Christmas parties past and present...

So DH has his Christmas staff party tonight and I am reminded of the many, many staff parties there have been over the years - good, bad and downright ugly.

There was the first (and only) staff party for the company he worked for in Abu Dhabi. I think fondly of this one as it was not long after we arrived in the UAE and I had lost a startling amount of weight with absolutely no effort whatsoever. Travelling from Al Ain to Abu Dhabi for the big night, I took great pleasure in buying a gorgeous, strapless purple number from Reiss in Marina Mall which was a UK size 10 and ever so slightly too big. (It now hangs, unloved and unworn in my wardrobe, unlikely to ever be zipped up again...)

As always, it isn't a Christmas party unless we haul the entire brood with us, installing them in the hotel room with TV and the room service menu while we party it on downstairs. At the time the eldest was only 8 so we got a babysitter to the room. The poor girl was Ethiopian and hadn't a word of English. As the children catapulted across beds and sofas, yelling in delight at a new place to sleep, her eyes pleaded with me to stay. "It's fine, you'll be fine" I reassured her as I backed out of the room, "...just, just don't let them kill each other..." before fleeing downstairs to join DH.

Because DH's employers were from Saudi Arabia, the party was to be 'dry' (ie no alcohol - whaaaaaaaaaaat??). We were of course horrified on learning this, but were quickly reassured by the waiter that we could order drinks to the table, as long as we were discreet.

And we were discreet, although our discretion seemed a little redundant when the Malaysian guy at the next table started necking brandy from the bottle.

The whole evening ended messily - as is necessary with Christmas parties - and we woke to discover that DH, who had been too pissed to undo his cuff links the night before and couldn't get his hands out of his shirt, had slept face down with his arms bound behind his back in sado-masochistic fashion. Christ knows what the poor babysitter thought...

Our first Christmas party in Perth followed months of FIFO (fly in fly out) which anyone who follows this blog will know, sent me in to a downward spiral of depression and so it was with mixed feelings that I donned my Bollywood outfit for a night of fun and japes courtesy of the company that kept my husband 1600 kms away from me for much of the time (or at least that's how I saw it in my muggy, depressed mind).

The evening started off cordially enough, but when, three drinks in, his employer asked me how I liked Australia, I didn't hold back on my opinion of the fly in fly out lifestyle and how it was tearing families apart across the country, and how a generation hence there would be dire consequences for all concerned - both parents and children. Then I said a bit more. Then a bit more after that. By the end of the conversation I was practically in tears and he was reassessing whether DH was the right guy for the job.

The evening ended when I sent a table of drinks flying and DH marched me up to bed. I'll admit it wasn't my finest hour.

Three weeks later DH, having been summoned by his employer to discuss his future with the company, was gently 'let go' to find a more suitable and family friendly position. He still blames me to this day for losing him that job.*

Last year we were living in Paraburdoo, 1600kms north of Perth and half a century away from civilisation. When we received the invite to the staff Christmas party, I instantly went online to buy a suitable party dress - after all, going shopping wasn't an option in the bush.

On the day of the party, we dressed in our finest; sparkly shoes and red satin dress for me, tuxedo shirt and trousers for DH (too hot for a jacket in midsummer in the Pilbara) and set off. On approaching the entrance to the party, I noticed people milling in and out wearing casual shorts, vests, thongs (flip flops), slouchy beach dresses and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that Paraburdoo was not quite like anywhere else - it danced to its own unique tune. If Australia is considered laid-back, Paraburdoo is horizontal.

"Drive on!" I instructed DH urgently, and we dashed home to change into something slightly more appropriate.
The party was actually quite dull, only made worthy of comment by the old codger who lived several doors up from us, who rather indiscreetly took a photo of my boobs with his phone when he thought I wasn't looking. I don't think he was counting on the camera making a loud clicking sound and he quickly hid the phone and glanced nonchalantly around him as if nothing had happened, confident he'd gotten away with it. I suppose he did get away with it although I shudder to think what he does with that photo...

So here's to the ghost of Christmas parties past, present and future - and to staying away from the boss and the office perv, who may or may not be one and the same, I'll know later tonight. Cheers!

*A cruel irony, the day we left Perth for the UK we drove around our old neighbourhood in Helena Valley and noticed a new housing estate was being built by - you guessed it - the employer he left because of FIFO. Our lives could have panned out very differently had he stayed with them a bit longer since there is little doubt he would have been placed on that very job, minutes from our home. Ho hum...

A missing boy....

It happens in a split second doesn’t it? One moment you’re browsing the underwear section, trying to decide between the Spanx or Charnos control pants for that dinner party, while the two-year-old tugs a rack of bras down on his head; the next moment he’s gone.

I lost my son in a mall once. He was two and a half at the time. We were in Marks and Spencer and he had freed himself from his buggy to look at the toys with his sister. He always did this and, unconcerned, I ventured over to a nearby section to browse the toiletries and cookery books, confident that both children would still be there when I returned. 

But when I did, five minutes later, I found my daughter leafing through a book, alone.

