Mum

My mother was a science teacher. She taught chemistry, but I think biology was her first love.  This meant I always had to wait ages after school for a lift home as it takes a long time to clean up a science laboratory and prepare for the experiments of the next day.

I sat in the passenger seat (or more often stood leaning against a tree near the car, feigning nonchalance “who, me? Oh no my mother isn’t a teacher, I’m just hanging here.”) watching the French, the German, the English and the maths teachers come out the staff room door with their bags, climb into their cars and drive home. And still no sign of Mum.

 Finally, bag rattling with pipettes and test tubes and arms full of copies to correct, she came down the steps and we hit the road. Me sulking about the wait but relieved that it was so late I didn’t have to wave at any fellow pupils, knowing that after we drove past someone would say, “Is that her mother?”

At home, the biology lessons continued. Absolutely no bodily functions were considered unmentionable in our house. Mum was consistently practical, knowledgeable and mortifying.

“It’s natural!  We all have bottoms!”

“Everyone gets PERIODS!  (Why don’t you say it a bit louder Mum? I don’t think they heard you in Malahide.”)”

 “Constipated? Have some prunes! And water!  “Paul, are those prunes still in the cupboard? Lucy’s CONSTIPATED!”

Diahorrea? Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate!” Lucy’s got THE RUNS!”

I remember the very first time I realised I wasn’t entirely comfortable with her body-friendly attitude. She was on the phone to one of her sisters and outlining the details of my latest rash (I was a rashy child.)

“Poor Lucy! Her eyes are all swollen and the rash has gone right inside her bottom!”

I stopped scratching to give her an agonised look and whisper “Don’t tell!”

Enough was enough. Was nothing sacred? 

“Oh no! She’s asking me not to tell you! Poor Lucy! Isn’t she funny!”

That was probably the first time I raised my eyes to heaven and muttered something not very complimentary about Mum.

As I grew up, I learnt that not every home was like mine. Some people’s parents never mentioned bowel movements. Others never even said the word toilet. But along with their more attractive prudery, they also didn’t have her knowledge. Being cared for by someone who knew how the body worked was an education. And when I had my own kids, everything that had been cringingly shouted down the stairs in my childhood home came back to me. And it was very, very handy.  Knowing when to get the antihistamine, the ibuprofen, the fluids, the fig rolls and the Echinacea is in my blood. And I have mum to thank for it.  

And yes, the rash was inside my bottom. You hadn’t heard? Well, spread the word! It’s natural!

Festival lip

Not long ago, I decided, for the millionth time, that I would make a small but dramatic change to my appearance that would give (this time!) stunning results.  

So I made the pilgrimage into MAC and told them I wanted a dramatic lip colour for “evenings”.  Sounds good right? Like when I sit outside Parisian Cafes at sunset in clunky sandals crossing my gazelle like legs and chatting to someone in a band. Or wandering, chilled glass of white in my hand, the other tucked into my husband’s American Apparelled elbow as we inspect art in a beautiful, light filled gallery in Brooklyn. Alexa Chung glances over at us curiously. Who is that couple and where did she get that lipstick?

 I nearly believed it myself.

I was outside on Grafton Street before I admitted to myself that weekend evenings for the foreseeable future go like this. Fridays are spent, from 6pm, trying to stay awake until the kids are in bed so I can watch Sarah Beeny Selling Houses with camomile tea before crawling up the stairs at about ten. Sometimes I have been known to sleep in my clothes. What can I say? I’m tired on Fridays. Saturday “evenings” are spent in the viewing gallery of the local secondary school swimming pool watching my kids do their lessons. Despite the fact that I can see them shivering by the poolside, the heat from the pool seems to skip them and rises to us parents as we sit in the fug, sweating and a bit bored. No one wears lipstick. After this we pile into the car, I hear who laughed at who’s underpants in the changing room, who skipped the queue for the shower and get home for eight o clock, to see the end of the Big, Big Movie. Then the kids are whooshed up the stairs so my husband and I can eat Indian Takeaway and watch our Parks and Recreation boxset.  In my pj’s. 

Before pressing play I give my face a good scrub and slather it with night cream in preparation for the glamorous week ahead.  Obviously I look very attractive.

So that’s evenings.

But, hang on a minute, the MAC girl said that the colour I chose would also be perfect for a “Festival Lip.” 

She actually said this with a straight face to my forty four year old one.

