something, then to Marks and Spencers to meet Mummy and then to the restaurant, for a yummy lunch with ice cream for desert!

This leaves us, looking for socks and turning coat sleeves the right way out, wishing we were meeting Mummy and getting ice cream too.

grrrrrrrr!

It was mortifying. We were just walking back to the car it in the school car park and everything was going fine. The toddler wasn’t screaming, no one fell over their bag, everyone had their coat and there was no awkward artwork to manage. Then I heard it. A low growl that lasted about thirty seconds. It was my eight year old (eight for Gods sake!) menacing a boy from another class. I don’t know, is menacing the right word? What I mean is he was standing in front of him (the boy was walking with his mother. I almost felt like saying “if you want to scare him, at least try and catch him alone. You know, in the toilets, in the school yard when the teachers back is turned. Not when he is with his mother.”) And like I said, growling and baring his teeth.

 The boy didn’t look remotely bothered and kept ambling along with his hands in his pockets but his mother was clearly disgusted. I had seen Colm do it before but to be honest, pretended I hadn’t as there was always something else to be dealt with at the time. Anything else was preferable, verucca's, blunt pencils, car seat belts, anything. But this time I couldn’t avoid it. I had to acknowledge the doggy behaviour publicly. To stop it of course but mostly to show the other mother I had some modicum of control over my children. Or at the very least knew that growling is not an acceptable form of communication.

So, cringing (I use that term a lot but this time it was literal. I could actually feel my insides compressing into a tiny ball) I said “….” My voice didn’t work the first time so I tried again and said “Colm! Colm!” in a firm voice. That was as articulate as I could manage. Hoping she heard me I considered going over to her and apologising but I really couldn’t. It would mean saying out loud that my son growls.  I had to stand by my man. You see I knew the reason he did it. Just over a year ago her son (let’s call him John) had pulled mine from behind by his jacket hood. He  had firstly, terrified him and secondly, hurt his neck. At the time I comforted my boy and agreed that Johns behaviour was unkind and he was someone we would not invite to our house.  “Just stay away from him.” I said. However, since then I have ended up having small chats with the mother at the school gates, about teachers and swimming lessons and the usual shite. She was friendly and normal and sometimes had make up and looked great and sometimes looked like she got dressed in the dark. So we were pretty similar. It was never going to develop into anything because our children were clearly not friends but still, it was pleasant. Until the growl. There was certainly no chat that day.

Instead of grabbing him by the ankles and slamming him into the car violently which I really felt like doing, I decided to be mature. (Anyway, there might have been security cameras). He seemed so happy too, sitting in the front seat on the booster singing “I love rock and roll, put another dime in the shoe box baby..”

We talked about not bearing a grudge and putting things behind us and then when that got too complicated, just forgetting about the coat hood incident. 

So he agreed to stop growling and we went home. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d write.