eyeball season

It's 1.50 and I'm rolling fondant eyeballs in preparation for tomorrow's party.

Axel is playing a gig to the trainee-gardai in Templemor.

On Tuesday Olivia went to play with her sweet friend Daisy, whose Mom is American, well disciplined, calm, creative and always provides these great, structured playdates. She had a ball. She came home telling us about her Christmas list, and that they'd designed some Halloween Pumpkins - hers had red eyes and bloody fangs. 'It drinks blood and eats people! ... Mine was much scarier than Daisy's!'

No shit! I hope she didn't freak the poor people out.

I hope enough kids come to her party tomorrow. No one RSVPs. She's so excited. Worry worry.

more tales of st trinians

I told Axel about my bus ride to Wesley land. He had a tale of horror of his own:
He was outside the Purty Kitchen having a smoke and unloading gear - two fancy fancy D4 type girls walked up.

Blond girl A, without preamble: Give me a smewk.
Axel: Fuck off.
Blond Girl A, to Stu (drummer): Give me a smewk!
Stu: Fuck off!
Blond Girl A, with increasing asperity, to Paul (mate): You, give me a smewk!
Paul: Er, ok...
Others: For fuck's sake Paul, are you mad? etc

Paul fiddles about and holds out his cigarette packet as Girl A answers her phone and Girl B goes up to the door.

Girl A: Come on! Tisk! Take it out for me, take it out for me!
Paul: Er, ok...
Others: chorus of disapproval
Girl A: Give me a light!

Blond Girl B, approaches, alarmed: It's a tenner in! What are we going to dew!?
Blond Girl B: For fuck's sake!

The End

Blond Girl A may find herself with a cigarette where she didn't ask for one if she keeps talking to people like they're domestic staff from the late 1800s.

bus thoughts

I got the bus into town for the first time in a long time last night. Usually I plan to get the Dart, but end up being too late, and always thinking I'd rather the speed and comfort of driving than drinking.

This time, getting ready and out of the house stressed me out so much, I felt like if I didn't run out of the door into the arms of a welcoming pint of Guinness then I wouldn't be able to summon the will to go home again. So I drove to Baker's Corner, left the car there, and got the 46 into town.

I just missed one, so I had to wait a good twenty minutes for the next - I don't think I got to town til 10.15, maybe, having left the house at 8.40. I suppose that's not too bad, but I still would have been happier in the car. If only I had a chauffeur though I did on the way home, and it was every bit as good as I've ever fantasised about - compared to the local nightlink, it was like being driven home in a Bentley - definitely going on the lotto list, along it the personal chef and masseur. Are you up for those roles as well, by any chance, Maxi?)

The one thing that made the journey interesting was that once we stopped in Donnybrook, the heaving, bouncing, f-ing, laughing, shouting crowd of kids on the top deck unloaded. A Halloween procession of sorts ensued - first came the lads, all trendy mullets and crappy clothes; scruffy jeans, runners, ill fitting Dunnes issue hoodies, and puffy warm winter coats, the like of which I may soon be buying for Bodhi.

Following them came the fancy dress; girls armoured with perfectly straightened hair, mostly blond, tiny weeny close fitting micro dresses, high high heels, elaborate make up, wafts of perfume. No coats. Each clunked carefully and joyfully down the steep bus stairs, flashing teen crotches as they descended. I swear to God. They must know - yet they all still go upstairs... One word, of course: Wesley.

Later that night in Eamonn Doran's, which I frequented as a teen (in Jeans and boots, blissfully ignorant of push up bras and five inch heels) I queued for the loo and lamented the women's toilet issue with the very attractive women on either side of me. One woman said, 'Oh well, at least we have boobs', while the woman in front of me said 'yeah, but that works for men too.' True. It IS a man's world.

When I mentioned the Wesley teens, who all looked like they were twenty one, the pretty young blond lady behind me said she had thirteen year old twins, and she kept them in! I do live in fear for Olivia, alright.

I was reading the Times on the bus, and saw a comment by some mother about refusing her daughter her €85 Toni and Guy cut and blow dry. Her irate daughter demanded to know why, and when told the country is in recession, her daughter responded 'What's that got to do with us?' What have we done to our kids!

time to cry

Go see Kate's post, and see if it moves you to help out. I've nothing much to add. I know there's a world of heart breaking causes. It's just so obvious that this one was working so well. I wonder would the Inn be full if a minister's child needed a place? I suppose this is what recession really means.

a crappy day for a five year old

Olivia's been less positive about school in the last couple weeks. Not wanting to go, having a sore tummy a lot. I do think she has a low grade bug, I hope it's that, not anxiety.

