Why I love 'House' but think SATC2 sucked...

Four weeks post-partum and I’ve been dismayed to discover that my seemingly miraculous recovery from wine-addiction was entirely fictitious, brought about solely from the pregnancy hormones swamping my body.  As the hormones slowly ebb, the love affair with the grape flows and I find myself once more enslaved to that glass or two each night as I settle down in front of House; series 1 and 2 of which I recently downloaded and have been watching obsessively ever since (who would have thought Blackadder's Prince Thickie would make such a brilliant, curmudgeonly American MD?) As a result of my 3 episodes a night habit, I’ve become somewhat of an expert on diagnostic medicine and am prone to pronounce ‘it’s got to be lupus’ every time someone in my house has a sniffle.
On the positive side, my penchant for the hot chocolate and apple crumble served up in my local ‘Shakespeare’ cafe has subsided giving my girth a fighting chance of fitting into my newly acquired wardrobe this side of Christmas.     
Pretentious, Moi? 

Is it just me or is ‘Little Einsteins’ the most annoying, pretentious and smugly middle-class kids show on TV?  It is the TV equivalent of a three year old learning to speak Mandarin and is a metaphor for everything that is wrong with modern parenting where a child can no longer just be 'normal' but must be either gifted or on a spectrum of one sort or another.

The plot, such as it is, is four precocious kids whizzing around in a rocket, landing in places like Tuscany or Paris where they chant the names of famous composers over and over again (‘Dvorak, oh! Dvorak!’) to the tunes of said composer, while words like ‘allegro’ and ‘adagio’ flash up on the screen along with a picture of that composer (eminently useful that the average three-year-old is able to pick out Grieg in a line-up).

Last week I struggled to understand the point of five cello’s prancing about to Peer Gynt on the banks of the river Po.  And today I really thought it had gone too far as the characters searched for the ingredients for rocket soup -- how pretentious! but it turned out the soup was actually for the rocket-ship, rather than a soup made out of a rocket leaves...mind you, it wouldn’t have come as a great surprise- next they’ll be singing about the virtues of cashmir sweaters or the difference between Chardonnay and Sauvingnon blanc (which to be honest might actually be quite useful as a life-skill).

Of course there is nothing wrong with introducing your children to classical music; my children hear it regularly if I happen to have Lyric FM playing on the internet; but being able to name a composer, while charming, is of little use to a three year old.  There does seem to be this drive among middle-class parents to have ‘gifted’ or ‘exceptional’ children who can read and play instruments before they’re three.  Learning to do something early doesn’t necessarily make a child any brighter than a kid who learns those skills later on: Steven Hawkings commented in an interview recently that he couldn’t read until he was 8- and it could be argued that playing in mud or emptying the pots and pans cupboard is more educational anyway.

Personally I’d rather they learned to tie their shoe laces or wipe their own bottoms than speak fluent French.
Abu Dhabi aka Morocco

And finally.... I recently got to see Sex and the City 2 which, much to my excitement, is supposedly part set in AbuDhabi.  It was, in a word, abysmal. 

I don’t know what was more unrealistic, the four subservient Emiratis holding open the car doors for the four female protagonists at the airport (I doubt Emiratis hold their own toothbrushes), or when Aiden tells Carrie that ‘they consider it rude to keep people waiting here’. This comment was so at odds with the way of life here is, where nothing happens on time and in fact it's practically mandatory to be late, with inshallah (roughtly translated: in Allah we hope/God willing/not a feckin' hope pal) being the stock response to any pressing questions.

Clearly they didn’t bother to employ a cultural anthropologist on the movie to lend a certain realism to it, if they had the girls would have arrived to Abu Dhabi airport to find that the cars weren't in fact there at all as there had been a mix up with the bookings, and were in fact on their way to Dubai airport.

The authenticity was further thrown in to question when the girls decide to visit ‘Old Abu Dhabi souk’.

Now, when I first arrived in Abu Dhabi I too had images of wandering around a traditional souk, Kristen Scott-Thomas-like, buying exotic silks, spices and rugs, haggling charmingly with the wizened old market sellers, while wearing crisp white linen (and still in the realm of fantasy with Ralph Fiennes clandestinely trailing me and without my four squabbling children).

Alas, it was not to be!  I was greatly dismayed as I emerged from my taxi in Al Meena Port to discover that the souk, located on a large piece of wasteland, contained mainly plastic buckets and industrial sized cooking pots, plants and household implements. There was nothing charming or exotic about it and I eventually gave up trying to be intrepid and cultural and escaped into the nearby mall for a coffee.

Yes, prior to my arrival, my idea of the Middle East had been mostly informed by the movies and I had erroneously believed that it was all belly-dancing, silken tents and sultry exotic evenings dancing the seven veils under the stars.

Thankfully SATC2 delivered on this fantasy; after all, who wants to see badly constructed hotels complete with leaking external air-conditioning systems or piles of rubbish on the side of the road. Or, for that matter, maniacal drivers mounting pavements to get around the too-slow car in front. Those images are best kept for movies like 'the hurt locker'.

