primordial paddling

A beautiful day, 23'. I'm working right by the sea, both classrooms I'm in have picture views of it through bay windows. I teach (help me, I've forgotten all my grammar) and try not to be distracted by the changing colours and light and the possibility of dolphins. I saw a big fish jump once, but so far I've missed the dolphins.

It was so nice I resolved to bring the kids down, see if Olivia wanted a last swim. Our trip was delayed a bit because Axl took the kids out on their bikes. Olivia felt too old for stabilizers, but Axl's around so little her cycling progress has been a little stymied. She got it today, though, and cycled with no more than his hand touching her back. Nearly there! It's very exciting, I'm so proud of her. She was emphatic that she wanted her dad to teach her, and I'm glad it's worked out, albeit slowly.

We got to the beach and the tide was out, there wasn't much sand, and a cold wind was blowing. Olivia changed into her suit but the sea was too cold, too shallow. She got sand in a paper cut, she hated it all and wished we'd never come, and we couldn't have an ice cream. Her mother's so MEAN.

We hung on for a bit and she and Bodhi went and excavated a pipe for a while. Then I noticed the sea had gone out farther than I'd ever seen before, leaving sandbanks with shallows around them. The kids changed again and went running - they came back to get me and I wandered over to paddle as they ran around in the water and sunlight. The shallows warmed once I was in them, the gulls (gigantic monster gulls) flew giantly over head, the water lapped and it smelled like sea. The sand was set in soft ridges under my feet and the evening sun shone a slick of mercury onto the gently rippling water. It was magic, it felt ancient. I wondered about my ancestors digging for shellfish in just such tide-leavings, barefoot; the breeze, the castings of sandworms, the hem of our skirts wetted with salt water.

Pretty, so pretty, I love the sea.

I never want to leave!!!! Olivia shouted, jumping in the water and surrounding herself with burning gold spray.

Then the chipper, a chat with a friend's extremely nice husband and his beautiful redheaded daughter. I feel faintly grumpish about the woman who was running her pack of four or five lurchers on the beach, off their leads, not trained to heel - and as they left, one splashed copious diarrhea on the stones, quite close to a woman sitting there watching her kids paddle. I like dogs, but... hmm. Bad ettiquette.

amazing

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/picturegalleries/picturesoftheday/8759542/Pictures-of-the-day-13-September-2011.html

Well. I bought a dress and soft pink scarf. My daughter agreed to buy and wear something frilly and floral. We went to a family Christening and managed not to fight. I wore eye make up.

But creativity? Passion? Spirit? Eesh. I like this poster though. But it's asking a lot of us, for one day. There's a lot of things to look after in a day. 

waving goodbye

They were amazing, for so long. Thank you, REM. 

everything falling apart

Holy fuck. There is such misery in my house. Such anger and misery and non communication and a total lack of love.

How in the world do I make this better? 

beautiful birth

The fact that the father is away at war doesn't get me so much - well, the idea that he's in danger of his life does, of course, I just don't feel so sentimental about war.

But the birth looks so beautiful, the photos are gorgeous. Another showcase for natural, gentle birth. I kept REALLY wanting him to walk into the room, as well :(

nightgowns

I was a fan of the nightie as a kid.

I was searching for one for Olivia, and came across this monstrosity:

This is not her, I don't think, flame retardant polyester and all.

I would have ADORED this creation as a little girl though. It reminded me of the undoubtedly hideous short sleeved pale green nylon nightie I had, with nylon lace around its round neck and little sleeves. I thought it was boudoir-glamorous, silky silk sophistication and gorgeousness and certainly cast myself in many romantic roles while wearing it. I google-imaged it but it seems no such garment is in existence any more.

Sadly, my strongest association with that particular item is the memory of my little brother coming up behind me while I was wearing it and randomly peeing all down my back.

I'm really grateful the experience left me unmarked and without any urge to recreate the surprising and alarming sensation as an adult - neither the wee or the nylon nightie :) 

how to tell if your daughter's hormonal?

Daughter: YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT ME!! YOU HATE ME AND YOU WISH YOU'D NEVER HAD ME!!!!! WAAAAAAAH!

Mother: You know what? This is emotionally manipulative bullshit and I'm not reacting to it, you can come in or you can stay in the car.

When your mother's hormonal, things go slightly differently... 

the Avett Brothers

What loveliness! This isn't music that ... how do I put it - it's not the kind of music that undoes me, necessarily, but there's no question it's good, good. I just watched a vid on facebook and was charmed, and I've spent a pleasurable hour just listening to their songs, which is nice. I don't often do that anymore.

Isn't this a great video?

The live stuff with the cello is fab, and their acoustic stuff with just the two brothers is pretty heart warming.

moo goo deodorant

Several weeks into Moo Goo use, and I'm very happy.

It's not absolutely completely 100% smell killing if you go looking to check right up close, but it's good enough for me. I am very happy!

