Saturday mornings

Two of the three kids are in the playroom, playing.  They are meant to be tidying.  The third of the three kids is upstairs drying himself off after his shower.  Seriously, how can it take three towels to dry a small boy?  He's 12 and currently has three towels about his person. One on his hair ( seriously??), one around his hips and the other across his shoulders.  I just had a shower too and managed to get by with just one towel, not even a big one at that as the big ones seem to be draped around no. 1 son.

Yeah, so Saturday morning.  Two are playing, one is drying himself and the eldest male of the house is off on a walk.

How is it, someone please tell me, that I am always the one left sitting in the house on a Saturday morning staring at dishes to be loaded into a dishwasher that first has to be unloaded?  Piles of clothes to be washed and yet another four piles waiting to be put away.  The dog seems to have gone on a crapping spree in the back garden (Himself only sees the stuff on the paving) and the smell is horrendous.  Then there is the pile of Halloween stuff that No. 2 wants put up around the house.  Now!  Please???

Downstairs loo is a health hazard which, pardon the pun, is pissing me off because I only got down on my hands and knees and cleaned it on Wednesday.  

No. 2 made smoothies and it would appear I am cleaning up.  No. 1 made eggy bread for everyone and, again, it would appear I am going to clean up.  

Ugh.  Yup, everyone is doing their thing and it would appear that my thing is cleaning up after the shaggers.  

There will be a revolt. 

As they are all utterly revolting.

Never a good power ballad when you need one.

No. 1 son had the day off school today.  Apparently EVERYONE was going up to Scoil Iosa for the open day so there was "no point going in, Mam".  Yuhuh, alright then.  I rang Liz, she was about to ring me . . . her son had the same story.  Long story short, Harry got the day off school.

He cleaned the car, I cleaned the house for the painter (that didn't show) and off for went for him to get a haircut.  Harrumph, I read his viber message to his friend "Got a crappy haircut".  Bollix, it's not my fault he came over all shy and forgot to say "STOP!!!" when the guy kept trimming.  

He stayed at home cleaning the car, for pocket money, and I went and got the other three whereupon we rushed home, ate pasta and everyone got thrown back into the car to go to the beach.  It was sunny!  For the third day in a row.  It would have been sinful to stay at home whilst the sun was shining.  Mind you, in hindsight, I wish I had've sinned a little as now I'm going to be caking all night.  

I shouted to No. 1 son, "C'mon, we're going, put the roof up and bring the hoover in" . . . he was crying!  "I don't feel well" . . . Is that anything to do with the fact that your mates are sitting on the bench waiting for you to come out and er, sit on a bench with them?  "Right" I said.  "Go to bed, if you don't feel well, go up and lie down . . . .  but no match tonight!!"

"Ssob, but . . wha'?  I'm coming then . . . .."

So he did.  Come with us, that is.

He sat in the front of the car, staring morosely out of the window with tears rolling down his face.  Like something out of a bad music video.  Cackle, picture it: Car driving along coast, camera pans to passenger - it's a boy (with a rather dashing haircut), he is devastated   What has happened to him?  Is he losing the girl he loves?  Has his drum kit been stolen??  Poor, sad boy crying in car . . .  fade to black.  Raging I couldn't find any Whitney or I dunno, someone big voiced, giving it socks about how their life, sucks on the radio

Fecker.  

Silly little git had better learn there is a difference in feeling ill and feeling pissed off that you have to go to the beach with your ma and brothers when your mates are sitting on a bench.

It's called FRUSTRATION Harry.   

I know how you feel.  Crappy hair cut indeed.  Pay for your own in future.  Ungrateful sod.

In my day, you had  no say.  No say in anything.  Your hair was cut up or down depending on the mood of your mam.  You ate what you were given or . .  sat there until one of you cracked.  If it was you who cracked you ended up eating cold chicken chops (yeah, yeah, I know, NOW, that you don't get chops from a chicken and I was being lied to) or, if your ma cracked, you ended up eating said same dinner and going to bed.  Wtih no cup of tea.

You wore what you were given.

You went to bed at 8pm!!!  

You didn't get a tv for yourselves.  You were, in fact, the remote control for the telly in the sitting room.  The one with two stations.

You made a pot of tea most nights and always did the dishes.  You got sent into the back garden, when it was dark, in the middle of winter to get a bucket of coal.  In the dark  With no security light!! 

You think you have it tough my love, you should have lived in the 80s.

I don't know who was more upset

Yesterday, I killed Santa.  

I still feel sick.

I still have a headache.

I feel like the worst person on the planet.

Harry had his confo photos taken yesterday and, after they were done, we came home to hang out for an hour before I dropped him at the cinema where he was meeting his mates.  In that hour he lost a tooth.  I really, REALLY, wish he hadn't lost that tooth.  If he still had that tooth attached to his head Santa would still be alive.

He asked me what he should do with the tooth.  I said "under your pillow for the tooth fairy?!"  To which he said "MAM!?!?", so I said "Easter Bunny" . . He said "?!?!" ..... then we eyeballed each other for a few minutes before I said "Santa?"  He looked at me, I looked at him and he started to cry.  I told him that we needed to have a chat and explained what was what.  He kept crying and saying "....but . . does that mean . . . what???"

So, I started crying.  Fuck, but did I start to cry.  In the end I think he got over the whole revelation far quicker than I did.  I went to bed as soon as I could, 10pm, as my heart was broken. 

I am such a sap. 