It also helped that the movie was filmed in Morocco. Anyway, by the time Samantha spots the hunky Danish architect and utters the beautifully scripted line ‘Lawrence of my Labia’ I was done with the movie and went to bed.

Hell, suicide, and cabbage leaves...

So it’s over.  Thank the imaginary gods above.  And yes, dear reader, as predicted, it was total and utter hell.  

Clearly the female brain is hot-wired with denial when it comes to all things childbirth-related since it’s not until one reaches the second stage of labour that the slow recollection descends  ‘ah yes, I remember this; I’m experiencing the equivalent of being sawn in half without the alleviating ability to pass-out half-way through’ but of course by then it’s all too late.

The hospital in question was faultless and consummately professional aside from the comedienne of a nurse who, two days post-partum, eyed my still-swollen stomach and commented ‘tee hee are you sure you’re not still pregnant?’ which frankly went down like a lead balloon as indeed, I still had all the appearance of a woman 5 months into her pregnancy (I’d like to say it was an isolated incident, but sadly more than one Filipina shop assistant has since made the same hilarious comment, much to my amusement.)

The anaesthetist performed her role beautifully, filling me with enough drugs to cheer-up an NA meeting, thus sailing me through labour stage-one quite blissfully.  Sadly, when this wore off the replacement wasn’t so effective and it was at this stage, as the contractions tore through my body, that I began to consider in earnest the possibility of unhooking myself from the various drips and machines around me, staggering across the room and flinging myself from the 5^th floor window.  

In my naivety I had reasoned that this birth would be quick and relatively easy considering the fact that it was to be my fifth.

A wise man once said ‘madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result’; in other words, having had four agonising births to date, I'm now at a loss to explain how I  could have ever entertained such foolish fantasies that this would be any different. The ordeal lasted 13 glorious hours and by the time the little mite was finally born all I could think to say to the assisting midwife was ‘why on earth would anyone opt to do that without pain relief?’ to which she slowly shook her head as she considered it and replied ‘I really don’t know’.  

To put this in perspective, I had four root canals last year, two at a time.  Although excrutiatingly unpleasant, I kept my cool and managed to get through the ordeal without crying, and had I expressed my wish to experience the procedure fully au naturelle, I'm sure my dentist would have discreetly made a phone call to the local loony bin and had me admitted forthwith.

What they don’t tell you about the epidural is that it doesn’t actually do anything once you’re into the last leg of the event.  Nothing.  Zero.  You’re on your own.

And I couldn’t help but think that all those weeks of effort to look presentable and unflappable at my appointments with my obstetrician; being every inch ‘the experienced mother of four’, was all for nought when I was lying there, legs in stirrups with no idea what vision of hell was being displayed below, crying like a baby and begging him to hurry up and just ‘END IT, PLEEEEEEEEAAAAZZZ!’, all dignity on the floor along with half my internal organs.

But I was rewarded with another little clone and that makes me happy.  I seem to deliver the same baby repeatedly since I am unable to discern any difference between him and all the others I’ve delivered, with the only variable being the quantity and shade of hair they arrive with.

By Friday morning I was 4 days post-partum and woke to find I had had the mother of all boob-jobs during the night.  This is another thing they don’t explain to you on your first pregnancy.  Obviously, this being my fifth baby I was expecting the arrival of mega boobs, but following the birth of my first child it was quite a shock to wake to find my C-cups replaced by double H’s, thus heralding the arrival of milk.   

DH always bemoans the cruel irony of this stage; fantasy boobs but completely and agonisingly untouchable.  Since this is definitely the last time I will experience this, I took a photo for posterity, like an after-picture for a cosmetic surgery advertisement in the back of a magazine.  That's one for facebook!  Well, perhaps not.

They say you can relieve the pain of ‘breast engorgement’ (which is the correct term for mega-boobs) by putting cabbage leaves in your bra.  I tried it once, but walking around with a brassicas vegetable in my underwear did little to counteract the pain and much to repel other humans from me.  And I couldn't help but feel that I was the victim of a male practical joke: 'just how gullible are women?' If they said stashing broccoli in our knickers would alleviate period-pains would we do it?  Actually, we probably would.

One thing that always perplexes me after having a baby is how mere aquaintances feel entitled to ask for intimate details which, in normal circumstances, would never be asked.  

-'Are you breast-feeding' asked the woman behind the counter in my local supermarket.

-'Er, well, I'm combining...well, trying to...I really can't decide...er (why am I answering you?)...it's complicated'.

OR

-'A boy!  Congratulations' said the Indian security guard at my local mall. 'Did you have a normal delivery?'

-'Err...(what??) yes thank you' I replied, wondering how he'd react if I continued 'yes, a normal VAGINAL delivery....13 hours of contractions, no stitches thank god, text-book stuff!' while I watched him shuffle away wishing he'd never asked (and as aside, I resent the term 'normal' delivery; to my mind there is nothing 'normal' about what I've described above.)

Actually, I might try that response next time.  