This morning she made a fuss about going, and I whooshed her off with an 'it'll all be grand'. In fairness, she does generally come out fairly happy, and talk about her day. Today she was in a fouler, complaining before we got into the car. She was upset not to be able to stay with her Granny after we picked up Bodhi, got progessively narkier, asking for playdates, being a wagon. But as we left her Granny's, she asked for a playdate again, and started crying piteous tears about having no one to play with and being lonely. I asked her again if something had happened in school, and as we drove home, through sad little sobs, she told me about how no one had played with her at break. She'd asked he good friend from her table, but Megan had been playing with someone else and said it was only a game for two, and everyone else was busy, even the kids from other classes. So in the end she went and sat on the fallen down tree and cried, because she was so lonely and no one would play with her, and no one came over to see if she was alight, and ask her to play with them, and then the bell rang, and she'd been sitting on the fallen down tree all break, and no one came, and break was over and she didn't get to play.

I hate school. I really do. It it's just as hurtful and confusing and humiliating when you're thirty two and your daughter is suffering all the pangs you suffered as when you were in the playground yourself. My poor little baby.

So we had a huggle and formulated a plan of action, despite the fact that I didn't really know what the fuck to do, but I assured her we'd sort it out. So far my plan includes texting her friends' mums, in junior and senior infants, to ask them to make a charitable request for her friends to look out for her. They do like a cause, the littles, I find. One mum suggested that it would be worth talking to the teacher. Olivia said their teacher (who is a total Miss Honey, sweet, and fun and young and in control to an admirable extent) was good at dealing with playground issues, and it would be worth talking to her, so I will do tomorrow. The others promised they'd have a chat with the kids. And that seemed to go a long way towards helping.

And I'm planning a little Halloween party.

Olivia said that Ms O'D had had a talk with them at the start about being on your own, and approaching others on their own and getting together with other people, and maybe people had just forgotten. So hopefully she might have the talk again.

What am I hoping? That this is just a blip, a once off coincidence, and not some sort of pattern that's emerging because Olivia is a victim, or too bossy, or fussy or whatever to play with. I'm hoping that it will all be swept away. That someone who knows what to do will step in and do it. Because it just makes me feel desperate, and helpless, and heartbroken. I hope this is it, and it's not going to get any worse. I just recently read about two kids of bloggers who didn't get invited to birthday parties when everyone else did, and that broke my heart each time - I asked Olivia about whether it was better to ask the kid who wasn't popular, and she made me so proud by saying that it would never be ok to leave someone out. That she would always ask them rather than make them sad, and that she was talking to Degna at her table the other day when no one else was, to make her feel included... I can only presume Degna is the girl who started out not talking to anyone, and making angry faces, bless her.

Ugh, school. People. Being five and lonely. Ugh.

Update: I feel guilty dumping all my sadness on everyone else! Olivia went off to bed in happy fettle, most proud of herself for reading 'cat' off the television, then spelling CAT and 'cat', and BAT on her blackboard all by herself, and working out that she can also spell 'hat'... a mini breakthrough, methinks.

I think she's feeling better, given the plan of action's in place, so we'll just hope it's a one off. I know she'll be fine, I don't think she remembers stuff the way I do, either, I hope she doesn't, anyway, it's a curse.

Update 2: well she went off to school without a care, played with her friends, grand. I talked to her teacher, who was equally gutted, and says she'll ahve another word wit hthe class, and keep an eye out.

I know my daughter is a bit of a drama queen. But still, hopefully this will have cleared the decks a bit!

quote of the day

Dr. Phil to Deadbeat Dad:

'Parenting is a Noun and a Vuuurb.'

Get busy doing, parents!

odd dream

I had extra super disturbed sleep for a few nights last week, as Bodhi had a fever that didn't want to go away, and a molar coming in, so there was mighty waking.

This made for weird sleep patterns, and lots of dreams, as I was waking at all hours.