I rang Darren, whilst he was food shopping, and he thought, due to the fact I was sob-coughing-crying on the phone that something bad had happened.  Er, hello???  SANTA is no more you bastard!!!!  Apparently "Harry had to find out sometime."  Fecker.  Karen was very practical too, as was Ger and Sinead.  Carol wasn't answering her phone and Lily was at the doctor and I forgot to ring Anna.  Can you see how much of an issue this is/was for me? 

I took Harry to the cinema early and, while in the car, asked him if he'd like to go for a hot chocolate or something.  He said "No, I'm fine."  Then, he took a look at me, with my puffy, red eyes and said "Mam, would you like to go for a hot chocolate?"  

"Yes, yes I would".

I love my boy so much and I am NEVER EVER telling anyone else anything that big again.  EVER. I came across this letter ages ago and thought 'I'm going to need this one day', didn't realise I'd need it less than a year after I first read it.  I've put my spin on it but . . yeah, I have this for Harry, for next November when everyone is getting excited and he knows.  He knows that he is Santa.

Dear Harry,

I am so sorry to tell you that there is no one Santa.  That it's me who fills your stocking.  That it's me who picks and wraps the presents that go under the tree, the way my mam did for me and her mam did for her (dad helps too by the way).

I know, hope, that one day you are going to do this for your kids.  I know you are going to love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning (having spent most of the night yourself on tenterhooks that they are never EVER going to go asleep).  You are going to love seeing them sitting in a pile of wrapping paper their faces huge with excitement.  

This won't make you Santa though.

Santa is way bigger than any one person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us has lived.  What Santa does is simple but powerful.  He teaches kids to believe in something they can't see or touch.

It's a huge job and a really important one.  Through your life you will need this ability to to believe.  Believe in yourself, your friends, your talent, your family.  You'll need to believe in things you can't measure or hold in your hand.  I know, I know, your mam is s sap but, bear with me.  I'm talking about love, that great magic that will light you up from the inside out, even when you're scared.

Santa is a teacher and I am his student and, now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve.  He has help from all the people whose hearts he has filled with love and magic.

Myself and your dad take turns helping Santa to do a job that would be impossible without us.

So, no, there is no one Santa.  Santa is love and magic and happiness and hope and excitement and wonder.  I'm on his team and now  you are too.  

Harry, my love, you are Santa.

Love you always,

Mam xxx

Going for a lie down now.  

Behind door no. 2

Just back from a meeting with no. 1's soon to be new headmaster.  He was meeting with parents to discuss the results of the kids entrance exams.  Apparently, no. 1 did better than EVERYONE else sitting the exam which meant I had to come clean and say 'yeah, welllll, his class had been chosen the year before to check these tests out....." whereupon the Head said "that wouldn't have any effect on the results, not really".

He's putting no. 1 forward for DCU's gifted student programme from September.  He'll have to go every Saturday morning as he is incredibly clever and happy days.

Me?  Yeah, not so clever.

  I said goodbye, shook hands and turned around to find myself facing two doors!?  I was sure there was only one.  The room was tiny, there was a corridor outside . . . one of those doors was obviously a trick.  I turned to the Head and said : 'Yeah, Harry got my eyes!!'.

Oh, how we laughed.  

Education in Ireland

Late last year we received two letters, one each from our two local secondary schools.  They were writing to say that Harry wasn't going to get a place with them.  Or, if he did, it would probably be August '13 before he found out he had one.  

The two schools my son's primary school feeds into are both oversubscribed and he's well down the waiting list.  44th and 35th to be precise.  That's a whole class worth of kids down the waiting list.

I dread to think of where Oscar and Arthur will fit into all of this as, by the time they finish, there will be another primary school with 100+ pupils looking for places.  Did you know, in my area alone there are 6 primary schools feeding into 2 secondary schools.

He's not alone though.

Where he is alone though is in the fact that we live in an area that seems to be a no man's land for secondary school criteria.  Which is baffling considering the amount of uniforms I see in the estate relating to both of the schools he cannot get a place in.  

I understand that one of the schools has had to cut back on the number of pupils it takes in due to budgetary cuts and the other has cut back from 1,000 kids to 800 because they were fed up with being everyone's 'back up' school and then ending up with only 800 kids anyway. What's even more frustrating is the fact that while he goes to the feeder school for both of these Secondary Schools he doesn't live in the area.  Whereas with every other school we can think of he may live in the area but he doesn't go to the feeder school?!  Don't you love how the Department of Education has the same list of rules regarding entry criteria for every school?  Yes, okay, I'm being sarcastic but when you've spent the equivalent of time of a day's work on the phone trying to find anyone who has a clue, in the Department of Education, you'd understand my sarkiness.

No one there seems to listen properly e.g. "Yes, but sixth on the waiting list is a good thing . . . ".  "NO!  You aren't listening, we are sixth on the entry criteria list, we've 44th on the actual list".  "Sixth is okay, no?"  

"Er, NO!!"

I wouldn't mind if Harry was a troublemaker, he's not.  He's one of the top in his class, every time.  He's a credit to his teachers and us and now it seems he may end up in a doss house of a school because no one else can take him.

Oh, the 'doss house' school.  Let me explain.  There are several schools out there, and we all know one of them, where we wouldn't dream of sending our children.  The schools that seem to be full of kids who have been expelled from other schools or who seem to have no interest or aptitude for learning, you know the ones I mean, right?  Well, if the Department of Education can get you a place in a doss house school you are obliged to take it.  You are not allowed to turn it down due to it's reputation as the school's reputation is only your personal opinion after all.  Sure aren't all Irish Secondary Schools inspected and found to be fantastic year in and year out?

Sarcasm again, I am sorry.

Except I'm not sorry.  I am angry and furious and raging and stressed and worried sick.

