Tricky Questions

“Do you ever get tired of shouting at the kids?”

I got asked this out of the blue at the school gate once.  For a split second I toyed with pretending to be indignant and shocked at the very idea that I would even raise my voice at my kids, let alone shout at them.  But I thought, nah.  She wouldn’t buy it.

I sighed in defeat.  Yes, I said, in fact I think they are immune to it by now.

So I shout.  I’m not proud of it.  I shout.  But in my defence (she says shame facedly) I have to shout in order to be heard over the Awesome Foursome.  They wake up loudly and go to bed loudly.  And do loud stuff in the middle.  Even the baby has a voice that would make your ears bleed.  In fact, I’m pretty sure they did one day but Mister Husband reckons it was only tomato sauce.

Screecher Creature No. 4 used to be the quietest, most laid back, chilled out little dude imaginable.   I’ve been told by someone in the know, he was what is referred to in all good spy thrillers; a sleeper.  In other words, waiting, just biding his time.  Sitting there watching his brothers.  Taking it all in, sucking it all in.  All the noise, all the mayhem, all the chaos until he sees fit to join them.  And join them he did about five months ago.  So in order to be heard above his ear splitting shrieks and the various other decibel breaking world record attempts by the other three, shouting is necessary in our house. 

“How do you handle the frustration?”

What happens in group stays in group but at our last meet up in December this was a question put to me by another mother.   Sometimes I don’t handle the frustration at all, I am afraid, and these are the days when I want the kids to poo all at the same time.  And the dog.  None of this having to wipe an arse or shovel shit every hour. 

These are the days when I literally have to remove myself from the room ergo them, because all of my senses are on overload and it hurts!  Every scream, every laugh, every shout, every bark, every bloody thing bounces against the walls of my skull and makes me think terribly uncharitable thoughts.

Sometimes I live in fear of one of them escaping in the car and putting their hands around my neck as I am driving home. (only joking) (kind of)

In group, I find myself on numerous occasions, retelling, with hand gestures and sometimes sound effects, yet another loud and crazy scene in our house.  The mothers with two or more kids are delighted with me because apparently, it goes on in their houses too.  The other mothers, those with just one baby of 13 days old, tend to look at me in horror.  I can see it in their frozen and slightly panicked smiles; she lives in an asylum!  Why is she laughing?

“I am struggling.”

It takes a village to raise a child and we don’t have villages any more.  

I find myself on many occasions wondering how my mother ever managed.   

She didn’t drive.  She was without a phone.  The Wonderful World Wide Web hadn’t been invented yet.   One week I was without all three and the isolation almost killed me. 

Sometimes, on days like this, I feel like I am imagining things.    I wonder why I am finding all of this so hard.  It’s what I wanted.  Isn’t it?  I am very grateful for my blessings.  Other people have real problems.  I remind myself that each day is only 24 hours long.  I tell myself I should be able to go from 7am till after 8pm without eating, visiting the toilet, taking a break, having some time to myself and constantly serving others.  All the time and always with a smile on my face.

Well.  Would you take a ball and bounce it against a wall for 12 or 14 hours straight?  By yourself.  With no-one to chat to whilst you are doing it?  Of course you wouldn’t.  But we are all expected to look after our kids under the same boredom levels.  It takes a village to raise a child.  We don’t live in villages anymore.     

“What’s the most expensive baby item you ever bought?”

It was a cup of coffee.  That’s right, a cup of coffee.  But it was the most expensive cup of coffee I ever bought.  It cost about thirty six euro.  Oh, wait.  The coffee cost about eight quid.  The couple of hours in the crèche in Dundrum Shopping Centre cost twenty eight euro.  Two of the best cups of coffee Mister Husband and I had in a long time.  The first uninterrupted cups of coffee in months.  As the add goes; priceless. 

We also parted with almost one hundred euros to be yelled at, pushed, poked, prodded, annoyed at first and then slowly pissed off.  Our food was spilled, dropped on the floor. I’ll stop there.  It was one of many meals out with the kids.        

I read two things last month that were of great interest to me.  I haven’t forgotten them.  The first one was: “Parenting is a journey through a foreign country – find travelling companions.” 

And the other piece was: “The only good thing I ever read from a parenting book was “if you feel you are going to hurt your child – leave the room.”

We will always have questions and if we are fortunate some of them will be answered.  At the end of it all though there is only one answer to the main one: “Do you regret it?”

It might be hard.  Given the chance to “do over” I would definitely make lots of different changes.  But not choices.  I might wish for parts of my old life back.  But I have never regretted any of my kids.

   

 

The Crazy Lady

A crazy lady lives down my way.  She’s alright, not dangerous or anything, but definitely a little crazy.  Most mornings there is a mad flurry of activity in her house followed by a demented rush to herd her kids into the car and off to school.  You should see her, or rather you should hear her sometimes.  I’m not judging, really I’m not, but lawks, I don’t know who’s louder; her or the kids. 