‘Where is Oscar?’  I demanded. ‘I don’t know’, she shrugged. ‘Can I have this?’ she held up a Disney Princess diary.

He must have followed me over to the toiletries, I told myself calmly. Yes that’s what happened.

Pushing the empty buggy, I wandered over to the toiletries. He was not there. He was not in the underwear section either. Or the food aisle. My knees started to slacken, my feet became light.

Giddily I retraced my steps once, twice, three times, scanning the area for his familiar dark curls, before appealing to a member of staff for help. Within a minute, word of the missing two-year-old had reached every security guard in the mall.

Throat tight with fear, my mind turned dark. Had a malevolent stranger seized upon the wandering toddler and calmly lead him out of my life forever? Children of that age are heart-breakingly trusting. He could be ten kilometres away by now, speeding towards another city - now eleven - now twelve. Soon he could be in another country.

Statistically a child has more chance of dying from falling out of bed than being abducted by a stranger, but when your child is missing, logic flies out the window.

Oscar had been missing for half an hour - thirty minutes – a lifetime. Every parent knows the sickening fear of losing sight of a child for thirty seconds in a busy place; your heart tilts ever so slightly on its axis, the blood thunders loudly in your head. But half an hour? I was starting to hyperventilate. Had he wandered into the stock room and been crushed by a falling pallet? Had he wandered out of the mall entrance and into the path of a speeding car? Was he still alive?

I hurried out of Marks and Spencer and into the mall, scouring each store, imploring security guards as I went; ‘please keep an eye out. He’s this high. He looks like a girl’.

He’d been gone for 45 minutes and I was beginning to doubt I would ever see him again. A woman walked past pushing a buggy. I peered in to get a better look at the child inside.

I had heard a story about a blonde girl being snatched in Disneyland. Security had been notified and a watch was set up on the exit. Many, many hours later, a man carrying a sleeping, dark-haired child approached the exit. The mother of the missing girl - who stood sentinel on the exit -  noticed the child was wearing the same red shoes as her own daughter. It was her daughter. She had been drugged and disguised with a wig.

This story unhelpfully elbowed its way into my mind as I helplessly searched for my son.

Then suddenly calm descended on me, I don’t know why - call it a sharp maternal instinct - but I suddenly knew with certainty where he was. I found myself heading to an area at the far side of the mall, under the escalators, where several small rides were located. Rounding the corner, I held a long breath. There he was, sitting on a motionless Bob the Builder ride, tinkering away with the knobs, blissfully unaware of the hour long ordeal I had endured, of the cavernous future which had briefly loomed ahead of me, punctuated by his loss. He looked up with a beaming smile, ‘mama!’

(An edited version of this column first appeared in Good Taste Magazine (Dubai) in January 2013.)

Jeremy Kyle addiction and why I don't mind paying council tax...

It’s hard to believe we left Paraburdoo just over a month ago; looking back on it, that life seems like a bizarre half dream, the type you get after you’ve drank too much champagne then fallen asleep in front of a blaring telly.

Life in our new home has settled into a comfortable rhythm; the older children head out across the frosty garden each morning, while the daylight is still struggling to establish itself, to take the (free) school bus to a neighbouring village where they attend their secondary school.

Having seen them off, I’ll snuggle back in the sofa bed (the marital bed is on a ship somewhere in the South Atlantic and won’t be here for another month) with a cup of coffee in front of Good Morning Britain, cuddled up to the smaller children until it's time to get dressed.

Watching this show should be illegal...it's a time thief! 

The four-year-old is now in (also free) playschool five mornings a week, something which has left me at a loss; rattling around the house is a strangely lonely experience and I’ve found myself slipping into some very bad habits. Yes, I’m ashamed to admit I find myself most mornings standing, open-mouthed, in front of the freak show which is Jeremy Kyle. I swear if this rather depressing display of humanity was all I’d witnessed of the UK before arriving, I would never have come, but my God it's hard to look away from the spectacle. 

But I’m realising that there are many benefits to living here. Yes, the council tax is an enormous pain in the arse, BUT as a result of this fee, I’m not expected to provide school books – neither text nor copybooks –  for the children, or even so much as a pencil case.

In addition, the boys are receiving heavily subsidised guitar lessons (it works out at something like £6 per lesson) while the school lunches they get are just £2 a day. This is wonderful for me - I absolutely loathe making school lunches, not least because I feel I should pack things their teachers would be impressed with (fruit, wholemeal bread) rather than what they'll actually eat (individual Cheerio bags, Fruit Winders) with the result they usually come back uneaten.

And then there is the NHS - oh God bless'em. Until now all I'd read about the world famous National Health Service was the overcrowded hospitals, dogged by waiting lists and with a reputation for poor practices and abuses.

When a couple of weeks ago the 10-year-old complained of (and there’s no good way to say this) a swollen testicle, I took him to the local GP for his opinion. Without hesitation he whipped out his notebook saying he was referring him to the John Radcliffe hospital immediately.

Within a couple of hours we were watching 'Tangled' on a loop in the waiting room of the children’s A&E before he was whisked up to surgery for an investigation.

