post the second: Nanny Mc Phee

*SPOILER ALERT*

Seriously. I just saw the end of the film. Saw the beginning the other day, happened upon the end tonight. I'm going to describe what happens, so avert your eyes now if you plan to watch it. Ok?

So Nanny Mc Phee, the magic nanny, is leaving the children who are no longer awful because they no longer need her. Her rule is, when they need her but don't want her she will stay, but when they want her but don't need her, she goes.

She's gliding away across a field of harvested straw and the kids realise she's gone and are all sad. Maggie Smith reminds them of the maxim above. Maggie Gyllenhall, their mother with a sweet RADA accent, appears on the lane behind Nanny McP, screaming for her to come back, come back, they might not need you but I do, I need you desperately!! She rounds the corner, in a sweet blue dress, arms waving, hair blowing out behind her, and suddenly stops to stare after the departing black figure. The children catch up with her, shouting that they do still need her, but Maggie G is staring blissfully ahead, and whispers that they don't. The camera follows her gaze, and over the brow of the hill comes a figure. He and Nanny Mc P bow to each other and he comes down the hill. His arm is in a sling, he carries his coat and a suitcase. The littlest blond boy recognises his father, presumed dead but Home From the War and shouts and starts running.

The father bends at the waist as if he's been kicked, with a visceral 'ughgh' of emotion, and runs to his son. And it's Ewan Mc Gregor! Sob! And he hugs them all, and they hold onto him as he reaches out to cup his wife's head and pull her into a kiss.

Oh my god. I'm crying now. They thought he was dead.

Gah.

It was very well done.

And I'm a total sap.

Ah well.

post the first: a generic 'my children are wonderful' post

I had a delightful day at Mount Usher Gardens today. We managed to eat while the rain was pouring, the food was wonderful, the garden was beautiful and all green and freshened and sunlit. There was a band on and the kids painted pottery with a lovely company from Blackrock, Rainbow Ceramics.

I went with the kids and my sister in law and my nephew. He'd just woken up and wasn't particularly eager to sit through lunch. He's a boy who needs to be on the go and loud and hammering things and his mother was fairly stressed out. I find the best way to deal with him is endless distraction, but you do lose patience, energy and creativity for that after a while, I know.

She'd just taken him for his 3 year (and final) developmental assessment with the health nurse. Bodhi's is due in a couple weeks. Be ready for it now, she said, eyes rolling. They ask all sorts of things, like he has to hop on one leg, and they ask him loads of words from the dictionary.

I smile and think of Bodhi's last assessment last year, where he spontaneously hopped on one leg while waiting for the doctor to ask me stuff and she told me that they wouldn't be looking for that til the following year... and how Olivia pointed out that the 'motor bike' the nurse had pointed to was in fact a motorcycle and the 'monkey' was a chimpanzee...

So I managed not to mention those things. Actually, I'm sure the cousin is hopping without bother, he's ready for the U12 football team already and could probably climb anything you pointed him at.

AND Olivia's pronunciation is now nowhere near as good as it was when she was three, it's getting bizarrely garbled.

Still. I'm always proud at developmental checks.

for the goth-girl with everything

I just wrote a moany post about moods and lack of babysitting and the return of various anxiousnesses after  a few days of feeling quite normal. But then I ate some leftover meatballs and spaghetti and I feel much better. At least, better enough not to post whingy posts. Phew! Thank Meatballs for that!

I did just find this though.

I like her hair...
         

Tattered Rags, she's from, on the off-chance anyone wants to look further. I really like them, I hate to admit. Except I wish their mouths weren't all sewn up. What's that about?

http://flickr.com/photos/tattered rags

sweeteez

I just saw a Refreshers facebook page. It was nearly enough to make me want one. But I think, at this stage, I'm not up to the chewy teethbusting yellow gelatinness of them. Too hardcore, scary for teeth. Still. The way the sweetness melted into a hole that let the sherbet trickle out was so excellent.

Maybe lemon sherbets (lemon drops?) would do - more suckable. Little classic handgrenades of sour fizz. I haven't had one in yearzzz...

Fizz Bombs still exist but mostly for the bath - but in the sweetie form, they're the wrong flavour and colour now. I don't think the originals exist? Raspberry fizzbombs were a deep dark raspberry purple colour and they fit just nicely in to the roof of your mouth while you sucked the fizz out of them. Even though the hard edges hurt a little. No photo :(

The Double Dip was fairly classy too - two flavours in seperate sections and a nice lollie to dip in - way nicer than the DipDab.

Speaking of sherbet and fizz, for Pop Rox fans, there's a Crunchie Icecream curently on the market with pop rox in the chocolate coating. Which is melty and rich and creamy and ... sparkly. And the ice cream tastes beautifully honeycomb caramel. It's really quality.