But it's all over now; Junior is with us and the house just got busier.  DH has grudgingly agreed to be dispatched to the local vet to be neutered within the coming weeks to ensure that this sort of 'surprise' doesn't happen again while in my dreams I contemplate the view from that fifth floor window, and the long drop below.

Sleeping, breathing and the pursuit of Starbucks....

DH assures me I’m ‘ready to calf’ which is culchy-speak for ‘childbirth is imminent’ and, bloodcurdling as that thought is, I’m just looking forward to a proper night's sleep.  My nights are currently a revolving door of bathroom-bed-bathroom-bed and my sleeping positions have been reduced to a choice of precisely one: the left side, since sleeping on my back feels like there is a baby seal crushing all my internal organs and sleeping on my right seems to bring about all the symptoms of a minor stroke.  And it's been several weeks since I've taken breathing for granted.

Yes, nature has cleverly conspired to ensure that the closing weeks of pregnancy are so utterly uncomfortable that the agonising and horrific ordeal ahead is seen as a blessed relief.

I am slightly concerned about giving birth here in the UAE though - just ordering a coffee can be trying at times - so the idea of trying to explain my wish for an epidural could prove to be challenging.  I have this reoccurring nightmare where I'm yelling for an epidural while a smiling Filipina nurse sing-songs ‘sorreee ma’am, it’s Ramadan, you can’t have any pain relief until the sun goes down’ like some demented character in a Stephen King novel.

I can’t help but feel that might actually happen.

At the very least I fully expect to be told the anaesthetist has left for the day and I'll have to wait until the next day, and do I want a Panadol...

I’m not making out that childbirth is always smooth going in Ireland either; I’ve had good and bad.  On the birth of boy-child number two I arrived at the hospital in the throes of labour to be told by the nurse that they had lost my records and did I mind answering a few questions.  So there I sat opposite a woman holding clipboard and pen as she went through my name, date of birth, address.....

-'When was your last period' she inquired.

-‘Seriously?' (clearly I have issues remembering this sort of detail at the best of times) '...ah nine months ago I reckon’ I sniggered....'OWWW!'

-‘But we need a date’ she insisted.  I hazarded a guess.

-‘Well, in that case you’re not due for another three weeks’ she said, ‘you’d best go home’.

Ten minutes later my waters broke and boy-child number two was with us within an hour; had I taken her advice I would have been in my living room in front of 'Who wants to be a millionaire' by the time I was at the point of pushing.

I’m due to attend a hospital in an area of Dubai optimistically called ‘Healthcare City’, which is basically a number of hospitals and clinics surrounding a parking lot.  

In the UAE, if they can give it a theme and grandly call it a ‘City’, they will.  We have ‘Academic city’ which is a college surrounded by sand as far as I can make out, ‘Motor City’ which is basically a car racing track (not sure why they need this...they have the roads don't they?) and here in RAK the 'RAK Media City' which is an office on a piece of wasteland outside the town which houses several people who have no idea what to do all day.

Mind you, the emirate of Umm al Quawain is called a city and I’ve seen towns in Mayo consisting of a sub-post office, pub and undertakers all-in-one which have more life in them.  But they like to think big here so it’s not so much what you see but what you will see in the future that inspires them when naming things.

But it’s Ramadan once again and that throws up the same challenges as it did for the last two years.  It’s not politically correct to be negative about Ramadan here since there is a certain quarter of expat who insist we stifle any grumbles or grouses about what are, in my view, the undeniable inconveniences associated with it. If you complain you are being, at best, ethnocentric and culturally ignorant, at worse committing a hate crime and are therefore a small-minded, bigoted-racist who should be escorted to the nearest border and never be allowed to return.  

It has been argued that 1.5 billion believers can’t be wrong, but then I have little faith in the wisdom of crowds: just look at some of the winners of Pop Idol.  Besides, I find Ramadan and it’s application a little too arbitrary for my liking.  A group of guys with beards study some lunar cycles and decide its Ramadan and suddenly, although you can still buy a Burger King meal at the mall,  you have to eat it in your car as sitting inside Burger King has over-night become as unthinkable as walking around with your knickers on your head.  And why is it you can’t  have a coffee in Starbucks but you can at the Hilton?  The only difference I see is the price, but then maybe that’s the point.

Also, if you must only fast during daylight hours, what’s to stop you going to the South Pole where you might only have one hour's daylight a day and doing your fast there?  Not much of a challenge is it, an episode of House and your done!

But we shall struggle on and make the most of it and next time I post there should be one more flight to pay for next time we decide to go on holiday.  Bring on the agony, I need a proper night's sleep!

Frogs and snails and puppy dogs tails........

'Are you sure you want to know?’ asked the German doctor as I stared up at the squirming, leaping form on the screen in front of me.

‘Yes, god yes please yes’ I begged, thinking pleasantly of the gorgeous pink, frilled things I’d spotted in Carter's baby shop the day before.

The four children sat silently wrestling each other in the corner, squashed into two armchairs, watching the show. Occasionally there would be a muffled giggle as someone would whisper ‘I see its butt!’