He was fine, it was a relatively straightforward procedure, but I was gobsmacked by the efficiency and better, that the entire episode cost me nothing more than a little worry and several cups of vending machine coffee. I also got a comfy bed beside him in the ward for the night – a definite bonus considering our bed situation at present. And despite the pain and slight damage to his pride - not to mention his balls - I think he rather enjoyed all the attention.

Of course services – educational, medical or other – depend on the area you live in and I have no doubt things would be very different in a depressed urban setting, but I must report that our experience was a positive one.

So things are working out and the kids are happy. As for me, I’m casting about for ideas as to what to do with myself. With the four-year-old in playschool five mornings a week I’m keenly aware that I should be earning actual money (or at least break the Jeremy Kyle cycle). I signed up to a writing service website which allocates writing jobs to freelance writers. I was hopeful it would yield a bit of cash for writing dull blog posts on wood burning stoves or car maintenance (the jobs are quite diverse) but tragically it turns out the pay averages at less than 1p a word, an amount even I won't work for.

I could so do this!

Perhaps the Women's Institute is the answer although my knitting and jam-making skills are painfully lacking. Make that non-existent. Having said that I rather fancy doing a pottery course and becoming the next Emma Bridgewater; yes I can definitely see myself at a potter's wheel creating beautiful pieces. Or even bad pieces for that matter. Either way it's surely better than spending all day watching toothless men having DNA paternity tests, or screaming women being exposed by lie detector machines?

Well, just about...

Low expectations and nice surprises; why moving to the UK was a good idea...

When we first moved to Paraburdoo I wrote here about how one of the things I've really enjoyed about my life over the past few years, is the experience of stepping from one world into another; something which requires little more than a job offer, the will to do it and the cost of the air fare.

The Pilbara outback couldn't be more different to the Oxfordshire countryside; they are both beautiful and unique in their own right and I'm so lucky to have been able to live in both.

But moving to the UK was a daunting prospect and one I'd been avoiding for years. There's something predictable and prosaic about Irish people in need of work moving 't'England' and I squirmed at the idea.

Having spent my first ten years in the UK I was well acquainted with the Irish clubs and Paddy's day celebrations spent eulogising about home. I'd been to the pubs of Cricklewood and Neasden where the long-termers spoke with that funny half Irish, half English brogue.

For me the term 'expat' has glamorous connotations of gins on the veranda and exotic heat, it's not really a term used for living a forty minute flight from home.

I was also worried about what the UK would actually be like.  My impression of the place - gleaned from watching countless gritty dramas on the telly - was of a horribly overcrowded, unfriendly, tired-looking place, over run with shopping centres and retail parks.

And yes, parts of the UK would certainly fit this description, but happily my experience so far has been completely at odds with my low expectations.

The part of northern Oxfordshire we've moved to is breathtakingly beautiful, with village after village of old stone cottages and thatched roofs. I had thought that these sort of places were few and far between - a touristy charade reserved for culture-hungry Americans or film crews. I hadn't realised that entire counties looked like this. Our new home is surrounded by fields and the village school is a two minute walk for the children. As for the people, despite expecting them to be inflexible and unfriendly we've been met with nothing but kindness and helpfulness.

But boy do they drive fast and with purpose! I had become used to the relatively laid back roads of WA - (particularly after the insanity of the UAE roads); everyone here has a mission and the roads are fast and busy. I guess this is a good metaphor for the country as a whole - 'busy' - which is why I presume it has survived the recession in a way that Ireland simply couldn't.

But what I hadn't expected at all was to feel instantly at home here. Having been raised with the 'them and us' mindset many of us have in Ireland, I never expected to feel almost as if I was in Ireland. It is so similar to home here - especially if you've come from the Pilbara! - verdant, wet, rural although far less wild. Ireland has a rawness to its beauty; harsh and unyielding at times.

The village itself has little more than a school, a pub (the Griffin, which myself and DH escaped to last Saturday night!) and an enormous 13th century church, but with the market town of Banbury just five miles down the road there is everything we need on our doorstep.

But already my perception of distance is altering. London feels as if it is very far away although it's not much further than Tom Price is to Paraburdoo - a journey I made at least once a week to do my shopping without much of a thought. One local described the village as being 'far from civilisation' and I had to snort with laughter at that. And the barmaid in the local pub told me she wasn't local, but was from two villages over!

Cath Kidston handbags are de rigeur here

My passion for Cath Kidston fabrics - something I developed a decade ago - is unremarkable here. The girls' cloakroom at the kids' school is a sea of ditzy florals (helped no doubt by the discount Cath Kidston store in nearby Bicester Village) and the school even holds an annual Joules Clothing sale - a fact which sold the place to me instantly. And they don't hold Tupperware parties here, but Boden parties - yes you read that correctly. So you see, dear reader, I've found my spiritual home.

So it's all good and we're in the honeymoon stage of our old friend Culture Shock. Decorating the house and discovering our surroundings is fun although I may start to get a little vexed with the house if the so-called and inappropriately named 'handy man' doesn't quickly become handy. There is hardly a door that closes or a window that opens properly although I don't care, I am in love with this house, although DH wears a morose and vaguely suicidal look every time he thinks about the cost of renting it.