Harry himself is worried sick.  Most of his mates are all chat about going up to the next school.  He can't join in because he doesn't know where he is going.  Jesus, neither do we.

Dealing with the Department of Education is a joy.  I've had two days of conversations like this:

1. "No, wrong department, you need to ring . . . . . ."
2. "I don't know why they sent you here, you should be talking to . .  .. "
3. "There is no point talking to us until you submit a Section 29" - that's a whole other headache.
4. "Dublin is quite small, have you applied for schools further afield e.g. Drogheda, DunLaoghaire and Rathfarnham?"
5. "If you can't find a school you can have him home tutored".
6. "You have to accept a place we find you".:

Interesting huh?  Okay, point by point

1. This is the number on your website.
2. The last two departments I spoke to all said I should be talking to you!
3. I can't submit a Section 29 (basically taking the school to stand in front of the Department of Education and explain why they can't take my son) until we get an official, signed by the Board of Management, letter of refusal.  That could come as late as August.  He's meant to start school at the end of that month.
4. Dublin is small when you have a car.  Not when you are 12 years of age and have to get two buses.  Two buses in an area you never knew existed up until now.
5. Home tutoring?  Really?  Believe it when I see it, especially as . . .
6. We have no choice but to accept a school you say can take him.  Regardless of that's school academic record.  Yeah, tough shit kid, you live in an area (.5km out of the catchment zone) that has no secondary schools so take what you're given and act happy.

Today I spent three hours trying even more schools.  I also emailed Alan Farrell TD, James O'Reilly TD, Brendan Ryan and Clare Daly.  Do you reckon any of them will be able to help Harry out?  Brendan Ryan should, education is in his remit after all.

Today I also applied to a further 7 schools, all of which are easy-ish for Harry to get to i.e. only one bus or train.

I am furious.  I want out.  I want out of this ludicrous country.  I want to sell everything I own and get the hell out of here.  I give up.  I really do.  Jesus, if I can't guarantee my son a good education how in the name of God do I guarantee him any kind of future here at all?  

Shall keep you up to date with what's going on.  Oh, and Clare Daly's office was the first one to contact me.  

p.s. Telling me to consider 'sending him private' doesn't help!  Nor does telling me to 'sit tight'

p.p.s. New primary schools for 2014/15 are being announced this week.  One of which is for the Swords/Malahide area.  That's another 100+ kids going to be discharged into an already overloaded secondary school system in 2022/23.

Humbug!

We got this tree from Lily when we moved in here a couple of years back.  It is one of my most treasured possessions, I love it.  Really I do.  Each little drawer has a decoration in it that you hang on the tree when it's it's turn to be er, hung on the tree.  

The Advent Fairy also puts a chocolate for each of the lads into the drawers as well, so every morning the kids wake up, leg it downstairs and grab their chocolate and hang the decoration.  Usually it's nos. 2 and 3.

Himself had a tooth removed (ooh, but it was a big job.  Tooth was impacted,  "Like suturing jelly" etc.) and, as a result, he's not entirely with it.  Due to his lack of with it-ness I'm meant to be more with it.  

Yeah, .... that's not happening.  

No. 3 said to me today: "Mam, have you noticed how the Tree Fairy is kind've shit at remembering to come and put the chocolates in the tree . .  now that dad isn't well??!   Hmmm?  I think it's safe to say, Mam, that the fairy is not on her game at all".

Swine.  

A first for No. 1

No. 1, the eldest of my children, has a crush.  It's so sweet.  He blushed furiously when I said her name the other day.  It was Himself who actually copped it, and I say he's not observant.  Apparently no. 1 mentions her whenever I mention cake.  Cackle.  

His crush?  It's on my friend, the lovely Ms. K.G.  

He says she's nice and funny and nice!  I say, she's nice and funny and forty fecking two!!!!!

Sweet though, huh?

Yesterday

I was having a bad day.  Hence the 'I love my rotten ungrateful children' remark.  But they were doing my bloody head in.  I'd woken up bright and early and raring to go (after a night out with the school mammies and several glasses of wine) and Himself was good to go so we said 'Right, let's go somewhere lovely because it's er, lovely out'.  

Half nine I got up at.  HALF NINE!!!  The bastards (all four of them) didn't come down til 11, ELEVEN, a.m.  By which time I am positively fuming and screeching about how I'm trying to do something nice with them and WHY WON'T YOU ALL (in my head: FUCKING) MOVE??? So, we set off to have a lovely day with two of us in tears.  Me and no. 1.  

I'd received a call from the hospital on Friday saying 'we'd like to you see you in a week' which is a whole month earlier than they were meant to be seeing me.  So I immediatley went into 'oh jesus, I'm actually dying' mode.  So, instead of being all 'Terms of Endearment' and loving to my family I screeched at them that they were a hopeless fecking bunch of feckers.  Feckers who were ungrateful to boot.  

Feck.

Anyway, I'm sure I'm perfectly perfect and fine but I would like to know for definite.  May ring hospital tomorrow to ask if they had a cancellation or whether I'm er, in trouble.  Even though I'm sure I'm not.  

Feck.

Right, so we went to Howth.  Not the zoo as planned as we had Billy with us and you can't take dogs into the zoo because they might panic the monkeys.  Personally I'd like to see Billy panicked by one of the big tigers.  That would put the yappy little shit into his place.  But I digress.  Again.  

We went to Howth and took one of the high paths to walk on as we were afraid the Head would be so mushy and slippery after the rain we might fall into the sea.  Plus, the cliff walk is over 10km and the last time we did it no. 3 cried for 7 of those 10km.  It was lovely, as planned, and wetter than we'd thought it would be.  