I started to daydream- ‘I’ll call her Delilah….or Jezebel’ I mused, ‘and she can share a bedroom with nine year old girl…it will be perfect….all pink and sage toile de jouey I think…’

‘I see a little penis’ said the German laconically, jolting me in to reality.

I fell silent for a moment, confused and disoriented. I had been absolutely certain this child was female, the pregnancy to date having been a carbon copy of my first.

‘Oh!’ I quickly adjusted myself, brightening, ‘lovely, another boy… hey! another brother kids!’

My daughter started to silently sob in the corner and the boys, unmoved by this news, continued to wrestle each other.

I love my sons. They are a joy; loving, gentle and devoted to me without agenda or complexity. But four!! It just feels a tad, well, excessive!

When I imagined motherhood as a young woman, I pictured myself with a gaggle of little girls, dressed up in pink tutus (me included) in a fairy tent with wands, wings and ballet slippers. We would wear matching fabrics from Joules and go for high tea with cream cakes and hot chocolate. They would fall in love with all the same books I adored as a little girl such as ‘Ballet shoes’ and ‘The twins at St. Clares' and would be fanatical about ballet and musical theatre.

Their bedroom would be a shrine to all things girly, decorated in a palette of pinks with white painted furniture and lace canopies.

To date we've had a bug theme, cowboy theme, superhero theme (several) and currently on general transport theme (cars, trains..that sort of thing). And my daughter isn't much better. Apparently at school the worst thing you can be is a girlie-girl so pink is OUT as is anything remotely feminine.

Oh I've been short changed, and that's for sure! DH, of course is in his element and revels in taking them to the cinema to see the latest Marvel blockbuster and regularly arrives home from work bearing the latest PS3 games 'for the kids' (this is a man so bad at gifts and surprises that on the day of my birthday every year, following months of heavy hints and blatant comments such as 'I want a pink laptop for my birthday', he'll phone me from the mall, on his lunch break, to ask 'so, what is it you wanted?')

So motherhood has given me the insider track on super heroes and action figures and well, boys in general. They're simple creatures, like their fully grown counterparts. And they play in a totally different way to girls - it can only be described as, well, autistic, and mainly involves playing with the same toy/stone/piece of plastic for hours on end, running it up walls and along floors with accompanying noises. It's bizarre but easily accommodated.

When I discovered my second child was to be a boy, I wondered how I could possibly love him. My daughter was so pink, perfect and delicious that I struggled with the idea of how I could love any other child, regardless of gender.

When he was born he was red, scrawny and yelling and I couldn’t help but recall the pink, plump calmness of my newly born daughter 20 months earlier as she lay staring up at me, wide-eyed and beautiful.

I think it's fair to say I went through a sort of crisis for his first few months, dressing him in her caste offs and generally not accepting that he was male. On many occasions I was asked ‘what is her name’ by passers-by as they stared down at the plump little boy dressed head to toe in pink.

But I adjusted and by the time boy-child number two arrived, I had realised how much easier these beings were to care for.

As boy-child number three was born I was honestly overjoyed at the appearance of yet another little man. He is loveable and delightful and to be honest, his gender is secondary to his gregarious personality.

But this time it just felt like it was time for another female, if for nothing else but to balance out all that testosterone at home.

But it must be said I am tired of this pregnancy at this stage, it's much too long particularly when you expand at such an alarming rate. The other day I was in a changing room trying on a dress which I wouldn't even glance at in peace time. As I wrestled the thing over my head, three-year-old, who was crammed into the booth with me, eyed my tummy and enquired 'are you going to upsplode mummy?' to which I replied gravely, 'Yes, darling, I rather think I am'.

Our showtime channels have been cancelled and we don’t know who to phone to get them back so we’ve been watching a lot of Oprah lately. Last night we watched open-mouthed at the story of the women in America who starved her four boys over the course of several years. It was heart-rending to watch how they suffered and I couldn’t help but wonder how you could possibly do that to your children. Obviously, nurturing instincts and basic decency aside, how on earth would you keep them quiet? I think its fair to say the only reason my children are fed regularly is because they start fighting when they’re hungry; particularly in the car.

My car is testament to this and can only be described as a rubbish tip. To open the door is to risk being buried under an avalanche of crisp wrappers and empty drinks cartons; DH, who pampers his car like a spinster pampers her cats, refuses to go anywhere near it. I'd like to take the advice of one of those nice parenting magazine which recommend colouring books and puzzles to keep the little'uns amused on a journey, but the reality is that drinks and snacks are the only way to stop them either jumping out of the moving vehicle or strangling each other on any given journey.

And its not just in the car. I use drinks and snacks as a pacifier for any number of eventualities whether I'm on the phone, typing an email, chatting with a friend or whatever it is, 'here, have this' is sure to make them go away and stop bothering me.


Customer service...again...

I know I’ve ranted about this on more than one occasion, but really I can’t not mention it. Again we went to buy school shoes for the children and again I requested that their feet be measured before trying on any shoes. Reasonable enough request considering the fact that children have an irritating tendency to get bigger.