In celebration of the Middle Child!

An edited version of this column appeared in the May 2014 edition of Good Taste Magazine (Dubai).

I’ve noticed that I rarely mention the middle child in this column. Unfortunately I think an occupational hazard of being a middle child is that you tend to go unnoticed quite a lot – especially in the middle of five - so today this column is devoted to the often overlooked but never undervalued child in the middle.

The middle child in this family is nine, his name is Jude (yes, after the song), and he is my invisible child.

According to the experts, birth order and sibling relations have a powerful impact on personality traits, self-esteem and even ambition – where we come in the family can quite literally determine what sort of person we turn into.

For example, world leaders are overwhelmingly first born children. First-borns are trailblazers, receive most of the attention and identify strongly with power - certainly my eldest child has a very domineering personality and is extremely ambitious and independent. She will rule the world one day - or at least Ireland - I’m sure of it.

As each child is born, parental control relaxes and by the time the youngest child arrives, the family dynamic is very different. Inevitably youngest children receive a lot of attention and may be charming, manipulative, rebellious and disorganised (this is all true, I’m a youngest child!). They also tend to opt for a very different path to their older siblings; often living abroad or working in a creative industry. Or both. Certainly, my youngest child dances to his own unique, demented tune.

My second eldest is broody, moody and shy, having been overshadowed by his older sister his whole life. This isn’t uncommon for second eldest children who often feel an inadequacy compared to their older, more vocal sibling. My second youngest - having been the baby of the family for four years before his little brother came along - has a big, loud and charming personality.

And then, amid all these large, battling personalities as they jostle for attention, the middle child looks on thoughtfully. He's so different to the others that sometimes I wonder if he’s a foundling, beamed down from some other planet, or left on our doorstep by fairies. There is a calmness in him that is almost unsettling at times, like his name there is a simple completeness about him. He even looks different to the other four; like me, they are plump and pink of cheek, with the Celtic combination of dark-hair and blue eyes. The middle child on the other hand is wiry, with olive skin and sharp green, almond shaped eyes. People are often surprised he belongs to me at all (thankfully he resembles DH's 

family or questions would be asked!)

We’ve all heard the term ‘middle child syndrome’; of the resentful and bitter adult who felt overlooked as a child. But actually middle children have some rather special qualities in my opinion. Jude is wonderfully indifferent to any rows that go on, always preferring to watch than take part. While the others may bicker and fight and quite often draw blood from one another, he will stand back and wait for them to finish, often throwing me a glance which says, ‘they’re at it again!’ When the seven-year-old asked me, recently ‘what does neutral mean?’ I immediately replied, ‘to stay out of fights, like Switzerland. Or Jude.’

Studies on middle children show that they tend to be more outgoing than their siblings, because they’ve had to learn to be flexible and vocal if they want to be heard. Compromise is something they learn early on, they are more relaxed, have less to prove and have to think outside the box as a way of getting their parents’ attention, and are often entrepreneurial. Bill Gates is a middle child, so is Donald Trump.

Middle children tend to forge strong relationships outside of the family home too – perhaps as an escape from the rivalry and chaos. Certainly Jude has more sleepovers at friends’ houses than the rest of them put together, and is never short of pals. His friendships are always water-tight and fiercely loyal. 

His unconcern for what people think about him is truly refreshing and he won’t blink an eye if I’ve run out of boy-coloured socks for school, and is forced to wear his sister’s pink ones instead. It scarcely raises a comment, unlike his brothers who would flatly refuse to suffer such indignity! And if a compromise needs to be made with the contents of a school lunch box or breakfast option, it is always Jude I'll ask to make it.

I read some tips recently on how to bolster your child's confidence and prevent middle child syndrome, one of which was to ensure your child knows how special and unique they are, since instilling a good self-worth can serve them well in adulthood. 

This sounds like good advice to me. So Jude, my funny, unusual, green-eyed boy on this Middle Child's Day, if you’re reading this, consider it done!

Weight and want and why I am leaving...

I haven't properly blogged in quite a while. I'm not entirely sure why this is, but I think outback living has awakened an inner gravity I always suspected I possessed but never properly explored. My sense of the ridiculous has fled, the scrapes I get into are few and far between these days. Writing my light-hearted monthly parenting column has become a struggle.

In addition, in the isolation of my little kitchen a thousand miles away from the world, I've become weighed down by stories, preoccupied by the news - ebola, is it a plot to exterminate us? Gaza - what hope is there? Flight MH17 who did it? Putin a force for good or evil? American propaganda, when will the world wake up? Flight MH370 where did it go? Will they ever investigate the fall of Tower 7?

Every morning I read the news all the way to the bottom of the page and the words make me heavier. All the while the question of my life in Australia growing all the more urgent. I turned 41 last birthday and it felt as if a time ticker had been set off, the second half of my life was underway and I was living in a place I didn't want to be. As the months have passed the ticking has become louder, it taunts me: 'the longer you stay here, the harder it will be to leave'. 