I dreamt, among other things, that I was walking in the snow with a baby, in some Russian type wastes landscape, and scary sci fi wolves were running towards me out of the strafing snow. They were more like hyenas, brown and spotted, with weird, pale, yellowy gold eyes. There were black clad soldiers with rifles running up behind me, but still quite far away. The wolves were coming from different directions. I picked up, or was carrying, a wine bottle and hefted it, baby in the other arm, getting ready to catch one across the head with it as it got close.

It was pretty scary, though I think the soldiers got there before there was any need to actually try and fend them off, an then the alarm went off. I had to cuddle Bodhi for a bit to stop feeling freaked out before I got up. I can still feel them coming at me out of the snow, with the black figures running up behind me, though the feeling of holding the baby has faded.

Just in case anyone is feeling cold and unnerved by that, I will also reveal that I before that I dreamed I was in a hotel room, and Midget Wrangler got into bed with me with her boobs out. I resisted her advances in the end though. Still, are you warm and enlivened now?

blog-standard

Hmm. I was looking for the man flu video and I had a look at April. Infantasia's April that is. And it's pretty good. I fear much better than (what month is it?) October.

Perhaps blogging is slipping after all. Have I lost it in six months? Have a look at April, if you didn't then, it's fun.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month

I posted a post on 1blankpage for breastcancer awareness month, where Chris P Pancake has done sterling work empinkening the blog for the month. It's about my mother's cancer, and the path it and her rejection of the health service led her on.

Tinman just asked me why not here, and, well, I originally suggested I'd rather not write it because I had ambivalent feelings about the whole thing, about the way cancer is managed, patients are treated, etc, etc. But then it occurred to me that in fact it was more of an advertisement for testing and treatment than not, considering. Also, he suggested that people need to know that avoiding testing won't stop you getting ill.


A couple years ago, after I finished feeding Olivia, one of my nipples went inverted - not all the time, but often. I figured it was probably just a blockage of some kind, but I knew it can be a sign of cancer, and I went to the GP, who referred me on to Vincent's as a precautionary measure, as something was pulling it in, even though there were no other signs. She showed me how to do a breast check, which is nothing other than the obvious really - what anyone would do themselves, unless they never ever touch their breasts for some unfathomable reason.


I got to Vincent's, they were nice, a young doctor and a nice lady (also a doctor? I can't remember, but they go in in twos, to avoid being accused of harrassment, presumably) examined me, and referred me for a scan, just in case. More waiting and the inevitable thinking about having cancer, possible treatment, dying and leaving my child motherless, etc, obviously.




The appointment was for the first week of the school term. I was meant to have a subject meeting for Special Needs, which my Principal insisted was vital - I told her it would be irresponsible of me to miss the scan and she grumpily told me to talk to the head of the subject - who is a sweet woman who'd been through serious kidney cancer when her son was born, and had no problem with me going. I hadn't told the principal what the scan was for, and she apparently said to Jennifer 'Maybe she's pregnant, I don't know' - which I found offensive, somehow, I have to say.


The scan itself was just an ultrasound - it involved the usual - hours of waiting, despite having an apointment, talking to the elderly, confused and frightened woman being wheeled around and ignored by a Pakistani nurse, who was failing to reassure her in any way - she was left parked there, til someone else came and pushed her off with such force that she nearly got whiplash. Just that says it all. How hard would it be to introduce yourself and tell her where she was being taken, not just come up behind her and shove her away suddenly.

The bit that really got to me is that at one point, I was sent to strip my top half, put on a gown - and was then sent back out to sit in the open reception/waiting area, which is by the stairs, a thoroughfare... yes, it does not feel reassuring or empowering, to sit bra-less and unsupported in a hospital gown for an hour. It was completely unnecessary, and must only be designed intentionally to intimidate parents.


Finally, I got the scan, they found nothing, the radiologist? ultrasound person was of the brisk and brusque variety of whom I am not so fond, but that was that.


I was meant to go back two years later, but at that point I'd just had Dade, and you can't really do a good breast test when you're breastfeeding. They also told me I'd need a mammogram every two years from 35, because of my family history (it's usually 5o) but I am just not so sure about that. There is plenty of research to suggest that radiation causes cancer - I'm not keen to regularly irradiate my breasts, especially if there is a predilection there.


However, when I talked to the doctor in the women's clinic (hmm, who still haven't sent me my smear test results, actually) she suggested asking them again, as trends change so fast, from year to year, and different doctors have different policies.