Only downside is the price, €7.85 or something like that, expensive as compared to standard deodorants. But, half the price of the fancy ones and vastly more effective.

So, a good result, and glad I found it!

definition of feeling redundant

I wish I could de-emotify memories.

I just remembered a time when someone I know was visibly upset (a tragic bereavement had recently occurred) and I stopped to ask if she was ok. She was having a sad moment I know very well, but it was really hard - I wanted to put my arms round her and offer some comfort, somehow, but I know she doesn't like me enough to have wanted that - so all I could do was just give her space.

The frustrated impulse still leaves me feeling awful though, the inability to help. I carried her grief away with me.
Whatever about love, unrequited like is a tough one too. 

most loveliest thing

http://community.thisiscentralstation.com/_Mysterious-paper-sculptures/blog/4991767/126249.html

Have a look, do. 

blackberry book launch cupcakes

I have no photos of the lovely afternoon we spent picking blackberries in Rathdrum, two girls, one medium boy and one tiny girl who took to it like a duck to water, standing at the side of the lane and scoffing all the juicy berries in reach. It was very cute and the kids loved it. A very satisfying activity.

Then they got turned into this:

Doesn't it look like something scary? Me liver, me lights, and four abortions, as my granny once referred to a toilet bowl full of discarded, mouldy jam that she'd forgotten about, and frightened the the cable guy with.

Then they turned into this:

Next this:

I love the military rows of tiny cakes...

Then this, with all the little books in situ:

They were so much fun to do,  though the books did take about 4 hours of my time in the end. It took me a while to work out the best way to do them with maximum efficiency and effect. Solutions do come to me nicely, but slowly, nonetheless.

I must admit, as I sat there cutting and pasting (as 1am ticked by...), I did think of how fun it would be to be able to do that as my job, and not worry about getting up in the morning for other work related things. I just read about a cupcake bakery that underestimated its passer-by sales and started out making 500 cupcakes a day. They had to keep up-sizing, and are now making 10,000 a day. 10,000 cupcakes! Damn.

The launch was in Bridge Street Books in Wicklow, and it's a really nice shop. I hope they continue to be able to live on their business, because it would be sad to see it go. I hope to develop a cupcake relationship with them in the future! They did tell me though, of a cupcake someone they know recently won five grand in... damn it, why did no one tell me? 5 grand would have solved a LOT of my worries, and all with one cupcake! 

want

I want rice pudding and custard. Or pie, and custard. Or crumble, maybe. Perhaps with custard. Something warm and sweet. It's getting cold. I need something to warm me.

Or boots, like these, which come recommended.

Or play a little drinking game, take a sip each time you feel sad. Then curl up and sleep without thinking about anything at all. 

spoon

My favourite spoons are the Ikea ones. They feel just right. A little bit long and rounded, not too round. Soup, cereal, ice cream. It's always a let down when there's none in the drawer.

I don't use the two with red plastic handles any more, they make me sad. Axl went out and bought them when we were moving in together. The knives and forks have gone to cutlery heaven, but the spoons endure... I avoid them.

I can use the two towels he got, oddly - the wedding towels give me more of a pang, but, well, they're nice, so I favour them.

Inanimate objects have life that is unknown to them. 

I've got some language teaching for the next few weeks, into the middle of October. So I currently have two jobs as I'm working on something else. Plus kiddies. So my chubby little feet are throbbing. First extra curricular class of  the new school year today - it's in Greystones, so the plan is to drop herself off, hit the supermarket and do the shopping before collecting her.

I just have to get used to the unfamiliar supermarket layout, I could find nothing today. And bought luxuries like knickers, chocolate and a frying pan, so allured was I by the different stock. Oops. In fairness, my knicker situation was getting ridiculous. Running around holding your knickers up is just not a good look for a 35 year old, full figured woman. Fingers crossed these ones will remain undefeated in the elastic department.

So, I'm busy, readers. Lessons to plan, children to collect and feed, places to run around to, work to do.

birth mattering

This is a sad, excellent, articulate post about why birth is important to mothers as well as babies. Why there's so much more to the process than a 'healthy baby' at the end of it. The truth is, that modern medicine's understanding of what makes a 'healthy' baby is pretty far removed from what babies and their mothers actually need.

http://andnobodytoldme.com/2011/09/that-the-birth-matters-and-so-do-i/

This is why, as someone suggested to me, indirectly, that drugging ourselves up and getting on with it happily after a traumatic birth isn't really a great response. 

I wish I 'd had a camera

This evening I stood behind my godmother and saw her holding the hand of her 15 month old, at the launch of my godfather's memoir. They both have similar shortish haircuts, but one is tall and wise, one is tiny and processing. My godmother was willowly and elegant in jewelry and navy blue, her grandaughter was floral and funky in a red smock dress, stripy leggings, and wonderful bright red lace up boots.

It's momentous, this carrying on of genes. That's not what moved my heart though, it's more the time passing, love flowering, people growing and becoming and creating new love. The people you love.