Billy has a fear of his reflection.  Seriously!!  The dog goes bloody mental if he sees another dog staring up at him from a puddle.  I always wonder if it's ever crossed his mind why/how the dog in the puddle, who is also going ape shit mental, is doing it so quietly??

Somehow we ended up nearly back in the village and had to head back up the summit on the road.  God but there are some beautiful houses there.  Houses I want to own.  Like, REALLY, want to own.

One day.

Having crawled back up to the top of Howth Head we abandoned Himself to go the last 500m, we sat on someone's garden wall,  and collect the car so we could drive back down to the village to get chips.  

Poor no. 3.  All he wanted was a battered sausage from Beshoffs. Nothing more, nothing less.  Just one battered sausage.  He sat down on the wall to eat it and . .  it rolled out of the box and into the grass.  We recited the three second rule* and no. 1 whipped it up and gave back it no. 3.  

But then the fecking thing fell off the wall again!  Only this time it went onto the path, er, slightly longer  than 3 seconds but, again, it was whipped up and put into the box whereupon no. 3 picked up the box and made to hurl it at Himself's head in temper.  Himself, jaysus, picked off the bits of gravel and said ". . . 5 second rule????  Go on no. 3, it's alright".  

He stopped crying and wiped his eyes and nose and started eating it only to have Billy lep (like 'leap' only er, like Dubs say it)up and grab the sausage from the other end and gobble it down.  Jesus, no. 3 nearly lost his reason (I took photos of course) and myself and Himself nearly peed ourselves laughing.  No. 1 took him back to Beshoffs where they bought one more sausage.  In hindsight I'm relieved Billy ate the sausage as while no. 3 was getting a new one several dogs pissed on that exact spot where he'd dropped it the second time.  No 5 second rule (1 second rule even) is going to negate that germ-y mess.  

  

Bloody evil doll thing

I hate dolls.  It's a well know, and documented fact.  They scare the living shit out of me.  Why, oh bloody, why do I insist on being friends with Cakers?

DOLLS?????????  Even worse . . . Dolls with BUTTON EYES!!!!  

I was meant to be telling you of poor no. 1's dilemma, watch footie with his dad (Real Madrid v. Man City) or The Great British Bake Off with me.  He watched the Bake Off and then the second half of the game.  

Funnily enough, we actually watch the baking show like it was a sport.  Yelling at the TV about how 'JESUS??? THREE BAKING AGENTS??????????,  is he feckin' mad or wha'?' etc.  We got a bit pissed off tonight that no one was sent home due to John cutting his finger.  Actually, I too have cut my finger on the blade of a magimix.  I can still 'hear' the cut, if you know what I mean.

Instead of telling you all that though I am filled with the image of a doll freak with button eyes.  I don't care if she's made beautifully and out of sugar.  She's a weird doll freak and now I am scared and have to go to bed.  Taking no. 3 with me.  He's the easiest one to chuck over my shoulder and drag to bed.  Himself is banished to the spare room y'see.  A mixture of chest infection (snoring) and a vomiting bug.  

How do you eat yours?

source

I came across this picture on Pinterest a couple of weeks back and, when I first saw it, I kind've shouted out  'THAT'S NOT HOW YOU EAT IT!!!!'  The sad thing is, you no longer get KitKats in foil, bloody plastic stuff nowadays.  When I used to get kitkats you'd peel off the wrapper and then you'd run the face of your nail down the finger until the word kitkat appeared.  Then, if you were me, you'd break it up, one finger at a time and nibble the chocolate around the edges, then the choc off the top and then you'd eat the wafer.  If you were really lucky you might get a finger that was entirely chocolate.  You would never EVER, if you were in your right mind, bite into all four fingers at once.

I used to do that nail/foil thing with all chocolate bars.  Fry's chocolate creme (my ma's favourite), snack bars (my da's favourite) and any little bar you got in your lunchbox.  

If you were to give me a star bar, I would thank you profusely and then scuttle over to a corner to eat it without sharing.  I used to wriggle my tongue in to pull out all the peanut butter.  Or squeeze the paste out.  Drool.  My friend, K, used to open the bar, snip down the back of it, roll it open and eat the peanut butter before rolling the toffee and caramel up and eating that. Impact reckons that completely ruins the bloody bar and you should never dissect one, it's perfect as it is and the toffee and chocolate are mank without having the peanut butter to bring it all together.

No. 1 sucks all the chocolate off his malteasers and then drops the malt balls back into the bag for later.  Ms. G keeps her cadbury creme eggs in the freezer and eats them by dipping them into her tea first.  Grught.

We all eat Bounty bars the same way, we nibble off the chocolate and then suck the coconut filling to death.  Aaaaaaaaah, syrupy coconuty goodness.

Twix.  Hmm.  This one caused a row.  According to Himself the only way to eat a Twix is to take a bite and then fold the piece, you have in your mouth, over so that you have a kind've er, system where you have two toffee sides together.  Then you eat.  The rest of the world, i.e. me and most people I know eat them by going around the edge and biting off all the chocolate, then  using our teeth to peel off the toffee.  Finally you guzzle the biscuit.  Sometimes though, I think, Ms. G eats the biscuit first??  

You would always have sore cheeks and roof of mouth from eating apple drops.  One was never enough and they'd shrivel your mouth.    Why anyone would think to give a kid clove rock is beyond me but I had an aunt who regularly gave it to me.  Pah.