There’s a crazy dog in the mix as well.  Gorgeous creature who seems to know the lie of the land and at the last minute refuses to go into the house when it’s time to leave.  The kids, all still shouting and roaring over something or other, are in the car and the crazy lady rushes back into the house.  She’s still shouting too but this time it’s not “get into the fekin car.  We’ll be late!” this time it’s “treat, treat”” at the dog.  Maybe that’s the dog’s name.

Finally they’re off and all is grand until they reach the roundabout where the toast slides off the kids’ plates and onto the floor.  And they all start shouting and roaring again.

One time she yelled “you’re welcome!” after a lady who just waltzed through the door she had held open for her.  She often shouts at other drivers who don’t indicate and use their park anywhere lights.  She’s not too fond either, of the ones who beep at traffic lights when things aren’t moving fast enough for them.  She’ll say, “Take your time on him now.  Let him honk his fekin horn!  None of us are getting any faster.  Arrive alive is the name of the game.”  That day one of her kids asked “Is he a bollix, Mammy?”  She laughed and said no, and don’t be listening to me when I’m talking to myself.

The crazy lady takes them all swimming.  They go a lot as the older two have lessons and she gets in with the two smaller ones.  She usually gets out first to shower and be half ready to help the older ones when they finish.  This particular day the crazy lady was standing near the showers shouting one of her kids names at the top of her lungs.   I remember it.  She was trying not to panic and ignoring the man who was looking at her with his gob hanging open.  There was no sign of her boy in the water and the swimming instructors were sitting at the side.  Then the child appeared behind her.  Where he had gone into the bathroom.  Crazy lady started yelling again, giving out to her boy because he frightened the life out of her when he didn’t answer.  She didn’t give a toss who saw or heard.  Especially the man who was still looking at her with his gob hanging open. 

At the supermarket the crazy lady seems to be a magnet for lost baby shoes.  Tiny little things, that appear on the floor in front of her in the dairy aisle.  She walks the shop until she finds the owner.  She always feels like putting the shoe onto the baby’s foot just to make sure as these things, for the size of them, are desperately expensive.  And one shoe is no good to anybody.  Even a little child who is probably still being carried round half the time.  She would like to be found with a lost shoe if the situation were reversed.  

Another time she cried.  At the check-out in the supermarket.  Her baby was just 6 weeks old and he was crying too.  Her second oldest was standing in a pool of his own body waste, shrieking for help.  No one appeared to wipe the mess off the floor and the tearful crazy lady grabbed a handful of baby wipes and bent to do the job herself.  The young girl at the check-out looked on, completely out of her depth, not having a clue what to do.

She does a lot of shouting this lady.  She cries some too.  But I’ve also seen her laugh.  She laughs a lot actually.  She laughs at crazy things.  Their dog, her kids on the trampoline, the baby when he barrels into her legs for a hug and at all the funny things her boys come out with.  Sometimes she laughs when she really should be giving out to them, like when they swear.

The way she sometimes handles things may not be ideal, but she does the best she can.  Her bark can be worse than her bite but you can never be too sure either.  Sometimes she’s not sure herself! 

When she thinks of the teenage years up ahead, she gets a tight feeling in her chest.  She knows just shouting and roaring won’t cut it then.   It worries her but she reckons if she manages to let them know that all they have to do is shout at her long and loud enough, she will eventually hear them and listen. She’s only one woman after all and there are four of them.  Sometimes she can’t see the wood for the trees and needs a little help.  She needs them to have a little patience and wait till she is finished meeting the demands of one before she can help the other.

The crazy lady is only human.  Only a woman.  Only a mother.  Only feeling her way through the dark.

She is only me.    

What the Wonderful Wagon Did Next

So it was the second week after Christmas and I was feeling extremely virtuous.  I had lost some weight over the Festive Season.  Forget the virgin birth; I've a miracle for yiz all right here. I had a shitty week. I mean shitty. I was all, "What'll I do now? I know! I'll eat a tin of Hero's!" Boredom eating. All week. With no running whatsoever.

Was seriously tempted to give the weigh-in a miss but I was brave and stepped up. Guess what! I had lost two pounds!!!!!! I was so sceptical (and shocked!) that I moved the scales downstairs and tried there too. Same reading. That made it five and a half pounds in total that I lost over December and into January.

I was sick the week before Christmas and nothing was getting past the inflamed area that was my throat.  Much the same over the holidays.  I had neither interest nor inclination to eat. 

I was also a better parent.  In my own mind at least.  This was due to the presence and assistance of Mister Husband and the regular change of scenery.  I was able to go out for a run most days and to say I enjoyed each and every one of them is an understatement.

It was a lovely Christmas.  I even managed to get out and socialise no less than three times.  That is three times in one month.  The last time I had been out was during the summer.

It’s a bit like having that first Pringle.  Once you pop, you can’t stop.  I’ve had my appetite whetted once again for a bit of craic with a glass or five or six of Guinness and I intend to keep going.