However, the shop assistant, looking slightly put out at such an outrageous request, took my five year old over to the foot measuring thingie and placed his foot on the measuring board WITH HIS SHOE STILL ON!! I'll take a wild guess and say that the staff training at Centrepoint is confined to half a day's training on how to follow a customer around the shop in a most invasive and irritating manner without any training on how to actually assist.

That's shopping UAE style!

Lifestyle guru's have all the answers...

'Ooh ma'am you mustn't eat so much, you're too fat!' said the thoughtful  and sensitive Filipina behind the counter in 'Splash' after I had revealed that I was three months pregnant.  'You are so big!'

Quite. I knew this anyway, a glance in the mirror would've confirmed this assertion, but this comment left me in no doubt. This was further confirmed by the disasterous purchase of a 'pregnancy belt'.  For those who aren't in the know, these belts fit over your normal trousers, which can then be left unzipped, post-prandial style, and perfectly concealed beneath the belt.  The result should be a tailor-made type appearance as the trouser fit perfectly, all lumps and bumps hidden.

Unfortunately for me I never got to wear the belt as trying to get my favourite trousers up past my knees turned out to be more challenging than anticipated.

I’m only three months pregnant but within the space of 2 days I went from looking as if I'd eaten a rather substantial lunch to looking 5 months pregnant. Collecting the kids from school has become an exhausting affair of explanations and affirmations.

-‘yes, yes I am pregnant' I will smile.

-‘yep, yep, I know, where did that come from, ha ha?’ I chuckle.

Everywhere I go people are double-taking as I pass by. It’s not just the apparent sudden pregnancy, it’s the trail of four brawling children which adds to the head-shaking disbelief.

I often wonder at these women that we read about in classy publications such as ‘Chat’ and ‘Take a break’ who don’t know they’re pregnant until the baby appears on the bathroom floor. ‘I had no idea I was pregnant’ whines the headline above a photo of Destiny standing pasty-faced and disappointed  as she points to the floor of her bathroom.

Anyway, I promise myself and my readers that I won’t turn this blog into ‘secret diary of a dull pregnant woman who has nothing else to talk about but her dull pregnancy’. I don’t need to, Jules Oliver has already turned it into an art-form.

I’ve got nothing against Jules….after all she is expecting baby number four, so maximum respect to her; although having more than two children seems a tad less reckless when your husband is a multi-millionaire. Good luck to her, but please, no more pregnancy diaries… really, what is there to say other than ‘I feel sick, I miss lying on my stomach and I'm wearing something even my mother would think twice about’.


I must admit that some of these lifestyle books do appeal, despite the fact that everything in them is obvious and preachy. One of my current obsessions is the ‘Why French women don’t get fat’ series. For someone with as dysfunctional a relationship with food as I have, this approach makes a lot of sense to me. The idea that over-eating is encouraged by bulk-buying from hypermarkets is entirely logical. The French have known for decades that buying local, fresh and in-season produce is far better for you and leaves you less likely to binge.

I want to live in France...

I try to live by this principle but unfortunately the most enduring effect this has on my house is that there is never anything to eat in it. Fed up with dry crackers and 2 month old tangerines as a snack, my exasperated daughter the other day snapped ‘we’re NOT French mum, buy some food!’

It’s not meanness that keeps my cupboards bare, but like Oscar Wilde I can resist anything but temptation and so it's easier to leave all the fattening carb-ridden snacks on the supermarket shelves.

I used to take a much keener interest in cooking, but like many things (weekend lie-ins, pelvic floor muscles etc..) kids spoiled it for me. There's no bigger waste of time than spending a couple of hours cooking for your family only for them to rush in, eat in the space of 90 seconds and then disappear again leaving nothing but a food covered floor. And going to all that trouble for myself and DH just seems indulgent.

However, the other night, faced with the paltry offerings of the Showtime satellite network, myself and DH found ourselves watching 'The naked chef' on the telly. Of course, the first 20 minutes were spent guffawing and imitating Jamie's 'mockney' attempts at being a 'geezer'. However, we eventually fell silent as he started to work his genius on some pork chops and a roasted chicken. It was magic!

-'I'm hungry' complained DH, the beans on toast having obviously not been sufficient.

-'yeah, me too' I concurred.

I disappeared out the kitchen in search of snacks but all I could find were babybels 'lite' and some withered baby carrot batons.

I went to bed hungry but inspired and the next day found myself in Spinney's buying all the necessary ingredients for a pork chop taste sensation!

The chops (purchases from the special pork/satans-flesh counter in the supermarket) turned out OK.  DH, overjoyed at such a treat,  lavished praise every three bites, clearly hoping this might become a new feature in his life (For the record, it lasted precisely two nights).

One 'lifestyle' author I've always steered well clear of is Gina Ford, the child-rearing guru and author of 'the contented baby'. Her methods have always left me feeling cold as she's famous for coining the phrase 'controlled crying', which basically means ignoring your baby when it cries but feeling you're being a good parent by doing so! 