Bon Bons. In Shamus's sweetshop, the sweets were in glass jars on the white shelves, and these irregular shaped white bon bons were smaller than the ones you get now, maybe a third smaller. They had a hard chewy nugget of toffee in the middle and softer stuff you chewed easily off it, powdery on the outside. Creamy toffee. Underrated classic, I think.

Apple drops. Tangy sour sweet lttle sucky sweets. Preferably one for each side of the mouth. Say no more.

Pear Drops - quite different in that they tasted like Nail Varnish, but deliciously so. Chemicalicious.

Frosties. Not penny sweets, or from childhood but we ate them a lot in secondary school. Whenever anyone had them, we'd shout, FROSTIES!!!!! Good times...We loved 'em. Apparently they contain the same carcinogenic red dye that has Red Lemonade banned in all other countries but here.

Hmm, I'd better stop, I feel self conscious :) I don't eat them any more...

To high-brow the posts up just a ... smidge... it ties in with this utterly delightful children's book that I completely and totally recommend. A tasty read.

I heart facebook

Normally I don't. I hate it. It's full of lots of pointless things, like groups people like, and people's friend and family responses to posts that were only of moderate interest in the first place. I go there looking for entertainment somewhat pathetically and am not always entertained.

But in fairness, there are sometimes beautiful photos, and funnies, and videos, and links to blogposts etc.

BUT!

In the last week, two women I know more online than off have been tracking their pregnancies. One was Tatty, onetime commenter here, who got frustrated a week before her due date, and started waiting way too soon, and had her parents here from Brazil and cried when her dad had to go back before the birth but then got some homeopathy and had went into labour, and then had her baby and posted photos of them all. And if it wasn't for Facebook I wouldn't have known anything about it.

And then there's Mary, who lives in Wexford and I don't see often, much as she delights me with her evil sense of humour and her sweetness. Yesterday she posted that it was her due date and she was drumming her fingers on the table. Then she went into labour. And this morning there's a picture of a baby girl (I was right! I have the gift!) with the title 'Pop'. It's so good to see, because Mary's first son was stillborn and her next birth was induced and didn't go well and her last birth was induced too, but it sounds like this one was natural and speedy. I look forward to more details on Facebook!

So I've got the Facebook warm fuzzies today.

I'll go back to being frustrated with it soon, as I think that's it for impending births for now :)

new fridge magnet

I'm breaking my rule...

It's funfair time of year again... and someone was tall enough to go on the big(ger) rollercoaster for the first time.

Theresa Andersson

I just found this gorgeous music on whythat'sdelightful. Isn't she great? I don't post music that often... because I know you don't listen to it (That's ok, I often don't either, though I feel bad about not clicking). This is cool though, honest :) Bill Graham got me to watch it with his brilliant use of 'Is your house on fire? No? Then watch this immediately.'







Real time reportage:

Olivia and her dad are play fighting in the hall before bed. I hear tell him '... blah blah blah or you'll get a kick up the ass,' in sibilant yet matter of fact tones.
'Olivia!' I say. 'Don't say that! That's horrible!'
'You say it all the time,' she says succinctly.

Ah, shite.

weekend

Sugar and effort have stolen all my energy. I spent yesterday cleaning up the kitchen and trying to stop my darlings screaming at each other but it took all day because both tasks kept driving me to go lie down on my bed and try and sleep/finish my Terry Pratchett (which is great).

Seriously, I think I got a little sun-struck on Sunday, I was just spaced and wiped. It was a beautiful, hot day but I only went outside to hang washing out.

Saturday we went to the Point Village Market. It's really nice. Lots of great food and nice things to see - and Axel's band played, as did the Barleymob. Bodhi ran down to the stage and sat on a bench, swinging his feet and concentrating utterly. Olivia's been listening to Bell x 1 in her Room a lot recently, and when they played a cover she looked at me in delight, and said, 'I know this song!!'

She was thrilled by the fake Pandora charm stall, and I was agonising over whther or not I should buy her one, when the Juice's singer's mother swooped in and took her off to get one, and bought Bodhi a bongo drum for his birthday. Their granny also said she'd give them money to go down to the amusements, so I'm saved.

The Market is great - if it had been sunny and busier (the Festival of World Culture was on in DunLaoighre) it would have been perfect - but as it was all the traders moved their stools outside to look, people brought their food up the front to listen, and the people in the burger stand gave it loads from the first song on. Definitely a good day out.

There's a cupcake stall - they look v pretty but they don't taste very good... yes, mine are way better. Sigh.


Then on Sunday we went to the park, and it didn't rain, and the sun even came out enough to burn Axel's head and brown my nose. The kids played with giant inflated footballs and ran the dads and odfather's ragged.