I spoke to a woman on Facebook recently, we are strangers but message each other occasionally about our lives, FIFO, Australia and the all important question of returning to Ireland. She told me she was in her late 40s and as much as she would love to return to Ireland, she knew she couldn't, she was too old to start again. This struck a chord with me and filled me with panic. This would be me in another half a decade.

But as heavy as the news stories have weighed on me, the question of how to leave has weighed even heavier. It seems impossible, unmanageable, terrifying - a complicated logistical nightmare. You begin to feel you are no longer in charge of your own life, you are but a finger - wetted and held up to the wind - in an effort to see which way it's blowing.

Until one day you wake up and say 'no, feck it!' You realise your life is too precious to obsess on the ills of the world, as you drag your increasingly heavy carcass around behind you. To miss your daughter and feel you're slowly losing her, as her unfamiliar form comes through the airport, older, wiser, - with bosoms! - no longer feeling like she came from you, from this fold, this family. A stranger. She even smells different to the others now.

And then one day you look in the mirror and no longer recognise yourself anymore. You look old. You look resigned. You are also a stranger. That's the day you say to yourself, 'let's just leave'.

And so we're leaving. The details are as yet undeveloped but Europe has picked up enormously in the past three years. So while we were extremely grateful for the opportunity of a job in Australia, it has ceased to be the only option. And so once more I'm up to my knees in packing boxes, nursing a hope and a fear of something else.

Because life isn't just about making a living, having a job, although those things are important. Life is about family, belonging, and yes, getting into scrapes and seeking out the ridiculous. Life is something I have been viewing through my laptop for the last two and a half years and I want back in.

Many Irish people come to Australia, fall in love with it, settle down and spend the rest of their lives here. Good for them - really - good for them, I'm a little jealous even while I find that prospect terrifying. As a friend said to me almost two years ago now - give in to it. Just give in to Australia.

But I can't. This is my fault - my intractable, unshakable belief that I couldn't - wouldn't - live out my days here - it was just a little holiday - has coloured my experience and created a sense of waiting, punching in and out of each day, but always waiting for home time.

I'm glad I came and experienced Australia, glad the kids know a new national anthem, have experienced a different culture and perspective. Certainly there have been happy times here although I'll never complain about the drive from Galway to Dublin EVER again. But as a friend told me recently, 'you did a good job of selling it for a long time, but lately you've gone quiet'. The compromise of FIFO was too much, the bush seemed like a good alternative. And it was for a while. But not being able to bear witness to the remnants of my daughter's childhood is a compromise too far and I want her back under my roof, being part of us again.

And I want autumn! And I want snow! And I want Christmas back - it simply doesn't feel like Christmas here in December. But what I want most of all is to feel I'm not simply putting in the hours, chiming down the days, but living. Properly living. I also want this blog to be funny again. And it will be. I promise, it really will be.

Why labelling kids is wrong...

We’ve been pretty lucky health-wise with our kids (touch wood!). Two of them have never seen a doctor for anything other than immunisation, and apart from the time when four of them came down with chicken pox, we’ve been troubled by little more than the odd sniffle.

We did, however, go through a scare with the ten-year-old boy several years back, when we thought he might be autistic. I’ve chosen to write about this because only last week yet another friend confided she was having two of her kids tested for autism, and it struck me that this is something I hear all too often from other mothers.

Before I go any further, I want to say two things: firstly, I’m not a medical expert, and am talking purely about my own experiences. Secondly, autism is a very serious condition and my heart goes out to anyone with an autistic child, it is not an easy path.

But I do wonder if these ‘spectrum’ conditions – such as autism, Aspergers, ADD -- are over-diagnosed at times.

When my son first started school his teacher pulled me aside and asked me if he had hearing problems. He didn’t, I told her, but was often ‘on another planet’ and didn’t listen. She raised a sceptical eyebrow.

A couple of weeks later, she told me he was showing signs of dyspraxia – his fine and gross motor skills weren’t very well developed and he was uncoordinated; he might need therapy. These words were unfamiliar to me, and I was fearful. Were things really that bad? I wondered. Sure, he was a bit clumsy, and a little ‘odd’; he tended to fixate on things, and at the time was obsessed with Pinocchio. The obsessions shifted over time from Greek Gods, to Woody from Toy Story (he would  stare at his picture on a piece of paper for ages...just staring). He wouldn’t look you in the eye.

Some months later we moved to the UAE, and having seen his school report, his new school refused to admit him until he was psychologically assessed. I was frantic; what if they wouldn’t take him? What if he if had to go to a special needs school?

Mercifully the school were satisfied by the assessment, and grudgingly admitted him, but his behaviour over the following weeks became increasingly erratic. He would throw tantrums each morning before school, would escape from his classroom and generally cause mayhem. And the swearing! Words like Tourettes, Aspergers and dyslexia were tossed casually around by the teachers.

He couldn’t read. During a school show, while the other six-year-olds read lines from cards, he tumbled around at the back of the stage yelling rude words until he was removed. I clamped my mouth to conceal my hysterical, terrified giggles.

I was advised to have him formally assessed again. This time the psychologist concluded he was on the autistic spectrum, albeit high-functioning.