In the end, my nipple uninverted itself - we'll see what happens after I stop breastfeeding again, hopefully whatever happened has been resolved. I still think it was a simple blockage, but the spectre is always there, unfortunately.


Axel's father died of lung cancer at 70, and Axel's been smoking for most of his adult life. With that and my mother's history, it doesn't give us great odds, does it? At least I don't smoke, or drink much, breastfed, and have taken more than one dose of Carcinocin, a homoeopathic remedy for having cancer in the family. Actually made of breast cancer, if I remember rightly. Nice, eh? But there's lots more to do - I need to really start working in diet and waistline though. And what to do about Axel and smoking? He's been insisting he'll quit soon for years. At what point is it acceptable to start beating him with blunt objects over it?

serendipity

My mother used to believe that a prayer to the god of parking spaces would always see you right. She believed it was why she never had a problem with finding parking. I think it might be a goddess of parking spaces, really, She Who Saves Us Girls from Awkward Parallel Parking or Unnecessarily Long Walks in High Heels.

I think she or some higher guardian were looking out for me tonight. I had to go to Tesco after putting Bodhi to bed. He hasn't slept properly in four nights, with a fever, and I'm so tired. I go to the supermarket with just my wallet, no bad, and realised I'd no euro for the trolley. I stood there ineffectively for a minute, dreading the thought of going to the pass machine, going to get change, coming back to the trolley... I went and looked outside, and there, waiting there, for me, was a free trolley, not clicked in to the rest.

This may be a reason why people pray. It's good to have someone to thank.

Cafe Bar Deadly

At last, at last! Bray has a bit of a dearth of nice restaurants. There's Campo di Fiore down from the Albert Walk, a very authentic Italian place, with a big Italian style menu. I have really liked it there, but the last couple times I went the service was so bad as to mess up the evening and the food just didn't make up for it. So I went off it a bit. It needs to be bigger, and they need better tables.

Axel won't go to the Barracuda on the seafront opposite, because it's on top of the Aquarium, and he wouldn't eat with fish swimming below him (!?). Anyway, I've heard very mixed reports. Palazzo opposite again sounds okish, and looks nice, but I'm not sure. The Porterhouse do nice pizza and burgers, but it's not always what you want. The main street has two Chineses, The Orchard Court used to be lovely, but it's not now, and the Jasmine House across the road has cute retro bamboo booths and the food's good. There's a real Chinese for the Chinese on Albert Walk, otherwise known as Brayjing, which got good reviews, but I've never been. And that's it, really. I don't know why, Bray's big, there must surely be enough people to support a couple really good restaurants?

Chakra at Jaipur is award winning Indian Cuisine and is doing really well in Greystones. The Hungry Monk is still going strong, though I've gone off it for a couple reasons, and would go to Jaipur or 3Q in a flash before I went to it - I was in school with Paul Quinn from 3Q, it's named for the three Quinn brothers, and they have a photo of themselves as kids on the wall, which I think it extremely endearing. And I really like the food too. They do brunches on the weekend, I think that might be my birthday treat next year. It's quite haute cuisine-y food, but it's great. And I love their decor, which they did all themselves even though it looks all designery. I think they're moving to bigger premises soon.
Greystones also has Indian Spice, which is the best and most gorgeous Indian Takeway food I've ever had. Bringing it home in the car makes me almost turned on - I want to get it home and eat it off someone, or even myself. Mmm, god!

Which brings me to my point: Bray has a Cafe Bar Deli now! I have to admit, this place has never been my favourite. I've been to the one in George's St and the one in Ranelagh, and while it's been fine, it's never been fantastic. But Axel and I sneaked out last night, and had a bite. It's in a huge restaurant opposite the Town Hall (a mock Tudor building which now houses McDonald's, making it a McTudor building in my book), which has been an Italian called 'Soprano's' and a Greek restaurant, without success. I hope CBD succeed where they did not. I suspect they will - while I was looking for their number, I read a messageboard review of the Italian restaurant that said that eating there had felt like eating in an empty canteen. Not any more - the place is painted a soft white, giving it a cosy and opulent French basement restauranty feel. The tables are nicely placed, and not too crowded. After their second round of fancy cocktails, I started to hear the amusingly foul exclamations of one of the girls in the party of women across from us, but not so much the conversation. And towards the back of the restaurant, there's a row of booths to seat six, banquettes (?) decorated in rich red velvet. It feels old fashioned and charming and Christmassy, a lovely place for a Christmas party.