The ladies sat more genteelly on the picnic blankets and I doled out food to people. It seemed like not a lot got eaten - there's this wierd thing at parties - I hate the idea of forcing food on people, but if you don't offer (and keep offering repeatedly) everyone is too shy to eat it. So as a hostess, there's an awful balancing act between trying to get rid of the food you've made/bought for people and not force feeding them or making them feel awkward. Seriously - I brought home loads - can I just say, the next party you attend, if there's food there, the hosts WANT YOU TO EAT IT. That's why they brought it. Please don't be shy, dig in.

I made two mistakes - I forgot to take photos of Bodhi blowing out his candles, and the train cake I painstakingly fashioned. And I forgot to hand out the party bags. Sigh. I need endless lists, maybe. Or that personal secretary. Part of the trouble was that Bodhi's ... energetic cousin kept running up and standing in the cake tray. I know a cake on the floor is a cake on the floor, but sheesh. He also chased Bodhi round forcibly helping to unwrap and play with every present he got. I think his parents are just tired out, and they've given up. Not so sure that's allowed, though. Ahem.

But yes, I heartily recommend the party in the park. It was lovely. I'm so grateful to everyone for coming, and for bringing such great presents. And to all the men for playing so much run around in the warm weather.

 Sadly I've sprained my wrist carrying everything down to the picnic site though. Typing now is owy. Why don't we have these in Ireland?

Where cursors come from.

How cute is that? And sort of a sad point too, maybe.

AHA! My voice twin!

Ok!

I remembered.

We occasionally treat ourselves to a lovely lovely tasty Indian takeaway. MMmmnom. Indian Spice in Greystones, if you're interested.

I always ring, because Axel is afeared of making phonecalls.

The weird weird thing is, the girl on the phone... sounds exactly like me. I forgot about it after the last time and she doesn't seem to notice, but this time I rang again it struck me again - it's like talking to myself.

Last time I asked Axel to check her out and he said that she did sound like me and that oddly her style is similar to what mine was (yes, she's in her early twenties, sigh).

It's very intriguing. Superficially, I suppose we do hail from the same geographical background, but still... as we both said, 'ok, thanks very much, by-ye!' with identical intonation and voice, it made me laugh a bit but also gives me the willies.

My voice doppelganger. Who is she? And what use could I make of this?

my post has run away

Oh dear. I wasn't going to blog about Bodhi's birthday weekend because I am so bone weary I don't have the energy. I think I've been standing up a lot more than usual over the last 48 hours, and it's fucked me up good and proper. Add to that the wee hours cake shift and early mornings and lots of running to and fro party prepping and ohmygod I'm so tired I could dissolve into a puddle of ow and tense shoulder muscles.

But it was all good. Including the msn conversation that I hate to stop so much it makes me put off my tasks until ridiculous hours in the morning. I wish they'd include an extra hour of nap time in the day.

But my point is this, thus far: I am too tired to document the weekend yet. But I had some thing fast and easy and fabulous to post about instead but right now I have not the slightest clue what it is. I sat down to write it - and it was gone, completely gone. It will come back soon - I thought it would have by now. But it hasn't.

But when it does, I will return and write it down. Check back!

our chemical romance

So my house is fairly dirty, and my children's clothes are often less than shiny white. I know a lot of people who find this repugnant and unacceptable for their own lives. Sure, health and the environment are important. But you have to be clean.

The thing is, I think most people feel deep down that toxic detergents are innately good. Necessary. Part of the fabric of our daily lives, maybe. I mean, look at those adverts about germs. Good mothers disinfect surfaces with bleach based products in case their toddler drives his digger through the open cat box in the kitchen, and then across the table while her back is turned. Your chicken could kill your family! These anti bacterial wipes are handy for god's sake! They're handy!!!

And then, there's this.

Air fresheners, they freak me out. They smell disgusting. They hurt my throat and sinuses and make me feel sick. We absorb high percentages of their parabens etc in to us and I don't believe we process it all out. The packages say to use them in well ventilated spaces - if you've got your windows open you don't really need air fresheners.

Or get an essential oil burner or candle, maybe, instead.

hmm

The other day, Bodhi bit Olivia quite unpleasantly. He didn't break the skin but she had a big red bite mark for a couple days.

Today he did it again and I put him outside for two minutes, again. Just now he's tired after a late night last night and Olivia just came in and harrangued him til he was screaming with stress. She kept going ,despite me telling her not to - and he bit her again. So she went screaming sonic I hate yous up the stairs.

The thing is - I tell her not to harass and torture him, she does it anyway. I tell him not to bite her, he does it anyway... I don't really feel like punishing him further because it's not working and she blatantly goaded him into it.

What do you think? I'm tempted to leave it up to survival of the fittest.

old photo

My brother just got back from Brazil and his gf has loads of fabulous photos up on facebook. She's all enthused, and he's grumbling about the service and the food :) But the photos look like they had a great time.