I was frightened; my shy, gentle, odd little boy was dragging me into new territory; a terrifying world of appointments and therapy, of special needs assistants and labels. What did the future hold for him?

His teacher confided one day that she felt he lacked confidence, partly due to his inability to read.

I mulled this over for a while, and then as with all of life’s quandaries, took to the internet to find a solution. I came across a programme claiming to help children to read (easyreadsystem.com), and I signed up immediately. And reader, it was magic! Fifteen minutes a day for a week is all it took for him to be able to read simple words. In a month he was level with his peers. After two months I cancelled my subscription, his reading level had shot up, and his bad behaviour had stopped entirely.

My son is now ten, and although still a little unusual, I love him all the more for it. He spells better than me, reads voraciously into the small hours, and is a gifted and creative writer who invents his own words. Yes he’s a bit of a loner, but kind and empathetic. He can look me in the eye.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had gone down the route of therapy with him; if I had -- at such a young age -- marked him out as ‘different’. If I had pandered to his so-called ‘special needs’, as so many other frightened and confused parents do these days. Who knows,  I’m just glad I didn’t find out.
(This column appeared in Good Taste Magazine in June 2013).

Up in Smoke....

One of my favourite memories from childhood is of my mother creeping into my bedroom late at night -- following a party or dinner out -- a little tipsy, and reeking from the heady mix of Bacardi and coke, YSL’s ‘Youth Dew’, and a dozen Silk Cut purple cigarettes. 

Full of conviviality and rum, she would whisper promises of treats and trips-out into my sleepy ear, before tiptoeing out of the room to rejoin my father downstairs for a night cap. Snuggling down under the covers, I would drift off into a contented slumber with her loving words still dancing in my head. The world was a safe, good place.

I've always hated cigarettes and cheered for the strong arm of the nanny-state the day the smoking ban was introduced into Ireland; but even today as a non-smoking adult, the mere whiff of cigarette smoke can evoke feelings of warmth and safety, bound up with a million memories of my mother and the close bond I shared with her as I grew up.

My mother was a twenty-a-day woman, and all activity was either prefaced with or followed by a well-earned ‘fag’. Through her I learned a lot about the psyche of an addict; like the regular tea-breaks which punctuated her day – ‘Ooh I’m gasping!’ she would chuckle conspiratorially as she lifted her tea-cup, although it wasn’t the tea she wanted at all but the ciggie which inevitably followed; the tea just made it ‘taste better’, as she once told me. The knowledge that it was soon time for a cigarette put her in a good mood, and it was as if her day existed purely to accommodate her many fag breaks, with all other activity merely a distraction until the next one.

 

I see a lot of her in myself these days, as I impatiently put the children to bed, salivating for a cold glass of white wine. And the knowledge that there is a fresh bottle waiting in the fridge is enough to keep me in good spirits, regardless of how irritating and argumentative the children are.  

‘You’re too cheerful’ DH will say, eyeing me suspiciously, as the kids flood the bathroom and attack each other with sticks, ‘I’m guessing you bought wine today?'

I often think about how my mother viewed her life when she was my age; whether like me she had ambitions and dreams for herself, to be more than just a wife and mother. On reflection, I don’t think she did; at least nothing more ambitious than ‘lose ten pounds’ and meet Des O’Connor in person because her real life goal was limited to the extremely achievable next cigarette. 

‘Oh I’m not like you,' she would say, matter-of-factly, turning her head as she blew out the smoke, 'I can't do anything but be a housewife!'

She tried to quit smoking several times over the years, one of the more notable attempts thwarted when her father, ironically, died of lung cancer. As illogical as that seemed to me at the time, I now completely understand her reaction. How often have I read a damning report on the terrifying effects of alcohol on women, only to close the page and pour myself a glass of wine, reasoning it would be awfully bad luck if that happened, but I was willing to take the risk.

As she grew older, her smoking became increasingly contentious; the scowling refusal to get out of the car whenever we went to a non-smoking bar or restaurant; the mutinous puffing outside the front door of my first home, after I had triumphantly informed her that I wouldn’t allow smoking around my baby daughter; her refusal to curb her smoking around my father, even as he sickened and died.  The cigarette became her weapon of choice which she lit defensively, hands shaking, as the world she inhabited became less and less familiar to her; dragging hard on those little white sticks as if they might save her from the sinking ship of her own decaying mind.

She’s in a nursing home now, ravaged by the cruel horrors of dementia.  At first she remembered her beloved Silk Cut, even when she had forgotten her own name, but now they too have been vanquished by her self-erasing memory, and she spends her days permanently at a loss – as if something has slipped her mind, and she’s trying desperately to remember what it is. Her last fag-break long overdue.

When I look at my mother's life now, I realise it was a life spent in the grip of a very serious addiction, not just physically but also emotionally. With retrospect, I now see that each cigarette she smoked was a thought unspoken, a dream unrealised, a risk untaken. A life unlived really, and literally going up in smoke.

(It was World No Tobacco Day last Saturday, May 31st)

Letter to my 13-year-old...