Haha, I remember going to Chester years ago to visit friends and we went to the Cathedral and for a wander around the town.  We found this old sweetshop and the boy who was going out with my mate at the time nearly peed his pants when he saw all the bon bons.  He wasn't allowed sweets as a kid.  Me?  I nearly wet my pants when I saw they had sugar mice.  I bought two.  Saved them for my Christmas stocking too.  I took great pleasure in taking it out of it's wrapper and biting into it's head and . . . bleugh, they are disgusting.  Pure sugar.  Gleugadjldfjlksdhf.  Bloody Peter Hennessy.

Years and yeas ago, back in the black and white days of the late seventies we used to buy most of our sweets from Roddy's shop in Sandymount.  You'd buy whatever you could afford (5p) and Mrs. Roddy, who always wore a housecoat, or her sister would wrap the sweets up in a twist of greaseproof paper.  God, happy days.  They sold swizel sticks and aniseed balls (a great bargain, you'd get two for a penny).  Bazooka Joe chewing gum and ...........sigh.

Anyway, one day Peter Hennessy turned up on the street, which was allowed as he lived next door to me, and he had a pink sugar mouse.  It cost 2p.  He held it up by it's string tail and slowly lowered it into his gob while we all looked on.  I hated that shite that day.  He bit off the mouse and pulled out the tail.  I begged and begged my ma for tuppence but she wouldn't give it to me.  I never got a sugar mouse.  Until a couple of years ago. I still have my mouses tail upstairs in a box, will baffle the lads if they ever have to sort out my stuff.

If you eat a custard cream do you bite off the top biscuit first before scraping the cream out with your teeth?  Himself bough chocolate covered Mikado biscuits for us a few days ago.  Yeah, they were chocolately and lovely but, . . . but you couldn't pull your finger down the middle and scrape out the jam.

If you eat a choc ice or magnum you have to bite all the chocolate off that too.  A cornetto . .. hmm, I never EVER managed to not bite the bottom of the cone before finishing the ice cream on top so it would be a big leaky mess.

Worry

I told someone about this last night and, up until that point, I was quite fine with it all.  Now though, I'm not.  There is a shadow on my head, in my head?  Therefore Friday two weeks, or Friday fortnight, I'm going into hospital for a couple of hours of tests including an MRI.  

First thing that is scaring the pants of me is . . . the MRI.  I fucking hate tunnels.  Going through the port tunnel in Dublin is liable to kill me as I have to hold my breath until I get to the other side.  So to be stuck in a 'made to measure' tunnel doesn't fill me with the joys of spring.  Hmmm, also, it's a tight space.  What if my arse doesn't fit.  How embarrassing would that be?  Eh?

The second thing that is worrying me is, what if there is something causing that shadow.  And I'm not talking about a bunny making handshapes with a torch.  What if something is wrong?  I'm too young to be unwell.  I'm too young to be realllllly unwell.  

I grumble, like most others, about my life and how it could be better but I love it.  Warts (and snoring dog) and all.

I thought I was doing great.  Having not thought about this since the day the doctors 'hmmmmed' over my x-rays and various other bits and pieces of tests, a couple of months back but now???  Now I am a jittery bag of nerves.  Which means I am verging on being very unfuckingpleasnat with someone I know.  

I know all problems are relative.  Jesus, in the last 24 hours I;ve learnt of something that made me swell with admiration for a friend while having my heart break for her at the same time.  But some people are Just Never Fucking Happy.

Nothing is enough.

Nothing will never be enough.

I don't give a toss if they have a great heart anymore and if 'there's a lovely person in there'.  Pah.  Why should I have to waste my energies sifting through someone else's bullshit to find the nice person?  I do, however, like this person but I am tired of hearing of all their imagined slights.  So tired.  Feck, maybe the friend isn't making me tired it's, dum, dum, dum, 'THE SHADOW'.  Fuck, hope it's the friend.

My ma died when she was 54 exactly.  I will be exactly 40 soon.  I am not ready to be sick.  I am not ready to have something wrong with my favourite part of my body - my brain.   Unlike the rest of me, it's size remains constant and I love it for that.

Bollocks.  See?  Now I'm crying.  I'm crying because I'm afraid.  Not because of anything I know, more what I don't know.  I know people who are going through very heavy times right now.  Up to their oxters in heavy times and they are still smiling and keeping it together.  My shadow is turning me into a jittery, nervous wreck.   

The only shadows I like are those you get when you're walking in the sunshine.  Not the ones that lurk in the darkness, under the beds etc.  Especially not the one that is lurking in my fricking head.

Bastard shadow. 

p.s. Not telling any cakers I'm afraid of shadows, the bastards will start sending them to me in the post lol.

Give me a chance

I know, I know.  I'm meant to blog all  the time but you can see from the blog that my life is mental. 

Today I am going to see a film that a friend made with a mate of his.  It's called 'A Barbershop History of Bray' and whilst I'm dead excited for them all I can think about is the Priest I have to make!

Yeah!  A Priest.  In his blacks?  Civvies?  Dunno, just glad he's not in the robes.  Thing is, it's for a 14" cake which is only huge.  This huge came means our motorbike, priest and dogs (shite, had forgotten them until I typed it down) all have to be a decent size too.  I have to make a 10" priest.  Shudder.  The girl who asked me to help out rang me today to say: "so, we'll pick them up tomorrow' whereupon I had a near death experience in the car (where I was dossing, eating chocolate, reading heat and, officially, waiting for the lads to finish school).  Cake due on Sunday so we have until Friday.

Came home to find the tortoise pacing her territory like the polar bears used to do in Dublin Zoo.  Very distressing to watch.  Was going to take her out and set her lose in the garden but Billy was around and he keeps trying to bury her in his grass patch.  Jesus, no wonder she's stressed.  