 “This colour would be perfect for a festival lip.”

wiener level

My husband has gone running.

About a year ago one of my book club friends lent me Run Fat Bitch Run and even though I read it and found it pretty motivating, it could not tempt me to run. Nothing can, running hurts my knees.

So, thinking myself very clever, I read it and used the motivation to swim more regularly, gradually building up the number of lengths I did. This all lasted about three months until the tiring reality that goes along with regular vigorous exercise hit home and I slumped on the couch instead. The endorphins never really kicked in, or if they did, I must have missed them.

Also, one night when I was coming out of the pool a very drunk/drugged young woman asked me for a lift and I found myself on a dark street refusing her and then feeling sure that the minute I opening the car door to drive away she was going to dive in. So, for a few nervy minutes I hovered at the drivers side and she hovered by me. Eventually, when I started walking casually back to the pool, she shouted “I’m not going to do anything to you, you stupid cow!” and then walked onto the main road into traffic. A taxi swerved, missed her and the last I saw she was arguing with the driver.  Just another grim night in Dublin city centre and not really an excuse to stop swimming, but it was enough for me.

My husband, on the other hand, did exactly what it said in the book; he found a circuit, timed it, chose his running days, stuck to them and most importantly, kept it up and now, about a year later(deservingly, sickeningly) is still at it.

So I suppose I can understand how he might get peeved when I start questioning why he has to do the run straight from dropping the kids at school. You see it’s not the running, it’s not the timing; it’s the running pants. After about eight months of running, he treated himself to new shoes and a pair of running pants, which are like leggings.  Lots of men wear them; it’s just that when I gave him the school tour form this morning to give to my son’s teacher, along with a tenner, I couldn’t help thinking that this particular teacher is usually sitting at her desk in the morning. And unless my husband went down on his hunkers, any conversation they would have would be at wiener level.

Which is without a doubt the most immature sentence I have ever written.

His answer was brief and to the point.

“for goodness sake, we’re actually on time this morning. Come on boys! And yes, I am wearing them. They are very comfortable.”

I have said those words to him more times than I can count; most recently when I got my brogues. I purchased both the natty two-tone and beige, so stylish in the magazines, so horrendous on my foot. Matron was the only word that came to mind when I looked down. Nothing could have made my ankles look thicker.

But I still wore them. They were comfortable! But those running pants were giving me pause for thought. Could I cut a deal? I walked across the kitchen in my fleecy lined red Crocs which, I then realised, were tolerated daily. Wiggling my cosy toes I knew I could not. I suppose life’s too short not to be comfy.

For both of us. 

Christmas magic

It started with the pompoms. Even with all the shopping and planning that goes into Christmas, I’m a sucker for “creating Christmas magic”. I blame those blogs that make everything;  house, kids, bookshelves and decorations look so darn pretty and cool. So, when I spotted this little tutorial on pom-pom garlands, I thought wow, something I could actually pull off. I remembered making pompoms in school, with rings of cardboard cut from a cereal box and, unlike any of my other knitting or sewing projects, they turned out quite nice.

So, on the first of December I told the kids that yes, they were allowed discuss what they were putting in their Santa letters, that Christmas was no longer a forbidden topic of conversation and headed to a wool shop to get the makings of a pom pom garland.

I don’t know, maybe I should have driven, because when I got to the shop I was tired and irritable. When the shop assistant noticed my bike helmet, she moved from her current customer, to whom she was droning on about the gloomy weather to me, and segued straight into rain, cycling in it and taking your life into your hands, all the while knitting, I wanted to scream.

Anyway, I made it home alive, and we started raveling wool.  My plan was to produce plump, roundy, fluffy snowdrops and ended up with a smaller, stringy variety, but that was OK, they bore the stamp of homemade, which was the look I was going for anyway. I dug out my Tesco gold chains and draped them along the picture rails, dotting the display with pompoms. It didn't look remotely like the tutorial, but do they ever? They looked fine and it was time to put the kettle on.

Then my husband came in, had a look and said, “You didn’t use sellotape did you? Cos that’ll take the paint off.”

So down they came, (as you can imagine, there was a “magical” atmosphere in the sitting room, what a lovely memory for the children!)to be re-hung with masking tape, where they stayed for a day before coming unstuck and dropping to the floor, snowdrop by snowdrop, chain by chain.

 Anyway, trying again, at bedtime I told the kids there was a magical treat in store. I had purchased a CD of Dylan Thomas reading his poem A Child's Christmas in Wales.