I’ve been feeling old lately; my grey roots come back quicker than they used to, my face takes at least an hour to look normal in the mornings, and my knickers have become high-rise elasticated torture devices designed to contain the hateful middle age spread.

What’s worse is the fact that the eldest child has just turned 13; a date which loomed ominously on the calendar for months, like a death knell to any lingering belief that I was still a ‘young mum’, rather than the fully paid up veteran I actually am.

Being the mother of a teenager is a big responsibility, and I’ve decided to mark the occasion by offering her some advice which might help her on her way. So here it is:

Dearest Emily,
Thirteen – wow, how did that happen? Is it really that long since we met? The day you were born was the worst and best day of my life. Nothing could have prepared me for the tsunami of pain which tore through my body that day; wave after wave of agonising contractions  which seemed to go on for hours. Actually they did go on for hours; 16 to be precise. 

Sixteen hours of terror, blood and tears, but then suddenly it was over – like the calm following the storm – and there you were, staring up at me with those beautiful blue eyes; this perfect pink girl. It was love at first sight. You changed my life that day.

So, what am I going to tell you? It's not as if I have all the answers yet, we're all learning, all of the time, but here's a few things I jotted down.

1) Don’t follow the crowd. You are so bright and creative and people are naturally drawn to you, so don’t shy away from that, embrace it. It’s better to be your original self than a poor copy of someone else - even if people don't fully appreciate you for it to begin with. Never lose your individuality; it’s what makes you who you are.
2) Next – and I really mean this – never diet. Dieting steals the joy from life. Be kind to your body, think carefully about what you feed it, keep it active, and you will never need to worry about your weight. It took me 28 years to figure this out (and I still struggle with it), so consider this advice a gift.
3) Try not to take yourself too seriously. I mean it – learn to laugh at yourself. We both know this isn’t always easy for you, but trust me it makes all the difference when times get tough. 
4) Be nice to your brothers. Now don’t roll your eyes! Yes, I know they’re annoying, noisy, nit-infested stink-bugs, but they will always stick up for you against enemies, even if they think you’re being an idiot. Because that’s what families do. Trust me on this one. Plus they adore you, even if you don’t always see it.
5) Never perm your hair – I know you like curls, but curling tongs will do exactly the same job without the commitment. This comes from someone who spent a year growing one out – I’ll never get that time, or self-respect, back.
6) The next one is simple but so many people don’t get it; be kind. It costs nothing and can make all the difference to someone. There will always be people who are cruel simply because they can be. Stay away from them and surround yourself with other kind people – it makes for a nicer life. 
7) Say ‘yes’ to as many things as you can – it can bring you to some surprising places.Take risks and don’t be afraid to step out of your comfort zone, because that’s when life gets interesting. It’s a short life and as your grandfather used to say, we’re a long time dead.
8) This next one sounds like a cliché, but dance as often as you can – even if you’re alone – especially if you’re alone. Yes I know your ballet career began and ended before you were four (you really shouldn’t have shoved your dance teacher like that), and yes you have two left feet, but it doesn’t matter! Nobody can be unhappy when they’re pirouetting around the kitchen.

I shall finish now, I know your iPhone is calling. But I’ll just leave you with this last thought. Life is just a series of good and bad decisions, of triumphs and screw-ups. What sets you apart is how you deal with them. But just remember, your mum’s always here to help.
Love you,
Mum. 

Working mum v stay at home mum...it's not that simple...

What is it about motherhood that makes women so nasty to each other? How often do you open a magazine or paper to read yet another article criticising stay-at-home mums for being unambitious and lazy or berating their working counterparts for being cold-hearted career bitches?

The latest woman to weigh in on this ongoing and seemingly endless debate is ex-Apprentice star and controversial TV social commentator Katie Hopkins, who recently tweeted, ‘Full time mummy is not an occupation. It is merely a biological status’.

Why people feel the need to come out and make these sort of incendiary comments aside, you can’t help but wonder what she hoped to gain by saying this at all other than alienating at least half of her female Twitter followers.

Of course she's not new to controversy. This is the woman who said she wouldn't allow her children to play with kids who had what she deemed to be working-class sounding names, such as 'Tyler' or 'Charmaine'. She also accused Lilly Allen of being fat and hideous after giving birth. Yes, this woman is a nice piece of work.

I’ve never fully understood why there is such a divide between ‘working mother’ and ‘stay at home mother’, mainly because as most mothers reading this will know, it isn’t that clear cut.

First off, how do we decide who is a working mother and who isn’t? Clearly someone who puts on a business suit each morning and works a 14 hour day could be classed as a 'working mother'. But what about women who work four hours a day – does that still count? What about two days a week. In a charity shop. For no money. Does that count?

What about women who run a business from home, fitting it around their children? Or the mummy bloggers who manage to make money out of blogging about kids or travel or shoes?

Aside from the myriad jobs a mother does during the day – the washing, the cooking, the homework, the general drudgery – who’s to judge what’s worthy of the term ‘working’ and what isn’t? (And yes, in theory men share these jobs, particularly when a woman works full time, but for now I'll assume the woman carries out the bulk of them.)