Then the schools opened and it was back to abnormal.  Ho hum.  I could feel the walls of the house (and my brain) closing in on me. 

I am not cut out to be a housewife. Or a cook. Or a child minder.  I crave conversations with people over the age of 7.  And myself.  And Ray D’Arcy.  I covet head and body space.    I can’t seem to escape the constant noise that breaks me, each and every day. 

I woke up, Thursday 10^th January 2013 still with a strong urge to kill or at the very least, seriously maim something, anything and poor Conor was nearly that something, anything, anyone.   (Sorry, Con)

To add insult to injury the car was going through a serious teenager phase and refusing to co-operate.  Not even the jump leads or a swift belt with a wrench could persuade her to giddy-up those last two days. 

*I have fallen into the man trap of calling the car a “her.”*

Grandad received a phone call that morning and he very obligingly came over to help us out.  As we knew he would.  Many apologies for hauling you out of your winter morning bed.

So I was housebound. Housebound, I tell you!  Yes, it was frustrating, especially at this time of year.  But it also meant that Mister Husband had to do the remainder of the school runs.  And the pick-ups until the car was sorted.  It was harder on him as his work was interrupted.

That Thursday morning, the three older ones were in their various places of education and it was just me, Juno and Smallest Boy.  I put on my wellies, our coats and we went for a lovely walk around the garden to chase away the cobwebs that had been lingering all week.

It wasn’t a run, not even close but it helped.  It helped a lot.  I realised that it was the first time I had been outside the door of the house in two days.  Maybe there is some truth behind all that Vitamin D stuff.

And then a little chink of light made its way through the closed curtains.  Smallest Boy went for a snooze and I got to spend a very enjoyable and most productive couple of hours at the computer.  It. was. Bliss.

Mister Husband got rasher sandwiches for his lunch and I got three blog posts done.  From scratch.  And etched out a couple more.

I love Thursday mornings.  They are the new Friday and I want more of them.  I was in my happy, creative bubble and loving it.

The washing, cooking and cleaning will always be there but those few hours of easy silence are precious and will be gone in exactly one hundred and twenty minutes.

Make the most of them.  I intend to whenever they present themselves.

AWARE

I’m a bit of an escapist.  By that I mean I go off into a little fantasy world every now and again.  Something, a word, a sound, a smell from my childhood, a song or just a mood will transport me elsewhere.  I can become quite absorbed, forget where I am and start talking to myself.   I have fascinating chats with Ray D’Arcy where I am the guest in his studio and many’s the time one of the boys will ask who I’m talking to. 

One evening, on one of my trips, I found myself, in my head, introducing the boys to someone.  I have many cousins who are a great deal older than me. I’m not completely sure how I’m related but it’s on my maternal grandmother’s side. Two of them in particular, I will meet only very occasionally. 

They amaze me each and every time.  Both of them always get my name right.  Always.  Without fail.  They always have done.  Bearing in mind I have 6 sisters and 5 of us share the same initial. 

And what’s more they know the names of our boys too.  But for some strange reason, that particular evening in my head, I was introducing the boys to one of these ladies but also describing briefly what each of them are like. 

It went like this:  This is our eldest boy.  He is 7 and a great little artist and very good at telling stories.  The next fella is 5 and he is the Irish speaker in the family.  He is really good at it.  And this chap here is one of the most affectionate boys you will ever meet.  He is forever telling me he loves me, touching me, hugging me and asking me to bend down so he can kiss me.

Our third boy is indeed, the most affectionate child you will ever meet.  He is happy out.  He wakes up, most times, happy, if a little groggy.  He is friendly, sociable, will talk to anyone, tell you his thoughts, and still have tonnes of hugs and kisses to dole out any time of the day or night.

Mister Husband is a cuddler but it is Liam who wraps his arms round my head in the morning as I am still sleeping.  He whispers “Mammy, is it morning?  I love ya,” all in one sentence and then I get an unhurried kiss on my forehead.  His hand rubs my hair.     

I love it.  I love his openness. His readiness to show and accept affection.

And then I had my AWARE moment.  I became Alert.  Suddenly Wary.  Then I was Accepting.  I Realised something and knew I had to Educate myself.

If I am angry, annoyed, upset, stressed or in bad form, Liam will ask me “what’s wrong, Mammy?”  He will touch my leg or my arm and look at me.  I always tell him that nothing is wrong.  Of course I do.  Sometimes I say I’m just a bit tired, I’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll be grand.

Passing on that Irish Mammy myth that a cup of tea can fix everything.

Liam will say “OK, Mammy.” And then he tells me he loves me.  But this is different. 

He is trying to fix me. 

Telling me he loves me is ok.  But trying to fix me when I’m not OK is not OK.

That is not his job.  That is my job.  It is my job to fix me and make me happy again.  No-one else can do that.

And definitely not my three and a half year old son.