It smells gorgeous, foody and of coffee. There's lots of wood, and the lighting is low but not dim. The staff were lovely, and friendly, and when I asked the Italian girl if I could have a glass of Prosecco, she responded with this great frowny face, a mix of 'why wouldn't you?' and 'oh, you shouldn't even have to ask, you deserve it, you silly' which I found completely endearing.

I know the menu is set, but I had feta and hazlenut salad, which was really nice, and Axel had the spaghetti Bolognaise, his favourite of yore. The dips come with LOADS of veg. Axel swooned over his frosty Heinekken and my Prosecco was strong and lovely.

And then we had dessert, which for reasons soon to be revealed is a post in itself. But I was decadent (having resolved to just whizz in and out for a main course) and had their apple and berry crumble with cinnamon ice cream. The crumble comes in an individual little pastry shell, with tasty tart fruit and loads of crumble, and a meltyfirm scoop of creamy spicy ice cream drizzled with caramel sauce. In the Christmassy atmosphere of the place it was perfect. I could almost have had an eggnog - well, if I wasn't needing to lie on the floor from stuffedness, that is.

Happy happy! We'll be there again!

motherhood v fun

*I had a lovely time at Darren and Lottie's party last night - and I got to meet Darragh, and Whoopsadaisy, and Andrew,and Anthony, whose collection of eighties choons wowed me, and Amy the Cat and Phil Kane, who looks alarmingly like Andrew McCarthy. I got so see Lottie in her Gorgeous Corset, and drink lots of (well, four and a half) cocktails, and wonder at the fact that L&D have their Oxygen photos printed up and hung on the wall in nice frames already. They should write a book about the habits of highly effective couples. They're just lovely too. I felt a wave of affection, watching them chatting away, with their matching curly heads. Aw.

The 'V' part of the title sadly comes from arriving home to find my Bodhi awake and crying and BURNING hot, befevered. He didn't settle til 3.45 am, by which time my eyes were itching frantically and my hangover was setting in. I had a glass of water, and a paracetemol, and was fine when I had to get up at 8.30 on Saturday. And when I had to take Olivia to the party she was going to at one. And then when we got back at 3.30, Axel was still asleep...

I got to lie in this morning though, and Olivia only woke me three times.


*I know I should be linking to everyone, but I'm tired. You'll find them all at Darren or Lottie's. Just check the roll.

soya peril - food friday 1

Long ago, long long ago, I tried soya milk, and it was not good. It plunged me into a world of ick, bleh, and ewy. I suppose being raised on dairy, and all the dairy creamy goodness propoganda, the thin green taste of soya milk just offends the taste buds.

Then my Italian neighbour offered me some fresh Alpro soya milk. Werg, no thanks, rather me than you, I said. No no, it's good she said, I drink it by itself. Double werg, was my reply, but I let her pour me a glass. Sweet creamy goodness! I've even downgraded from it (it's all so bloody expensive) to the UHT type, sweetened with apple juice instead of cane sugar. It's nice, I even drink it on its own!

I was in Lidl the other day, needed milk. I risked their organic cow's milk, and gingerly took one of their soya milks, mindful of deforestation, and genetic modification, things Alpro guarantee you're not supporting when you buy their product. I took it home, tried a sip, Ick! Bleh! Ewy! plunged once more into a world of bean milk, plehhh! It's sitting there in the fridge, beside the Alpro, guilting me with my own wastefulness, but I just don't think I can do it.

What is it that Alpro do to their soya? Do they massage the beans and feed them beer and play them music, like the cows they make Kobi beef from? How do they make it taste so nice?

this is an infantasia promotion

Doing anything tomorrow night? The Juice play Fridays in The Purty Kitchen in Temple Bar around 10pm, free in. Bring a mate, have a dance. Nicest bouncers in Dublin, apparently, four floor disco upstairs, pretty ladies, apparently, good atmosphere... Axel gives it the thumbs up anyway.

breastfeeding counsellors

I just watched the Afternoon Show repeat about mothers becoming breastfeeding Counsellors with Cuidiu. Interesting interesting.

Again, the problem with the main segment was that there was lots of focus on how awful it is, how terrible and isolating and agonising, and some are lucky to have no pain - without explicitly explaining what it is that causes those problems. I don't like the suggestion that breasfeeding has to hurt, as it causes women to think they have to 'persevere' through the pain, and not get the problem sorted. We need more focus on fixing, not persevering. A dangerous word, though it has its place, in terms of time and effort and uncertainty.