Leaving your baby to cry is the devils work...

Besides, the idea of leaving your baby to cry in a controlled manner on the advice of a woman with no children has always sounded slightly oxymoronic to me!  It's like taking dieting advice from an obese woman, or having your hair coloured by a blind person!   Besides, how can a four month old baby possibly understand that you're leaving it to cry for it's own good and to avoid issues in later life?  If anything I would have thought it would have completely the opposite effect.  Abandonment issues.....anyone?

I realise my child-rearing methods, while highly effective as babies, will probably leave all four children seeing shrinks by the time they're 25, but at least I have children so I've earned my opinion, and I've NEVER left a small defenseless baby to cry in some misguided attempt at asserting authority early on.

I wonder what Ms Ford would have made of them the other day at my daughters school play... For once I had roped DH into coming along, which I knew would make my life much easier in the sense that two threats are better than one. As the play started we waited for my daughters grand entrance. Twenty minutes in no sign of her, 30 minutes, still in the wings. Forty minutes and nothing... in fact my daughter didn't appear until the very last scene (she had cleverly opted not to tell me this or I wouldn't have shown up until the last ten minutes).

It's not that I dislike school plays, I accept they are part of the parenting contract and are to be endured, but bringing small children along to these events inevitably create problems..

-'I see your bum bum' pipes up three year old.

-Shhhhhhhhh! 

-'I see your big bum bum' replies five year old.

-'I wanna sit on the step!' demands three year old.

-'No, sit down and be quiet' I hiss.

-'I wanna', he whines.

-'So do I' lisps five year old.

-'No, now both sit down and I'll give you a treat after wards if you're good' I bargain.

-'Can we go to the toy shop and get a Sonic toy?' asks five year old.

-'Yes, yes, later on... just please be quiet, people are looking at us' I beg,  feeling eyes boring into the back of my head.


-'But I wanna sit on the step with the kids' lisps five year old again.

-'Yeah...pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease??' they both beg.

-'Oh go on then'  I give in.

Off they toddled to the steps in the middle of the auditorium where several other smaller siblings were watching.  Of course this just made it worse because now they were out of my reach and I could no longer whisper death threats into their ears.

-'I see your willy' I hear from the steps.

-'You big bum bum' (this has pretty much been their entire repertoire for the past couple of years).

-'That mans an idiot!!'

-'Stupid idiot!'


The man closest to three year old was clearly growing more and more vexed with them...throwing furious glances at them every couple of minutes.

Since they were no longer near me I tried to pretend I didn't know who they were.

Finally nine year old daughter appeared on the stage (without her costume...she was supposed to be a fisherman but had left her costume in the art room and so was wearing a pink summer dress).

Three year old, overjoyed at her sudden appearance yelled her name at the top of his voice. The entire audience turned to look at him. So he did it again.

Luckily the play was almost over so we could escape. On the way out several parents thanked me for the side show entertainment, several threw withering looks. Well, you can't please all the people all of the time, and who knows, had I left them alone and crying as babies they might have sat quietly at my side throughout the performance.  Somehow I doubt it.

The link between fertility and abbattoirs....

I knew something was up when I got my clothes back from the laundry and there was a newborn baby outfit among them.  

A few weeks later I bought something in the chemist and the assistant threw a dozen baby’s bibs into the bag for free.  

From that moment on I knew my days were numbered and that Demeter, the Greek goddess of fertility would claim me sooner or later.

Yes dear reader, this mother of four is soon to become a mother of five.

Coming from a long line of very fertile women (my sister has 8 children), fertility for me is not so much a blessing as an affliction.  I realise this isn't a popular statement to make, coming from a generation of women who were told that they had choices, one of which was to postpone childbirth until their thirties only to find that nature had played a cruel trick, that the thirty-something doesn't conceive as easily as the twenty-something.  My heart goes out to women who struggle to conceive; it is frustrating, disheartening and utterly unfair.

However, there is a flip side to this which can be equally frustrating when a careless night out with too much champagne results in something a tad more permanent than a hangover!

So, here I am with baby number five in waiting.  After the initial few days of pure, knee-buckling shock, I’m starting to adjust to my fate.  Of course that’s providing it’s a girl.  Our catalogue can just about accommodate another female in the house.  A boy, on the other hand,  is totally out of the question and should I discover another male is on the way I'll be on the phone to Madonna quicker than you can say 'forget Malawi'.

I love that scene at the end of the movie,  ‘The story of us’, when Michelle Pfeifer and Bruce Willis decide, after a separation, to give their marriage another go; cue a series of touching flashbacks tracing their lives together.  It goes something like this-

Bruce (obviously wearing wig) meets Michelle in college; Bruce proposes to Michelle; fun scene painting their first house, together;  Michelle tells Bruce she’s pregnant;  birth of baby;  Michelle tells Bruce she’s pregnant again; another birth of baby; child comes into their bedroom and lisps ‘I’ve got chicken pots’ etc etc…

You get the idea.  The scene is accompanied by a swelling classical guitar piece and I sob everytime I see it, over-sentimentalising my history with DH.  