.

Turning off the bedside lights, I told them to snuggle down and listen and stuck the CD into the player. It was immediately obvious that Dylan Thomas’ voice was not what they are used to and a nervous little boy said “Is this a ghost story?”

I lay beside him and promised that I would turn it off if the feeling of terror didn't go away, and he began, I think, to enjoy it. The response from his brothers was mixed;

“I liked that, it was really Christmassy.”

And

 “Is it over? My leg is sore.”

(For the record, I LOVED it and would highly recommend it to anyone. It was really beautiful, just maybe better for the over tens.)

Turning off the Christmas lights on their window sill, I let them go to sleep. I had offered to leave these lights on and turn them off later, (creating Christmas magic!)  but was told gently that it would probably be safer not to. The lights might over heat, they said, all nodding sensibly in their pyjamas, or keep us awake. So I said goodnight to my three little wise men, and their not quite so wise baby brother, and went downstairs. Having them safe in their beds was magic enough.

Best Book Guide

Best books for best friends: Bossypants which is, as you would expect, funny and well written. And has a great bit about a shared suit that alone is worth the price of the book.

Starter for Ten; I saw the movie of this, which was fine, but didn’t prepare for the brilliance of the book. Particularly funny if you have ever had bad skin.

A Humble Companion. I love everything Laurie Graham ever wrote, and this is no different.  Well researched, brilliant writing, not a sentence wasted, just great.

 Get Her Off The Pitch. I have read this twice and intend to do so again over the Christmas holidays. It’s about the authors experiences as a sports reporter. I like reading about sport anyway, but this is something special.

Best Books for someone who likes lovely books with even lovelier covers:

The Diary of a Provincial Lady. This was first published in a magazine called The Lady. (Which, as it happens, Lady Edith visits on her trips to London. I don’t need to explain who she is, do I? Downton!)  It is a classic.

Cranford. This has been on my wish list since my friend showed me her collection of Clothbound Classics. There were times when I ooohed and aahhed over my pals clothes or shoes, but now it’s their books that make me envious. The Little Women one is gorgeous too.

French Kids Eat Everything. This has a pink gingham cover, which is why I picked up the hardcover edition in the bookshop. It’s about an American mother learning to feed her kids the French way. Not a subject for everyone, but I found it interesting. And very pretty.

Best book for new baby:

Paul Thurlby's Alphabet. This is a beauty. So nice that I persuaded my sainted husband to measure the pages, cut three sheets of mdf, paste the whole alphabet to them and nail them to my kid’s bedroom wall.

Best Books for little boys and girls (age’s three to seven): Fortunately. I would be AMAZED if any child walked away without hearing the end of this one.

Children of the Northlights. Every time I show this to a friend, they go out a buy it.

Best book for slightly older girl: (eight to twelve): From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs Basil E. Frankweiler.

Or boy: Cosmic. This is silver, which might not seem important, but is. Good book too.

Best book for teenage girl: I Capture the Castle. This has the best first line ever and is, overall, fantastic.

As I have never been nor do not yet own a teenage boy, I simply cannot guess a title for one. Anyone got any suggestions?

Best book for husbands. I’ve gone for two pretty different ones here, but both have been popular on the bedside table on the far side of my bed.  My Booky Wook 2 and A Tale of Two Cities.

And books I want: The Art of Fielding, Where'd you go to Bernadette and NW.

According to Amazon, we have eight days left to order for Christmas, although probably make that five if you’re ordering from Ireland. Happy Christmas!

Choosing a Secondary School or.. Where are the crisps?

The phrase school tour has a whole new meaning for me now. It no longer involves buses or pocket money or treaty lunches, now it means simply, touring a school.

Yes, it is that time; I have to choose a secondary school for my eldest son. Anyone who knows my husband or I will be aware that decision making is not our strong point. So, for the past year I have been asking anyone who will listen for information about the second level schools within driving distance of our home. And agonising of course. As it happens, agonising is probably our great strength.

I could have just looked around me, and observed the pretty normal looking teenagers walking and cycling home from the schools in our vicinity. I could have watched them pick up their younger brothers from my children’s schools and checked the league tables in the newspaper to see all the exam results. But somehow, instead I found myself lapping up and memorising every scary sound bite about our local senior schools that I could lay my hands on.