I just spotted this in his albums though

Sorry it's so tiny, it won't stand for enlarging as is.

This is 1981. The dog is Pippin and she was super-clever. And I am delighted to find missing photo evidence of my racoon sweatshirt, which was the best. I wish my mother had kept it.

That was our conservatory being built. we were still in Rathmines. My memory of that wall is of rolling off my spacehopper and hitting my head on it.

Ah, the eighties. Bad haircuts abound.

Thursday

Ok, so I'm sorry about the previous post. I was dithering about taking it down, before and since posting it, but I needed to get it out of me. Let's move swiftly on.

So. I've killed a dog today. He is dispatched and beneath the sod. I feel like a murderer, but the promise of increased cleanliness and diminished responsibility is good. One sort of guilt swapped for another.

My cupcakes wrappers are all peeling way from the cake. Why is that? I thought this is a foolproof recipe. So I'm going to go experiment with some more. I think one of my three wishes would be for things to work just so... no unnecessary, time consuming bumps in the road and fiddling and redoing. Things would take the time they are meant to, less of the unexpected faffing.

Happily wonderful Nicola has said she'll babysit for me tonight, so barring flood or spontaneous combustion I get to go out to Annie's do. But for now, I go cakewards.

euthanasia

I'm so anxious I feel like my heart is going to burst.

I have a manic need to do everything at once, and at the same time nothing at all.

I am sent a wish, feel hugged, when all day long I've been wrapping my arms around myself and trying to hold the pieces together and thinking, I hold myself, I hold my children, I hold myself, while wishing desperately for someone else's arms around me to absorb and disperse the crushing feeling in my chest and the fucking tears.

And fighting against the need to write a emotional vomit post. All day long, I did.

And now it's 2 am and I don't want to sleep even though tomorrow will be busy. On Sunday at the boot sale I sold one of Olivia's Sesame Street baby toys. For €2 of course. And then stood there wiping tears underneath sunglasses and trying not to push small wellies and sentimental nothings back into the car and drive away.

And in the morning I'm getting up and bringing the dog to be put down. It will be really nice not to have to clean up any more pee, it will. I just don't relish killing him and all the memories of what he represented then. And what he represents now.

I'm scared of what the loneliness is going to do to me. I know it won't be on my mind forever, but I'm scared of dying alone. Or with no one but a frightened daughter who gets it all wrong to hold me through. I'm scared of this lovelessness. This helplessness.

I know I know I know. I know this is embarrassing. It's pathetic. I know it doesn't last forever, this feeling. I know everyone (well, most people) wishes me well. And that there are people who believe in me more than I believe in myself. It's just a bit of a moot point at two in the morning. Or two in the afternoon breaking in to pieces in the kitchen or the supermarket or all down the road. My heart hurts, is all, and I don't have any faith in myself.

Annie's Book Launch

Tomorrow, if the benificence of the mother in law holds good, I'm going to Annie's Book Launch.

She's all afeard, bless her. Organising things is horrible. Especially when it's your own work you're showcasing and you're doing a reading.

But it's hard for me to see that, because Annie is so gorgeous and appealing and sweet, and she has the self deprecating humour and sing song Welsh accent going for her, and the wordsmith words and the beautiful talented photographer's eye and all...

I loved her blog when she was in the States (that's what the book's about) and I know the room will be full of love for her tomorrow evening. AND I'm going to cupcake it up for her, and that's always a good thing.

So now I must go shop and prep, and wrestle with the nearest fondant-copier and those who work it, and so on.

people of wal-mart

Laughykate has infected me:

Parenting, Texas Style

two little things

Messages from the Universe abound at the moment. What's with the Chinese Fortune Cookie type spam?

Never hesitate to hold out your hand; never hesitate to accept the outstretched hand of another.

Sigh.

And then - I found my phone! Axel left washing in the basket in the kitchen. It's been raining... I would kinda prefer him to do his own washing... but I piled it in this morning, and lo and behold, a flash of pink, there was my phone!

How did it get there? I think it must have been small hands, somehow, because otherwise I have no idea.

But it's back! Whee!

owwee

Ah dear.

The fit came upon me to do some depilitation. But it's been a bit ... depilitating, hahahah. Sorry.

Yes, my lower legs are used to it, and it doesn't hurt any more to do 'em, but I've been wimpy about my thighs to date. Today I decided to be brave but instead I'm a little bit abraded - my very inner under thigh, which is far squidgier than a thigh should ideally be, has been somewhat bloodied and is now Stingy.

This is a discouraging state of affairs so I'm currently blogging with one leg besmoothened and  the other ... not. I think it might be better to enlist the services of a professional waxer (though they make you bleed too, I know). Still, I think that day can wait til someone other than me and the waxer are actually going to be seeing the offending areas. Personal smoothness is a luxury, I suppose.