No. 3 just keeps asking when is it going to be four o'clock, when is it going to be four o'clock?  Only to leg it at 3.59pm and miss his cartoon all together.  We had a bonding thing today where we made ice pops.  A tin of crushed pineapple, a tin of coconut milk, 3oz of caster sugar and the juice of the biggest lime you can find gives you delicious tropical, mon, ice pops.  

Shame only me and no. 1 like them.  We've eaten four.  Each.

Missus C. is late so I can breathe.  Mind you, she's always late so I don't know why I was freakin' myself out.  

The hunt was a success

No. 3 nearly killed himself going up and down the stairs and no. 1 disagreed strongly with my interpretation of a 'foot.  Still, and all, they got their eggs and all were happy.

I'm a laydeeeee

Was chatting to a friend today about er, embarrassing things that happen.  She did a gentle fart and . . . worst nightmare . . . (to quote Himself) she 'followed through'.  Thankfully she was in the house and no one was around to bear witness.  What's especially funny about this is, if you could see her, she's gorgeous.  Tall, slim, great accent and very, very ladylike.  She doesn't even fart in front of her husband.  If she needs to, she waits until he's asleep.  Sweet.

Which reminded me of something that happened years ago when we lived in our first house.  I was pregnant on no. 1 and had been to my friend Gill's house for dinner.  She's a vegetarian and made a lentil roast thing for us all and it was delicious.  Only problem was . . . it didn't agree with my rather round belly and bizarre bowels.

Later that night, when in bed, I was wide awake (the boy usually awoke and practiced his moves at 3am) and Himself was fast asleep.  Unconscious in fact.  

Then.  I farted.  I was noxious.  It was so awful I couldn't stop laughing.  

Himself suddenly catapulted out of bed.  His body, reacting to the stench, twitched clean out of the bed.  He maintains 'his body was trying to save him'.  

I blamed it on him.  He nearly believed me for a minute.  Well, a couple of seconds.  I only went and did it again.

Like, seriously????

Harumph!!

This is the boys bin.

It lives outside their room.

It only moves when I bring it downstairs to empty it.

Yep!  Their bin yet I empty it, which is fine as they are only 6, 7 and 10.

But.

When I empty it and leave it in the middle of the stairs and they each step around it to get to their rooms and change out of their uniforms?  Well, it makes me smile.

They stepped over it on their way back down too.

I sent them up and down a couple of times to see what would happen, would they notice the bin.  

They didn't.  

I put it back up outside their room.  

SWINES.

Whomp /

That's the noise that #1 made when he hit the floor today.

It's also the noise my heart made as it shot into my mouth.

He was competing in the All Ireland Judo Championships in Galway and he was up against the best kids going and, thanks to a whopping .9kg, up against kids who were up to 2kg heavier than him.

Poor bugger.  He was so upset when we got there as there was so much going on and everyone seemed to know everyone else and he was one of three from Portmarnock there.  One of the three best kids if you don't mind me bragging.

Anyway, he explained the rules of scoring and I had a complete 'who's on first, watt's on second' moment as . . . the idea is to get Ippon, 10 points.  This is when you throw someone so perfectly they land on their back.  You can get a get a Yuko by throwing someone so that they land on their side, this is worth 5 points.  Now, a throw where you get someone on their back but . . well, not with all that much force . . that merits a Waza-ari (if it was a better throw it would be Ippon).  Oh, and that Waza-ari is worth 7 points.  But, here's the thing.  No amount of Yukos can EVER beat a Waza-ari.  And two Wazi-aris can make Ippon ( even though 2 x 7, to me, equals 14???).  

Oh, and you can also score Ippon by pinning your opponant to the mat for 25 seconds.  A pin lasting for less than 25 seconds, but more than 20 seconds scores waza-ari and one lasting less than 20 seconds but more than 15 seconds scores yuko.

You following me?  See?  Who's on first?

Anyway, #1 had two fights and the first one was over as I blinked with him being thrown and the second fight lasted a few seconds longer but .. . he still lost.  He was gutted.  

All the kids who lost were gutted. It hurt to see so many upset youngsters.  Apparently, allegedly, it's character building so I shall wait and see how that plays out.

Once he got over the upset, and the sore shoulder from being hurled to the ground, he was happy enough to commit to competing in Kilkenny in a month or so.

To cheer him up we took him into Galway to prove it is always raining there and took him to the pub to watch the match and enjoy a big plate of Irish Stew.

p.s. When #1 was in my belly many, many moons ago we went to Galway to visit friends who lived there and I went into this lovely shop called 'Wooden Heart' and bought a little zippy bag with gorgeous little things representing the letters of the alphabet in it.  You know, 'a is for apple', 'y is for yacht' etc.  The shop is still there and it still sells beautiful toys so go visit it should you be in beautiful, but rainy, Galway.

My gorgeous eldest son. . . .

.. . .  is having a bit of a meltdown.  He's just gone into fifth class and is not a happy bunny.  Apparently it's nothing to do with the big mix up of kids (at the end of 4th class all the classes are rejigged - school does it's best to keep 2-3 pals together but the idea is to mix them all up, help them make new pals and stamp out bullying) or the extra homework but seems to have come from this massive recap of all the maths they did in 4th class.  A whole chapter devoted to recapping that apparently has to be finished by Friday.  That's a lot of sums.  