When I started feeding my daughter it was really difficult. She had a frantic, strong suck and was too anxious to get on to take the time to get it right (so different with Bodhi, who used to stop and correct himself!). So it was painful, as I didn't have her on right - my midwife didn't really have time, had never fed herself, it was the one thing she didn't really do well on.

I was lucky in that the problem corrected itself once my milk came in. It might not have, I suppose, and LLL in Bray weren't interested. I don't think I knew about Cuidiu yet.

When I did the breastfeeding class with Nicola O Byrne she said Cuidiu would be her choice as well. I mentioned that my midwife had told me that with my fair skin (read glowing white, rather than milky princess) it was just going to hurt, it didn't mean I was doing it wrong. I said this in the class and Nicola was reluctant to agree - she said she'd helped plenty of fair skinned mothers who experienced no pain, and had plenty of dark skinned women being in agony. Pain (especially lasting more than 10 seconds into a feed) denotes a bad latch. Persevering through it will lead to the problems people are afraid of. And once you get blisters or cracks, they take a while to heal, and it's hard to tell if the latch is corrected or not as it's still sore.

Some tips for if that happens are to avoid nipple shields without the guidance of a counsellor, but use bio-fem strips, McCabe's have them, and HyperCal cream (Hypericum Calendula) if you do get sore or cracked. If you or the baby had antibiotics, be vigilant for thrush - take pro biotics, and Citricidal Grapefruit seed extract, give the baby infant probiotics, and wash their mouth and your nipples with the dilute citriciadal before and after a feed. I put up a post about it in the recurring concerns thread at the top of the breasfeeding board.

Ina May Gaskin is bringing out a breastfeeding book soon. She said in a talk I saw her at, that on the Farm Midwifery Centre, they've never had problems with breastfeeding, because they know what to do. This is what we mean when we talk about support. And proves that cracked nipples etc are not a necessity.

We've only lost the art of breastfeeding in Ireland for two generations. And I think it's coming back. Our children are going to have a far easier time than this generation are having.

There's a lot Dads can do here too - check out the latching videos on You Tube, drjacknewman, kellymom etc. Be supportive, rub sore shoulders and necks, don't suggest giving up or giving formula if your partner wants to breastfeed. Do the burping after each feed, do some of the comforting - baies love being on their Dad's big chest, listening to the bass of their voices, often dads can settle them far better. Go for a walk with them in the sling, and let the mother have a shower/bath/sleep. Giving a bottle of expressed milk may be nice, but from experience, I can report that you seem to find the glow fades - it's not the biggest thing yo ucan do to bond with your child, there's plenty of other things. Get in the bath with your baby and feel the oxytocin flow!

Cuidiu's info and list of counsellors

Breastfeedingsupport

This morning, Bodhi awoke at 6.30, had a feed, and then proceeded to drone to himself while scratching and poking me with finger and toe nails until I leapt up in wild distraction fortyfive minutes later.

While I was lying there, being harrassed, I thought of three separate blog posts. I repeated them over and over, but one is gone, sadly one of the more important ones. Well, serious ones.

For some reason, I got to thinking about my favourite pinup, Jason Momoa

and the fact that he's in a relationship with Lisa Bonet.



Ok, I'll admit she looks a little overly thin and druggy here, not the picture of health, but beautiful despite it.


I know I'm not usually tabloidycelebritymagaziney, I'm sorry, but I love that these two are going out with each other. They look made for each other. The perfect amalgamation of beauty, they're the yin and yang, the anima and animus.



Don't get me wrong, this isn't some sort of terrible, racist, stick to your own kind sort of comment - on the contrary, I'd have the man's beautiful little coffee coloured babies as fast as you can say bicep.

Still, I just think they're perfect. And interestingly (in a tabloidy-voyeurism sort of way) Lisa Bonet was previously married to Lenny Kravitz - she clearly has a type. And a good type at that.

crispy evenings

I walked out of Tesco to a glowing evening, and that October, bonfire, crisp smoky smell in the air, that signals sweepings of leaves and tingling noses on the way. Winter coming, Christmas feeling. The sky was clear and the sun shone gold. It was sinking and a cresent moon was rising round the corner. Everything was windless, still.