Here's a funny waxing story. I hope it's true, no ill wishes to the writer, just because it's so funny.
I sent it to a friend in work, who forwarded it to her friend in work who mailed back with tears of laughter coursing down her cheeks, as the story goes.

I love the link at the bottom, 'what to do when your child glues her eyes shut'.

retrospective

One small rebel... stay off the grass, kids, look what it does to you

My parents got these blown up for my 18th birthday present - and when Axel saw this one he said, 'oh, I know that Look'

Ahh, blondness....

I'm posting this for the extremely shallow reason that I want that haircut back! And the blondness... sigh...  but the view, folks, the view... Inch in Kerry. You can't see the beach because I cut my sister out of the photo, for her own privacy of course... heheheheheh.

blossom

I always loved the moment of leaving the house, pulling the door shut behind you and being on your way Out.

I haven't had it so much recently, because I don't feel it unless I'm walking. These baby-days, going out is a final desperate rush out the door late, to hop in the car and speed off for a couple hours of freedom, overshadowed by having to come home again too soon.

But sometimes, I'm walking off out somewhere. In cold weather there's the beautiful feeling of striding in boots and long coat, wind on my face as if the moors were about to open out in front of me. In summer there's the freedom of no jacket. A bag slung over my shoulder, an open road ahead.

Do you know what I mean?

Our laneway is very pretty. As summer comes on, the tall trees are all green and in flower, the hedge grows out over the lane. It seems rural and quiet and verdant. One day this spring, Axel and I were going out. We walked down the lane and I felt the feeling, the free feeling, the heroine of my own adventure feeling as we left kids and house behind. Half way down the lane, white cherry petals were arcing out over it and showering down from the branch as we approached. It was so beautiful, it was weddings and romance, they were lit in the evening sun and flittering down to carpet the ground around us.

It would have been a good time for a man to take his wife's hand, or put an arm around her and pull her to him for a kiss among the falling petals before heading out into the great unknown.

He put a cigarette to his lips and lit it, and surrounded himself with a wall of acrid smoke. And staring straight a head, he walked on down the lane.

list

Cook soup - in progess

Pack car with stuff for bootsale tomorrow - I can't find all the stuff from last year - where did it get put?? I think it's in the cupboard behind the wardrobe in the bedroom :(

Clear the desk and sort the boxes of papers - groan

Transfer Olivia's baby clothes from plastic box in attic to bags, put baking-market stuff in box with lid, transfer to shed. God. The shed... The crapheap beside the shed... but it's Axel's crap heap, I refuse to take responsiblity for this one.

Hoover corners etc.

After kids go to bed, put evil carpet cleaner on the carpet, to try and dispell the linger odour of eau de chien.

Next week signals D day for the aged dog.

Ahhh, how much will I get done? Tune in tomorrow, and see and guage the extent to which doing productive work is managing to counter my misery and self doubt.

sorry about this

I'm getting spammed out of it. And my life is too lonely to contend with all these false email alerts, I keep thinking people love me and then it's an ad for Viagra.

So wv is going back on for a while, sorreeee!

brain-ercise

I see the name Hans on the internet and I'm reminded of a horrible little boy I went to school with who used to bully me. He had a bowl hair cut and a lot of freckles and a face like a nasty Quentin Blake Roald Dahl illustration.

Me: Hans... Hans... what was his second name...

Brain: Hans... Mullman!

No... that's not it...

Oh my god, he's Hans MOLEMAN. That's not very subtle! I never knew...

second inconsequential post of the day

I bought an umberella yestderday, a black one with white polkadots and red trim. And a little rubbery red handle. It's cute. It would go nicely with shiny red wellies patent leather boots and a wide 1950s style skirt. Not that that will happen.

Yesterday the sun came out more than I expected, but there were also two torrential downpours (I love that expression) which I got to experience from under a clear plastic roof all surrounded by green trees. The kids ran out of the barn into it and danced around, and stood under the gutter run off and got soaked to the skin (fluich go sáileach!), repeatedly. Bodhi left a little trail of wet footprints leading back out the door. It was cute, and thankfully I had in the carboot: one pair of pink silk pyjama bottoms, one pair of knickers, one hoodie, one swimsuit and three pairs of little pants and two pairs of jeans. So I was able to redress them to a certain extent.

Not that they want it - yesterday, Bodhi to Olivia: I'm naked. Do you want to be nudie with me?
Olivia: Yes! (Flings off clothes). Both: We're going to Naked Playschool!

I think we've had enough rain now though :( I had to cancel the trip to the park/friend visit planned for today. There's fireworks on sunday I hope we get to see. Lots of stuff to do at the moment, I wish the sun would come back. It's looking blue out there now, but there's thunder and lightening forecast for later. Bah.

karma

Ah. I should have known it wasn't a good idea to say out loud that Roisín Ingle looks like Fiona from Shrek (in the cutest way possible, of course). These things always comes back to bite you on the ass.