I spoke to his (lovely) teacher today l#1 spent a lot of yesterday crying.  In school and out of it.  He's spent a lot of today crying too.  Thing is, when I talk to teachers I immediately turn into my 12 year old self and think I'm being given out to.  Can't help it, I hate parent teacher meetings too as I'm not sure I'm grown up enough to have kids that go to school, sure aren't I only a kid myself?  Yeah, yeah, I know.  I'm not.  Last year #1's teacher said she thought #1 had dyspraxia as he was very clumsy.  I ummed and ahhed and asked if she was sure, she said she was so I said I'd keep an eye on him.  I then stood up, turned around and fell over a chair.  He doesn't have dyspraxia!!  He's his mother's son.  A clumsy wretch.

So, I spoke to the teacher and . . . I'm not sure either whether he has to finish the entire chapter by Friday.  He was out Monday you see and so was the teacher so the kids were set onto their books (keeps them out of trouble) and he's way behind.  Way behind and convinced he has to have it all finished by Friday.  Which means he's sitting here panicking and I'm trying to remember if you divide by the top and multiply by the bottom when it comes to fractions (you don't, reverse it) but you do DO that way if you're trying to find the whole number and you only know what, say, 4/6's are worth.  Fucking hell.

I'm 38 and doing fractions.  Long division and multiplication.  Oh, and angles . . . obtuse or acute??  

The reason I'm doing them is that Himself and myself are so worried about the chap we've decided to do his homework for him.  I've made sure he understands how the sum is done by making him do a few then I rip through the rest of them and scribble the answers in my cake notebook, along with formula.

Is this bad parenting?  I do hope not because he's a sweetheart.  A clever sweetheart who I think has got the wrong end of the stick and is driving himself to distraction by trying to complete over 200 sums by Friday morning.

Oh, and another thing.  My lovely son, he got the worst of both myself and Himself.  My 'worrying' nature and Himself's 'inability to talk about stuff that's scaring him'.  Poor fecker.  Mind you, he also got his father's quick wit, my soft side, my eyes and his father's confidence so he'll do alright.  Love the daft bugger which is why this makes my heart ache so much.  See??  I'm worrying about nothing too now.

Stuff

Had a very lovely day today.  Sunshine and friends.  More sunshine and then I come home from kickboxing to find the lovely Duncan has left in 846!!!!!! flakes for our cupcake stall.  Holy Moly.  Well, there was 846.  Now there is 838,  We had to test them you see.  A couple of times!!

Went back (I tried typing that word 'back' in several times but kept typing 'bake') to kickboxing tonight and boy am I going to be sore tomorrow.  Which isn't a good thing as I have a big cake to put together.  Also paid my €55 to make sure I go back next week.  And the week after.  I so want to be a skinny girl.  

No news as such.  The lovely Ms. C has been confined to hospital and bedrest as she is now unable to walk unaided.  She's got a big bubba in her belly.  Normally Ms. C would be stressed at being confined to bed but she is so tired she nearly fell at the nurse's feet in gratitude.  Shall go see her on Friday and bring magazines.  Lots and lots of magazines.  Then I have to come home and make 200 cupcakes for Saturday and a birthday cake for # 2.  Originally he wanted a Thriller style cake but I managed to veto that so I am going to surprise him with a Little Big Planet cake.  Very excited.  #1 got several burgers dropped into his class last Friday by yours truly.  He's had fast food theme cakes for the past couple of years so this year, with his lovely teacher's permission, I made every kid a burger that was a cake.  April Fools and all that.  

Oh, and that was mental in itself.  The lovely Ms. M. offered to help me out because she could see that I was getting really stressed with all that was going on last week so she said she'd make #1's burgers.  "Will make 'em out of whoopie pies".  I was thrilled, I had a wedding cake and a New York theme cake going cake out on the same day so was happy for all the help I could get.  So, Himself went to Ms. M's house to drop off my cupcakes for the market stall and collected the burgers.  He arrived in with a bowl of burgers and I asked him where the rest of it was,  "Where are the burgers?".  "This is all I got".  "Aaagh".  Then . . . . a  . . .  slow . . .  dawning happened.  I asked for burgers and I got burgers.  If I'd wanted the burger bun I should have asked for it.  It's that AmericanIrish breakdown in communication me and Ms. M. sometimes have.  It was funny.  Not at the time but the next day it was very, very funny.  

No funny kid stuff today.  # 1 is turning into moody teenagers three years too early.  # 2 wants sand to turn his weird looking paper monster into a proper stone gargoyle (haven't the nerve to tell him I'm NOT buying PLAYSAND!!!  But instead an going to sneak down to the beach on Saturday and nick a zippy bag's worth.  #3 is not feeling well.  Which means we're all suffering.  He and I are very much cut from the same cloth.  I was moaning at Himself because we were having shepards pie AGAIN?  Only to have # 3 come in and do the same.  Ungrateful feckers the pair of us. Especially me, I haven't made a dinner in  months. MONTHS!!!  So, in that case, can I really complain if I'm reduced to eating man meals?

Serendepity? Happiness for sure!