Driving home, the trees were still green and bushy, rising up straight in to a perfect, gold-kissed sky. It was almost eerily perfect and motionless, I felt like I was in a model world, a toy town. It was beautiful but a little disquieting too. Just before twilight, when the light is still there, but fading, making everything strange. The houses and deserted roads weren't right, I would have loved to be in the countryside a little more, walking in the fields before dinner. Feeling that touch of magic, of Alison Uttley, ash keys and old countryside mystery.

But we had a bag of chips that smelled just perfectly salt and vinegary, and they tasted like you want chips to taste, with buttery eggs, unusually brightly yoked, they sang as we ate them, mouthfuls of warm exactly-rightness.

If something could fall into place each day like that, all would be well, I think.

I said to Olivia, about toytown, and she conjectured that maybe we were being driven by a giant hand, belonging to a child, or God - ! And that God makes everything happen, controls us all. Wow. The conversations in the car are getting more philosophical by the day.

hate crime, alive and well

I just read keynoter's post about her 15 year old daughter's assault today. I'm so sad, and so angry. I know it's only scumbag kids (scumbag girls), but they're capable of making people too scared to go out, of sapping the happiness out of everything, of putting people in hospital.

What would you do? Any suggestions for Ellen on the best way to protect everyone?

postcards from parent world, a week and a half of doing it alone

Snapshot one - an abandoned green and yellow shopping trolley, in the kitchen, containing one jar of peanut butter.

Heartstrings, tugged.

Snapshot two - My daughter shouts at me from the sitting room as I'm bent over the bin, digging dog shit from the grooves of her runners, late for school and shouting back. Bodhi stands behind me, holding my legs and crying in fear at the raised voices.

No need to comment.

Snapshot three - we sit at the table eating dinner, Bodhi delicately sprinkles grated cheese on his risotto, with chubby 14 month old fingers, and Olivia eagerly tells me about the older kids asking her and her friends to play duck duck goose at breaktime, and she got chosen! New names are mentioned, of the kids who sit at her table.

The ice is breaking for her, and this feels exactly how it's all meant to be.

A rare moment, but one we all deserve, affirmation that we can know it as it should be.

bits

I just got a flyer for The Beauty and Acne Clinic in the door.
I hope the universe isn't trying to tell me something.

Parenting Tip: If you want your toddler to eat something, your best bet is to leave it on the floor.

shhh!

I'm not here.
I am offline.
I am Working Hard, I will have it all finished before time, without hassle.

I won't waste time reading blogs, and writing comments, and posting nonsense and giving breastfeeding advice and watching por - oops! or anything like that, no. No.

And don't none of you go encouraging me. It's not like my house is clean or anything either. Devil, idle work, loose hands, all the rest.

Have a nice weekend, you internet fools!

I was on telly!

So I was on the Afternoon show today, on RTE, with a group of breastfeeding mothers from Rollercoaster.ie. We were going on for National Breastfeeding Week, we want to try and give a better picture of what breastfeeding is like than the horror stories people circulate about bleeding nipples and loss of freedom.

It was fun, in one way, but we didn't realise that the main part of the feature was going to be Blainaid talking to their resident tv breastfeeding expert and we were just going to be the little examples. So, imagine the frustration of not having a microphone as the 'expert' failed to give any help at all to a woman who rang in trying to get her baby to take a bottle - a question we address all the time on Rc. And all the rest.

Most frustrating was that Blainaid ended the discussion by announcing that breastfeeding is initially SORE, passing it back to the expert, who vaguely and unconvincingly said that it's all about the latch, and you need to get good support.

But how! How do you get support when you've got eight different midwives coming into the room through the day, telling you eight different things. What's a good latch, how do you get it, what if you try and it doesn't work?

Gah! The frustration of not being able to add to that. I think I need my own show.

We were disappointed in how tame it all was - but it's afternoon tv, and at the end of the day, baby steps are good. If you're someone who is completely turned off at the idea of breastfeeding, or scared, or unsure, maybe it's just good to see a group of happy women and sweet babies, who breastfeeding ultimately worked for.

And my other complaint: they promised us lunch! Then demoted it to a plate of sandwiches - then they put them in front of us, and whisked half of us off to makeup, and there was hardly anything left when I got back, so I had a half a sandwich for lunch :( And even my granny said she'd heard the RTE canteen was good!