This morning, hair a-tumble and in a nightie I stood waiting for Bodhi to do his poo, vaguely looking in the mirror and gauging the degree of acceptable/awful ratio of my reflection, when Bodhi looked at me and said,

'You look like a Shrek! You look like Fiona!'

Oh well, I suppose it's inevitable, really. Would anyone else care to embrace their inner ogress with me?

Roisín Ingle

Fiona

cupboard love

Inspired by Ms Moon's kitchen endeavour and Oprah's gay Australian clutterologist today, I cleaned out my baking and spices etc cupboard.

Oprah clutter guru: see, if you don't treat your home and possessions with respect, and take responsiibility for them, you're teaching your children the same, how can they learn responsibility for anything if you don't model it etc.

Olivia, eyes aglow: yeah! That's like you! How can WE learn to be responsible for anything if you don't clean up! etc.

My genius child.


So, today I dutifully remembered to go to a Fás appointment (education/jobsearch for the unemployed that isn't going to do anything for me between now and October when work starts again), went for an estimate on the car (someone skidded into me the other day, which is thankfully fine but still a whole pile of hassle to fix), cleaned my truly awful and overloaded cupboard, finished the story I've been staring at for weeks and weeks and weeks and baked a most delicious smelling carrot cake.

Such achievement. No excercise though.

I had some grander point to make about the compulsion I feel to tell everyone about the innermost state of my cupboards as it were - oh yes, because I also rang a friend and told her at length about my innermost state even though I'd only rung to talk about playdates - I hate that I do that. Toxic Jo. Sigh. I hope anonymous isn't reading... but anyway. I can't be arsed to go into it, and isn't it just as well. It is.

Tomorrow there must be post office and bank visits, car quote pick up and the difficult phone call to the young lad who crashed into me, a trip to the library for the last Harry Potter cds (Olivia favours Stephen Fry's delivery over mine, for which I have to thank him - they're very long chapters, and nobody pays me to read 'em!), a trip to Clash for lunch and baby cuddling and if things go well, out to the Seafront to see Republic of Loose and possibly fireworks, though that may be tonight, I'm not sure. Must go check brochure.

Hmm.

Oh and I need to get cream cheese.

I wish they still put it all in the silver foil packs. The stuff in the plastic containers is too mushy. My mother said she used to make cheese cakes with a Danish cream cheese that was so thick she broke a butter paddle in it once. But that was long ago. What do you know? Cream cheese nostalgia.

silver lining and mil rant

In the continuing search for my mobile + cleaning and clearing effort, I've just excavated beneath the sofas.

My mobile is stil absent without leave (dammit! The missed social opportunities!) but I DID find my missing John Rocha Earrings (well, the one John Rocha and the one fake replacement of the original missing earring that I kept on in bed one night to find it gone foever the next morning), my missing DRIVING LICENCE (thank god I didn't replace it!) and €3.56 in change.

I was so sure I'd lost my drving licence in town last winter, the night I went to Janeane Garrofollo. But no. It was just under one of the sofas. Strange, these little things.

More than ever, I still need Google House (or was it Google Wherethefuckisit?), the search programme of one's home I (what's the word for inventing something without actually inventing it?).

In further messy house/life/psyche news, my mother in law berated me today because when she'd called up there was all this recycling outside the house. It was disgusting. It will encourage rats. I should keep it cleared more often. Why don't I go to the bring centre with it? She was disgusted. Oh well, it doesn't matter.

In fairness, I managed to miss  the recycling day a couple times, and so had two clear recycling bags full of clean recycling sitting by the bins (ok, three, and the third one has been there ages because I never know when the company it's for collects). She's right of course, I fully believe in and understand the value of space clearing, I just can't seem to live it with the same vicious ruthlessness that she does. Still, I just can't bring myself to be moved to the same heights of emotion by waiting bags of recycling as she can.

Also, she asked how things are going with me and Axel. I said that he wasn't  doing anything about moving or clearing or anything and I wasn't sure what to do as I didn't want to make him feel pushed out, I'd rather he involved himself. And she looked at me ... hmm, I don't really know what that expression she does is - like I've said something disingenuous or fake or naive that she finds ridiculous... and did the sardonic, mocking laugh she often does when you tell her something sensitive or personal. But I have no idea what she meant by it. My only hope is that she doesn't know either and she just doesn't know what to do with personal conversation. Bleeeehhhh.

set up

Bodhi walks into the room with a studied look of serious resolve and repressed smiling. He holds out asmall plastic ruler, and says,

'I'm going to measure-tape not how you're tall, but how you're mean.'

I laugh and hug him and ask him if his sister told him to say that. He laughs delightedly and measures me.

'How mean am I?'