Unfortunately, my truth is rather less touching.  If I were to run a series of clips of DH’s reaction every time I announced there was another baby on the way, it would go something like this;-

2000       Me: ‘I’m pregnant’

   DH: 'Oh shit’

2002      Me: ‘Guess what.... I’m pregnant’

  DH: ‘Serious? Oh jaysus....'

2004      Me: ‘I’m pregnant again’

  DH: ‘Again?  Hahahaha....Ah for f*cks sake…serious? Ah shit!’

2006      Me: ‘I can’t believe it, I’m pregnant again’

  DH: ‘Ah jeez…no way….no way….ah shit’

2010      Me: (this time) ‘(sob) Oh my god, I’m pregnant’

  DH: Oh god, ah well, another one won't make any difference at this stage.......

This last response was uncharacteristically semi-positive since I was so distraught he was obliged to take the opposing viewpoint.

I don't mean to be hard on DH, he loves each and every one of them passionately, but I can't help but think that given the choice he'd much rather it was just the two of us again.  I think every man would admit to this if pushed on the subject.

The children’s responses have been varied.  Eight year old girl is very much looking forward to finally having a sister (I know, I know....I'll deal with that one later on). 

Seven year old boy wants to know if we can call it ‘Sonic’.  I said I’d think about it.

Five year old boy wants to know if it will be born with a sword.  I said I rather hope it won’t.

Three year old boy lifted up my top and said ‘is there a baby in your boobies mummy?’ (which given the impressive increase in size is a fair comment actually)

There are the positives of course.  Overnight I've become a one-woman detox-unit as the mere thought of alcohol makes me want to lie face down on a cool tiled floor and wait for the nausea to pass.  And as  DH indulges in his nightly tipple, I look on with contempt, pitying his pathetic enslavement to the bottle (I know from past experience that this aversion will last until exactly one minute after delivery whereupon I shall be yelling for the Champagne).

However, the negatives are several.  The sure knowledge that my girth will increase, regardless of what I eat or how many times I do sit-ups, is a soul-destroying surety.  And my criteria for a passable outfit will dwindle to what I can wrestle myself into, as opposed to whether it is attractive, suitable or appropriate.  During my first pregnancy, in my wisdom I decided to eschew maternity wear, reasoning that I would only be pregnant once and so it would be a waste of money anyhow.  A glowing example of false economy if ever there was one.

But the biggest issue for me is the impending childbirth itself.  An event as inevitable as death and as unavoidable as a photo of Posh in a copy of 'OK magazine'.  No matter which way you look at it, there is only one obstacle between my unborn child and this earth, and that is a hard truth to live with.

I'm not particularly squeamish, I rarely visit the doctor and consider myself fairly robust.  However, childbirth for me is akin to a slow, sadistic execution.  The best comparison I can come up with is that scene at the end of Braveheart when Mel Gibson is drawn and quartered in front of a baying crowd.  It's like that, but worse.  

And I know its a cliche, but I truly believe that were men to give birth the population would dwindle to a few hundred, half of whom would be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

And a tour of the delivery suite is as tempting as a guided tour of an abattoir.  I am not fooled by the plastic pot plants and peach walls, those places are barbaric.

As I approach the three month mark, I'm busy letting people know of my condition lest they think I've merely let myself go and can't be bothered to hold in my stomach.  Of course it's all downhill from now on but I shall sit tight, exploit the rare love being shown to my liver, and enjoy the ride. 

Planes and ageing brains

I've had bloggers block.  I think my brain atrophied and died slightly over the festive season from the massive consumption of alcoholic beverages I consumed.  It's not my fault; Ireland was so cold that anything more ambitious than sitting in front of the fire in a pub drinking hot whiskeys seemed sheer madness. 

My brain was further destroyed by the return trip from hell which featured an ill-advised stopover in Istanbul, something which I quickly told myself would be an experience when I saw the cost of the flights (half that of a direct flight).  The reality was something similar to childbirth in terms of the cyclical agony as the children ran the wrong way down the travelator in the departure lounge, over and over and over...

Predictably our plane was delayed,  and so as everyone gathered around the departures screen anxiously scanning it for updates, we started pushing our way to the priority boarding point to avail of our right to board first since we suffered the tragic affliction of 4 very lively children.  As the children, now thoroughly bored, rolled around on the floor, stopping occasionally to thump each other, a kindly greying gent approached my very cute three year old and patted him on the head 'go away athh hooole' he lisped, as the entire group looked on, furiously hoping they wouldn't be seated beside us.  Blushing I ushered three year old away but what can you say to that?  Like I said, childbirth.  Without the epidural.

The flight itself wasn't too bad, although a wriggling three year old wouldn't be my travelling companion of choice, not least because of his insistence on repeatedly flipping the table on the back of the seat in front of him up and down.  After the 89th time it just gets old and one grows tired of apologising to the person in front.  This tedium was only relieved by the appearance of a 'gift' from the airline to all the children on the flight.  This gift featured a plastic bag containing a mini Turkish Airways plane with stickers and an inflatable Turkish Airways plane.  The boys fell on these gifts enthusiastically although I had to clamp my hand over 5 year old boys mouth as he held up the inflatable plane and announced, loudly-

'mummy, I know how to blow up this plane!'