Cupcake pictures tomorrow! 

work

More work has come my way, to keep the wolf from the door. And now I'm instantly overwhelmed! Breathe... breathe...

It's good though. Only my nemesis more language teaching, but beggars can't be choosers.

I'm also thinking I'll try the amazing fundit.ie to set up a cupcake stall/service thing next spring. But I'll think about that in a while.

So - before I speed out, a story:

Yesterday  I was sitting in a city centre hotel lobby, chatting to a friend. It was raining, or just starting to clear. We were just waiting for my parking to run out before topping it up and moving on, no coffee or anything in front of us - my friend suddenly glanced past me in faint warning, and there approaching from my left was a black clad homeless/junkie type person. He came up and started a wheedling spiel about needing money to buy a sleeping bag, he was homeless, he was on his way down to the camping supply shop now, if we could just help out a little bit.

His hands were outstretched, there was some encrusted blood in the hair near the corner of his mouth.

I said that I really didn't have anything for him, which I really don't, I'm living off the dole this week too. But he didn't stop, of course, and I said, 'ok, well, I can give you my coppers if you want.'

He agreed.

I took out my purse and dug all the change out of the coin bit - it really was just coppers, I'd put everything else into  the parking machine just before (€2.90 per hour! On a Sunday! oh yes).

As I put the handful of change in his hand, his face fell into an expression of comic disgust.

'Oh, literally?' he sneeered disappointedly at me, turned on his heel and walked away (with my change).

I reclaimed up the penny he'd dropped as he'd strode out, and thought sadly off the satisfying addition to my tattoo-fund-tin the handful of coppers would have made.

It was really funny. That told me. Dublin at its finest, I suppose. Seriously, though, the next person who asks me for money can fuck off.

Today I was able to let the sun in. Driving home from town the rain had cleared, the empty roads led into a bright sky that was coming  blue and open and I played Macy Gray loud with the window wide open to the warm evening, and sunlight shifting in my hair. I could feel the warmth and the joy of it, and I could let it make me happy.

funny blog, troo post

http://crappypictures.typepad.com/crappy-pictures/2011/08/grocery-stores-before-after-kidsillustrated-with-crappy-pictures.html

I just got a happy email, and I'm so glad, I needed a happy email! 

random photos

 Atlantic drive views

 This wasn't our hole/pit/paddling pool, but it was some sterling work! Several children could have fitted in there.

The stream in the garden.

On the way home, taken by a kiddy. 

book

It's an incredibly beautiful day today, sunny and warm and still. Balmy end of summer day, the kind I thought were gone already.

I'm struggling a bit the last few days. Olivia is kind of abusing me, and I'm failing to rise to the challenge with any sort of parenting ability or fortitude. The day didn't sink into my skin at all, instead I felt like I didn't really deserve to be out in it. Going down the town was a bit of a trial. I thought I'd pop into the book shop and treat myself to a browse, and had the fancy that I might buy a nice sheet of wrapping paper.

I picked up a book but the first paragraph turned out to be about someone being taken to a quiet spot for some sort of punishment beating, possibly by the police, so I backed away from that one quickly before I got involved. I have a horrible habit of not being able to stop reading unpleasant stuff, because part of me always hangs on in the hopes that somehow every thing will be alright. But, well, torture stuff, I should just run away, and I did.

And then I picked up A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness.

This is a book about a boy dealing the fact that his mother is dying of cancer. He's having nightmares, there's a monster. His difficulties are punctuated by visits to the hospital, his mother's bravery, his resentment and fear and their hopes for a cure, though the disease is accelerating and nothing seems to be working.

The monster is actually forcing him to look at the terrifying reality he can't quite face and is a support in the end.

The book is illustrated in black and white, very beautifully and creepily.

The whole thing is very powerful, though it would be hard for it not to be,  given the subject matter. I skipped to the end, in the usual hope-for-a-happy-resolution, but it was clear that the resolution would be about coming to terms with fear and grief, rather than a happy ending. My eyes were full of tears and my nose was running, and I stopped pretending that I have any money to squander on a sheet of fancy wrapping paper and I wandered out onto the street, hoping I wouldn't meet anyone I knew.

It's obviously a brave, powerful book, and a hugely relevant one, given how many people are dying of cancer now. It's a good topic for a young adults' book. And yet. If your parent hasn't died or isn't dying of cancer, is it really good to read it and feel the fear of it happening? And if they ARE dying/have died of cancer, is it really a good idea to put yourself through the harrowing steps of your loss all over again? Is it really cathartic, or just punishing? I don't know how comforting the kid's realisation that he'd be alright in the end really is - it fell a little flat, to be honest. 'Alright' is pretty relative.

Maybe it's just me, though? Maybe other parents don't live in terror of leaving their children.


So, well, yeah. The book is really well done, well written, beautifully illustrated and put together. And I wish I hadn't looked at it.

I see from this review that the book was originally started by another writer, who died of cancer at 47, before she could finish it.