'Too mean!'

and off he goes to report his laughing delight to his evil overlord in the other room.

and here we are again

I love this picture. It's not that bad out today, but this is down on Bray seafront, and it seems to be the perfect illustration of wet summer weather :)

Ah. The traditional Irish Summer has returned from its holiday. Visibilty is low, the air is a wash of gentle wet. Drips abound.

I was going to go check out a nearby car boot sale, as I want to bring the toys I need to cull in the interests of Clearing. But not unless the rain lifts, and I'm glad I didn't plan to go sell today. I want to do a cake sale day too, but I fear the weather is conspiring against me. Bodhi's birthday fast approaches, and I was planning to have a picnic in the park - but now... agh, I'm not so sure.

It would be perfect if it would just rain at night - long hot days and then fresh bursts of rain in the green dark while we sleep, waking briefly to snuggle deeper under the sound of the raindrops drumming on the roof and windows. Plants and trees and earth get refreshed and then the sun  comes out into a blue, spent sky the next morning and bakes it all off the grass before we come out to play. That would make so much sense.

UPDATE: 30 mins later - it seems to be clearing up... :)

necessity and the mother of invention

Olivia is having a picnic today in summer camp - I forgot to get her anything treat-like for lunch.

So I've improvised and put a wrap of various sprinkles in her lunchbox.

part deux

Oh nuts.

I forgot to bring Olivia to her HSE dentist check up.

On Monday.

This is a brain squish toy. Could someone reach into mine and squeeze it, please?

random moronics

I don't have anything of interest to say, especially nothing of the quality of the last post's chillingness.

So I'll pretend this is Facebook, and make pointless announcements about the minutaei of my day.

I have a folding table that is acting as a sideboard but really just collecting dust in my hall. I'm Freecycling it, the woman who wants it mailed again today to check it was still ok to pick up. I just pulled it out, hoovered 7 year's worth of dust from under and around it, continued hoovering zealously for a bit, then thought, hmm, todays' the 6th, I'm sure she said the 7th. I checked her mail, and yes. She's talking about tomorrow. Ah well. It's ready now, anyway.

I still haven't worked out how to be present enough to myself to a) remember what date it is and b) connect that with dates of things that are going to happen.

I was proud of myself for sorting out my Visa payments early this month, until last night, when I squinted more closely at my online account and realised I'd managed to pay both payments onto only one card. So now of course, I no longer have the money to make that payment to card no 1 without borrowing back from card no 2.

It's demoralising, the lengths I go to to fuck things up financially, even when I'm trying to do the opposite. I need some sort of psychologist-accountant type to come manage my life. I know they exist, I've seen 'em on Oprah.

Hmm. Maybe I should write her a letter, and see if I could just put myself in the hands of the Oprah show. It could be like some sort of altruistic make-over sscience experiment, no?

cold horror. in a can.

Ok. Imagine that you were in your late thirties. And your 72 year old Catholic mother in law came up to stay for the weekend. And while you were waiting for your husband to get in from work and bring her home, she sat down with you, and instigated a little chat. About sex. Maybe asked what you did, and if there was any way she could help. Let her tell you about the sort of things she and your father in law used to do, perhaps (and remember, your father and father in law shared a first name... as does your husband!)...

Your husband comes home from dropping his mother back, to find you sitting frozen to the chair in the kitchen.

'What?' he says, when he sees your stricken face. 'What??'

And when you tell him, relate the details of your ordeal, it hits him hard. So hard, maybe, that he only tells his bandmates about it, and his brother hears it from one of them. Not him. Perhaps there are some things that should not be shared, should never be spoken of between brothers.

I wondered out loud why I never got the Talk, the zealous concern - and it was suggested, perhaps, that I was several years younger. That I hadn't failed to yet produce a second grandchild, despite recently mentioning my intent to start 'trying', and my first child already gone three.

You can hear the inner reasoning now... 'ah, sure they must be doing it wrong!'

God help us. God help us all.

clearing and cleaning

Well, still clearing. This will take a while.

So I'm trying to sort out/throw out/rehome the stuff in the toyroom/computer room/music room. It's challenging. Stuff for a playgroup who requested toys for theit startup through freecycle. Stuff for a bootsale. Stuff for recycling. Stuff for the bin. And the dump, much as this pains my recycler's guilt complex.

I put a nice Imaginarium drum that plays music and flashes colours in the bootsale pile - I know we have another one somewhere. Bodhi comes in and picks it up, plays it, and croons to it, 'I will never let you go again.' Gah.

There is so much money in this room, in wood and plastic and best intentions, just heaped on the floor. It's scary. What the hell is wrong with us?

My dust allergy is kicking in, though,  so a little break is in order. I've just sneezed five times in a row.