But age does take its toll on mind and body and I find myself becoming increasingly desperate to stop this slow march toward inevitable decrepitude and a slow painful death.

Obviously the only way to deal with this decline is through a healthy diet, no alcohol, lots of exercise and positive thinking.  Personally I prefer over-priced miracle creams and moisturisers.   Although I must admit to being quite baffled by the huge variety of creams on the market.  What happens if you use a 'night cream' during the day for example?  Or 'hand cream' on your face? (I do both regularly)

And what are the seven signs of ageing?    They never tell you in the ads.  Could it be memory loss..(.lost keys, anyone)?  Or perhaps difficulty in straightening up when you stand up too quickly?  Maybe it's feeling invisible to the opposite sex (although the obvious formula to that is move to the Middle East where any woman, ugly or not, will most definitely be stared at with a curiosity usually adopted by your dentist or gynaecologist)?  Perhaps it's a gradual depression which descends slowly as it dawns on you that all your dreams have been unrealised and your life has been ultimately empty?  Or maybe it's wearing nylon-elastic-waisted pleated-skirts thus becoming an embarrassment to your family... or stress incontinence.  I could go on...

Another nuisance with the whole ageing process is the inability to drink more than half a bottle of wine without suffering from a hangover the next day.  I'm beginning to gravitate towards the whole never drinking again thing, as it seems the only sensible solution to these lost days spent quietly dying on the sofa.  Although, on the last day of our trip, we met with one of my oldest friends for a drink in our hotel.  I looked forward to a few swift ones while catching up.

During our hey day we shared a flat and my god could she drink.  Her favourite tipple for getting drunk was a pint of Smithwicks with a shot of whiskey thrown in to it.  She used to regularly fall into bed with a half eaten takeaway and a bottle of whiskey surrounded by dog ends and debris.  And vomiting in the street was no foreign country to her.  A sort of walking-talking real life version of Tracy Emmins 'unmade bed'.  She always made me feel pure and wholesome by comparison by virtue of the fact that she was so god damn unhealthy.  However,  to my dismay on this occasion she swept into the bar looking radiant with health and ordered a mineral water as myself and DH looked on open mouthed.

-'Don't you want a real drink?' I asked.

-'God no, I'm not drinking' she replied.  'Nobody I know drinks any more'

-'Really? Whoops!'  I gestured toward my half empty glass.

-'No' she continued, ’all my friends talk about now is running.  And community gardening, don't you know we're too old for this, have to start thinking about our health'

This was news to me.  Suddenly myself and DH felt as outdated and anachronistic as a pair of old drunks sitting at the back of the pub droning on about the 'good ol' days'.

DH got up to go to the bar and made a sly 'drink?' gesture as he passed.  I nodded guiltily.  But hey, it was the last day of our hols, we felt entitled, didn't we?

'I don't know how you do it to be honest, with four kids and all, since the baby I just can't keep awake long enough to drink' she observed.

She's not alone in these observations, practically everyone I know says the same.  Which makes me wonder if I'm hanging on by my broken fingernails to a youth which has passed.  Is it, in fact, time to hang up my dancing shoes, throw out the Chablis, and settle down to the task of being a grown up? 


Perhaps it is, but I resist with every fibre of my being and bristle at the 'I don't know how you...' speeches I so frequently encounter.

Here's my top 6 most hated 'I don't know how you's....'

-I don't know how you manage to read books, what with four kids and all  (why, did they remove my brain in the delivery room along with the child?)

-I don't know how you manage to email me regularly, I'm just soooo busy with my pregnancy/one child/school run' (I suspect there's time for Oprah and Dr. Phil)

-I don't know how you manage to go to classes and learn new things all the time (currently piano..and why do you have to stop learning new things after you leave school?  Assuming you live for 80 years, and you finished school at 18, that reasoning makes the assumption that you've learned everything you need to know in less than the first quarter of your life.  That's illogical )

-I don't know how you manage to go shopping and buy actual clothes (well frankly neither do I considering what's available in the shops these days, but you know, Boden DO deliver to the Middle East)

-I don't know how you can still go out to dinner, get drunk and end up in a night club (very occasionally, but still nice to bop around a dance floor believing I am THE disco queen)

-And my favourite 'I don't know how you can type at the computer with all those little ones pulling at the keyboard'  (err, well, I made a pact with the children from the start, 'I do what I'm doing, you do what you're doing' and never the twain unless they need feeding, changing, comforting....the result, quite independent and creative children who do not rely on me to entertain them...oh, and a huge amount of telly helps)

Anyway, as I recently pointed out to a friend after the 'I don't know how you do it ...' speech, 'I don't know what else I'm supposed to be doing'.  And that, dear reader, is the truth.

So anyway, it's a new year, new opportunities and lots of drama ahead methinks.  But that's for next time...