Last night, which would be Thursday, I went to the lovely Billy and Mandy's house for one of Billy's famous curries (butter turkey in this instance) and had a blast.  Himself came too and also fell in love with their lovely house that feels like it's in the middle of nowhere but is in fact just of the Malahide Road. We had so much fun and the music was brilliant.  The company was brilliant and funny and  . . .  I'm guessing I had a brilliant time because getting out of bed was a bit of a palaver this morning.  I shouldn't stay up beyond, ohh, midnight if I want to stay awake for the entire day that follows.  Yup, good company, good food, good music and . . .  a very happy Niamh indeed.Whilst there I met a couple who are due their first baby, happiness and sleeplessness - don't you love it? and he is a bit of a musical mastermind.  He told us how he managed, after 15 years to track down a piece of music that used to be on MTV in the 90's after Alien Nation and before something else.  He found it!!!  So I told him about this video I'd seen when I was pregnant with #1 and how I'd love to find it again as the video blew me away.  Everything was a word.  Cars in the video were made up of the word car as were buildings, pavements etc. etc. made up of their relevant words.  A typographers dream.He knew what I was talking about.  He had a quiet stroke of his beard and . . .  "Hey, Niamh, is this what you're talking about?"  Seriously!!!!  Alex Gopher - The Child, incidentally.  Yes, yes it was.  So thank you very much Shane/Dino, thank you for giving me the song I heard ten years ago when I was pregnant with my first little one.  A little one who is trying his hardest to stay awake to see the new year in.  Last year it started to snow at midnight you see and everyone was out playing.  This year some of my favourite people no longer live on the street so I'm laying low.  Happy and excited about the year ahead, can't be much worse right?, but sad too.So?  Here's to a wonderful New Year.  2011 is going to be the year when the outsiders get in on the inside and things start being fixed.  2011 is going to be the year where we continue to be happy and healthy and Himself finds a job that fulfills him and, better yet, pays him.  2011 is the year that #2 goes to bigger boy school and I, and my other perfectionists, put our plans in place and start our march on taking over the world.  One cake at a time.  2011 is the year where, touch wood, all those babies I know of are born safely and everyone is good.  2011 is the year I finally manage to get fit and healthy and!!!  

HAPPY 2011 TO EVERYONE OUT THERE.  IT SHALL BE WONDERFUL.  REALLY, IT WILL!  I PROMISE.  

Well!!!!!

Took the kids to the thing in Causey Farm yesterday and it scared the shit out of them.  Everything kind've backfired and I ended up with the three of them in bed with me!!!  It was bloody brilliant.

From the beginning:

Got to C's at 2.45 or thereabouts, emptied the car, swapped seats and were back on the road by 3pm (yes, we're that good), got onto the M1 and promptly got lost at Slane.  Doh!!!!  Ended up waving guards down for directions.  Also ended up ringing the farm itself.  This is what I could hear:

C.  Hi there, can we get directions please, we're a bit lost (cue giggling from me).

Them. fjlsfjsdlfjlsdfjsdlkfj - couldn't hear them y'see.

C.  Yeahhhhh.... that's the problem, I don't know where we are.

Them.  ?????

C.  Cackle, oooh, oh, there's a pub.

Them.  Proper directions as follows.

Can imagine everyone at the other end cracking up at the idiots ringing up from 'somewhere' looking for directions.  Either way we got there by 4.30.  Just in time for our tractor ride to the old house for our first ghost story.  Very good.  Next the small circus, not so good.  Then to Witches School which was frickin' fantastic.  We learnt how to make kittens.  We would've seen a cat made but yer man's farts were crap.  We had to put sno' in the po', then chewed up worms, which Cinderella herself first chewed up and spat around the place (Cinderella was THE best thing for me personally) and then she had some auld fella squat over the pot and fart.  Brilliant.  Kids loved it.  Loved her spaghetti worms and her baked beans snot.  

Then onto the fire girl, she swung fire around.  We all loved that.  The little wanky kids in the front were like 'heare, iz tha reaul fiure?' (dya love me dublin accent?  hahah) She said it was, they still didn't believe her.  

Then onto the TUNNEL OF TERROR!!!!!  Big caps for emphasis on Tunnel and Terror.  Had to drag Oz in and Arthur pretty much.  Carol did likewise with her two.  We kept saying things like 'it'll be great fun' and 'it's not scary, only pretend'.  Oh how we lied.  It was deadly.  The whole place, half a barn, was divided up into rooms and corridors by plastic.  So you had your dining room with gore, kitchen with gore and, oddly enough, a picture of Bertie Ahern in the fridge, then AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAGHTHTHTTHT someone or two someones jumped on #1 and scared the frickin' bejaysys out of him.  Which resulted in the other four losing the plot as well.  The more upset they got the more er, hopeless me and Carol got.  I could hardly stand for laughing.  Especially when trying to cross the bridge.  The bridge in the tunnel with the lights going the other way so it felt like you were walking on the ceiling.  Ya ever try to walk a bridge the width of a dinner table with 3 kids attached to you? Well, it's not easy.  Got through that and ended up in a room where I could kind've see a face in the corner.  Asked the face if it was real.  The face replied 'I don't understand the question.  So I says 'I've no glasses on and the kids are terrified' whereupon the face says 'gotcha and bled back into the background.  Then someone grabbed my scarf and then I screamed.  Then everyone screamed and it was brilliant.  

Have attached photos of kids so you can see.  Carol giving out chocolate, Harry Potter fans will know that chocolate is great for a fright or an encounter with Dementors, only JUST managed to calm them down a bit.  Ha!  That'll be the last time they give me a hard time and keep telling me they're bored.

Carol went on the magic broom, doesn't she look fab.  My secret?  She's having another bubba!!  Fantastic stuff, so utterly thrilled for her and so utterly delighted it's not me! 

Mind you, it kind've backfired a bit as I ended up sharing a bed with all three of them last night as they were all too terrified to sleep alone.  

I think it was worth it though.  Go to Causey Farm, link below, as it's worth every muddy penny.

Hiding under the table from Cinderella, below. 

 Still hiding! 

 Fire Dancer.  Absolutely excellent, great taste in music too - Afro Celt Sound System I think

 After the Tunnel of Terror!!

 Poor Harry, poor Arthur hahahah

My mate Carol on her broomstick