A couple years ago I started writing what could be called the beginnings of a book. I don't know. We'll see. Then when the computer died (shakes fist at my brother and his assurances that buying one in parts and having him put it together was a good idea, curse him) I somehow failed to copy it over to the new one. So I kept the hard drive, and he lent me an external hard drive reader. Then I lost the actual hard drive, and it turned up the last time I was cleaning, by which time I couldn't find the reader. Then I found it and couldn't find the adaptor cable (you see a pattern here). Now I've found the cable, and I have all three, but I have no clue what to actually do with them, and he's away in Brazil for three weeks. Ah well. I've waited this long, I can wait some more.

Another horrible fact is how many reams of Olivia's baby-art we have, compared to how little we've done with Bodhi, let alone kept - here's a picture Olivia painted of us at our wedding.
Yes. Shameless maudlin sentimentality, I know, I know.

If you go back to the anniversary post and compare against the real picture, though, I think you'll agree she was quite accurate in her portayal of us. Sigh. Fat Brides dot com...

I don't care!!

I wasn't going to say anything, but I will confess defiantly anyway.

The last time I went to the library, Stephenie Meyer's Science Fantasy novel about alien occupation of Earth, The Host, was sitting on the return trolley. I wrestled with myself for a moment, then I thought, fuck it, summer blockbuster fun.

And you know what, you literary, superior intellectuals out there, I really enjoyed it. Every bit of it. I'm sure hundreds have sneered and picked holes in it already, but, I liked the story. I wanted to see what would happen next. I liked the characters, I cared about what would happen to them. All the stuff about death made me cry through lots of it. I didn't want to put it down and I read it fast. I would have been impressed if she'd left it at the sad ending, but I was happy that she tacked on a happy ending afterwards, because I like my endings happy, if truth be told.

I'm also reading The Lacuna, by Barbara Kingsolver. She's an excellent writer, the prose is great, the persona is convincing, the setting is perfect and the introduction of the well known real people as characters was a welcome surprise.

I'm enjoying it, and appreciating its beauty and skill and standpoint and historical setting. It's an excellent book and of course it's a better book and far more meaningful and incisive than The Host could ever be. There would be no point in setting up any sort of literary comparison.

Except. Hand on heart... though I'm not finished The Lacuna yet, it's only just getting into its story, so we will see - I still probably enjoyed The Host more, in terms of entertainment and involvement.

*Horrified Silence*

Yup. Deal with it!

On a different note, is it strange that I need people to see the same edition of the books I've read or it doesn't really feel like the same book? Both of these have other covers I think, but it just seems wrong if they're different to the one you know.

the other anniversary

I'm bad with dates. Anything with numbers. I planned to post this a while ago - I mean, I planned it a while ago, and then forgot to post it, head filled up with other things. But it's ok. I never really wanted to hang on to this anniversary anyway, and I was glad when I started forgetting it.

So it's eight years since my mother died. Enough time to grow a startling, original, strong-willed girl from a chubby, sweetie-pie, strong-willed baby. Enough time to make the guy in the dole office look from my passport photo (got just in time for my aborted honeymoon) to my 8-years-older face with scepticism (the fucker!). Enough time to decide to dismantle a marriage. Meh.

It feels long ago and just yesterday in equal measure, I suppose, depending on my mood. As per the depressed negativity post, I think I've long exceeded my grief allowance, I don't think you're meant to talk about grief anymore this long after the fact. Are you? There are things about my mother's death I try not to think about, have told very very few people about and not since closer to the event... but I don't think sharing them will diminish them, and in truth, I'm scared of the guilt and grief and horror that accompanies them: so - I just push it away as best I can. Think about something else. Hope that time will sweep it away in the end, dull the edges and draw a veil, so the emotion that accompanies the memories will get sun-faded too.

But the need for a wise elder doesn't lessen - the older I get, the less I know, the more I miss that particular company. I wish I'd seen her hair go totally grey. I wish she'd got to know about blogging. But maybe the need for a mother never would have faded anyway. Perhaps we all still wish for the perfect one, even if we've got one of our own. I know I certainly sought out alternatives while she was still alive.

Ack, this isn't what I was going to say, exactly. Or how I meant to say it. But, nevermind. My mother was a kind of woman you don't really get here. And, because of this, there is a certain kind of woman I recognise her in, and I'm glad they're out there to be found. I wonder if anyone else can see it too... here's a picture of my mother a year or two before she died.

And here is one of someone else's mother, and grandmother, who you will know from her blog all about mothering, and if you don't, go visit Ms Moon.

And here is a woman who is mid-wife mother to countless women and babies through the years, and still helping us all with the work she's doing. I saw her speak when Olivia was a baby and it nearly made me cry, how familiar she was.

I'm a crappy mother to Olivia in loads of ways, but I still hope fervently that I won't have to leave her too soon. Or stay too long, I suppose. it's a loaded dice.

Ok, I'm rambling. I don't have a post, here, really. I just miss my mother.