I learnt that some schools only “take the cream, the very bright boys”, some “only kids who have been expelled from other schools”, some have pupils “known by the Gardai” and some produce “really cool people, in bands”. Why is that scary? Oh come on, don’t be silly, unless its U2, how on earth are they going to pay a mortgage?

Eventually I learnt that it might be wise, instead of gossiping over coffee and grasping at any nonsense I overheard in the school yard, it would probably be a good idea to look at the schools for myself. So, mortgage repayments of 2030 on my mind, I booked a tour of each the schools under consideration.  Hopefully, my husband and I could be sensible adults and make a decision based on what we saw.

We saw science labs, “Note the light reflecting off the countertops” said the teacher guiding us, French classrooms, where my husband, unlike me, who looked blankly around, took in the square footage, the air vents and probably, the longitude and latitude. “Good natural light,” he muttered. We saw music rooms “a centre for excellence” said the Head of First Year, woodwork rooms, “a centre for excellence” said the same guy, and toilets “a centre for excellence?” we said quietly.

We heard about buddy systems, home school liaison officers, anti- bullying procedures and breakfasts served at school (my son LOVED that. “I’d really get toast?” he said with joy in his voice. The boy who turns down toast most mornings at home.)

We listened to the no-bullshit Principal “I don’t talk rubbish” he said, and his opposite number; “Under this roof, as we speak, each and every child is learning, being enriched, absorbing knowledge like a sponge.” I raised my eyes to heaven and immediately panicked that he had seen.

Each tour ended at the gym hall, where there was a chance to chat to other parents and, more importantly, get crisps for my weary toddler and bored younger boys. To be honest as I had all my (restless, noisy) children with me on three out of the four tours, “Where are the crisps?” was the question at the forefront of my mind for most of the time.

We got all the prospectuses, the application forms and the school rules. On close inspection, apart from font and layout, they were all very similar.

And after a brief kerfuffle about whether we should put “video games” under the “Interests” section, we filled in the form of the school of our choice. It’s in a drawer now, waiting for a Christmas card stamp, or a change of heart.

The Wind in the Willows

A broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and the Otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat. “Greedy beggars!” he observed, making for the provender. “Why didn’t you invite me, Ratty?” “This was an impromptu affair,” explained the Rat. “By the way, my friend Mr Mole.” “Proud, I’m sure,” said the Otter, and the two animals were friends forthwith.

There are many versions of The Wind in the Willows around. Novel sized paperbacks, various chapters in children’s classic compilations and audio versions by great actors, namely Alan Bennett and Richard Briers. Just recently, yet another one, illustrated by David Roberts in an art deco-y way was released. And Julian Fellowes, of Downton Abbey is penning a musical version for the stage, to be seen in the West End in the new year. Since its publication in 1908, it has never been out of print.

I found this one  on Amazon last week. It’s a steal at £9.97; not only does it include every chapter (many versions of this book skip a few), it has beautiful, lush illustrations by Robert Ingpen and a little biography of the author, Kenneth Grahame. It

was published to celebrate the 100^th birthday of the books first release.

In my head Kenneth Williams was always the author of this classic, he of Carry On fame. I don’t know why I thought that, maybe he voiced a character in a BBC production and I associated his name with the book? I just thought the guy was multi-talented; a great actor and a brilliant writer. Anyway, I was wrong. Kenneth Grahame was not an actor, he was a banker. Born in Scotland, his mother died when he was five and he was then sent to be raised by his grandmother by a river bank in Berkshire. I’m thinking it had to have been a happy(but maybe solitary?) childhood to have resulted in this treasure.

The main reason I got this one though was because, a few months ago my eldest moved into his own bedroom. At first delighted to have some space (he had previously shared with two siblings), he got lonely. One rare evening, when I wasn’t in demand in the other bedroom, we looked together though an old christening present, a collection of children’s stories. Included were the chapters The River Bank and The Open Road from The Wind in the Willows. We chuckled and chuckled. “Toad is such a show off,” He smiled, “Is there more?” But there wasn’t.

I needed no more encouragement and got online as soon as he went to school the next day to see what I could find. And am so happy with the result. (I did try to scan pictures onto this blog, they are so lovely, but failed I'm afraid. It could'nt be that difficult, I know, but is at the moment, beyond me.)

 So now, to even things up under the tree next month, I have to find two more interesting, biggish sized, hardcover books for his brothers. Oh dear, what a chore.

Who am I kidding, I know exactly what books to choose. I just needed an excuse to buy them.