In Katy’s world it must be so simple: To work or not to work, that is the question? But I have news for her, it’s more complicated than whether you can be bothered or not; it’s not always easy to find a job that fits around the school run. It doesn’t always make financial sense to work after you’ve factored in childcare costs. Some women have children with special needs. Some women may have worked hard for the last 20 years and are taking a few short years off so they don't miss out on their kids being small.

And some women live in the Australian outback where job opportunities seem to be limited to car washing or truck driving.

When I fell pregnant with the tweenager I fully intended to return to work after she was born. I was working in an office job which I was perfectly happy with, DH and I had bought our first house and were busily trying to pay for it, and so I felt extremely fortunate to find a day care centre around the corner from my office. It was perfect, if I wanted to pop in to see the baby during the day I could. If there were any problems it would take me two minutes to get there. I had it all worked out.

Then I gave birth and realised I really, really wanted to stay at home with her and so, ever resourceful, I figured out a way to do just that by child-minding a neighbour's baby. It helped cover my costs while affording me the time I wanted with my baby.

Thirteen years on and I haven't worked full-time since, instead just dipping in and out of things as they come along. 

I did a stint volunteering for the charity Bodywhys (The Irish Eating Disorders Association) for a few years, work I enjoyed greatly. And I once pretended to teach English to Emirati kids for a summer (they didn't learn anything except that I wasn't very good at controlling them). I loved this job, mainly I suspect because it meant leaving the house alone each morning, something which felt as tantalisingly dangerous as having an affair. 

The columns I occasionally get paid for are less like work and more an exercise in plate-spinning since inevitably the three-year-old will want a drink/DVD on/trip to the toilet the second I start typing. And it's not unusual for him to slap the laptop shut when I'm not looking, often losing hundreds of words at a time. In other words, working from home and resident three-year-olds are pretty much mutually exclusive in my opinion. Not that I regret being with him, he's my last and I'm enjoying our time together before he sets off for kindergarten next year.

BUT, I will admit there are days when I would literally give anything to put on a pair of high heels, a pencil skirt, and drive away to an office to hang around people who don’t cry if they get the wrong coloured cup, or who need to be chased around the house to get their bottom wiped.

And the idea of earning a proper wage is beyond seductive but it's simply not that easy. Childcare in Australia is prohibitively expensive - even if there were any suitable jobs for me here in Paraburdoo - and it simply wouldn't make financial sense for me to go and work at the moment, unfortunately.

So it's not as straightforward as Ms Hopkins would have you believe. We don't all live in Notting Hill with an army of expensive nannies to help us maintain our TV careers. Neither do we spend all day with other yummy mummies, discussing Cath Kidston's latest print over a low-fat cafe latte (although I'm fully confident such creatures exist!).

Most women are just muddling along somewhere in the middle, feeling like we're failing no matter what we choose. Because the truth is, we can't win either way; if we work we're letting our kids down, if we don't work we're letting ourselves down. We can be hard on ourselves like that. Because let's face it, the men aren't saying anything, not a word. Men are good like that. No, our worst enemies are other women. And the last thing we need are stuck up, opinionated harpies from the telly, spouting vitriol at our choices.

Without my daughter...

Life in the outback presents many challenges; you can't get bread on a Tuesday, a broken school shoe isn't replaced easily, you can't hide on a bad-hair day since it's impossible to be anonymous. But one of the biggest challenges facing families up here is the question of education.

For such a small town, there is a pretty high percentage of home-schoolers for example. Many people here are unhappy with the local primary school; the teaching population can be transient, teachers come and go, and I've heard of one principal who simply up and left one day with no prior warning. And so, it's a bit of a lottery whether you're going to get a decent teacher for your child, since finding good teachers who are willing to come up and live here is not an easy task.

High-school presents an equal if not bigger challenge. The 'local' high-school is 80 kms away and has an equally transient teaching population, resulting in many families choosing to send their children to boarding school instead.

And unbelievably, I've just joined their ranks. This past weekend saw myself and the 12-year-old board a flight to Perth to settle her into her new school (a place on a Gifted and Talented program in a state school, a chance we simply couldn't turn down) and accommodation, an event I've known was coming for ten months now, but which was nonetheless as surreal as the days following her birth, as the realisation that life was about to change in ways I couldn't even fathom yet, slowly dawned.

When she was born, I had no idea what to expect. I wasn't even sure I could take care of a child - I couldn't take care of myself. But when she slithered into my life, bright, alert, with large, blue unblinking eyes, my entire existence sort of shifted, my stars realigned a little, a peace I hadn't known since I was a child settled gently over me.

She changed everything. My teens and twenties had been dogged by an eating disorder - predominately bulimia - which had left my ambitions in tatters, shadowing me day and night, never far from sight. But on that bright afternoon on Mothering Sunday in 2001, the bulimia fled out the door never to be seen again. Just like that, all those years of useless psychiatrists, behavioural psychologists and hippy therapists chanting self-loving mantras, were upstaged by a pink girl with a shock of black spiky hair.

And so she's gone. This morning after waking the boys for school, I hovered outside her door for a moment, expecting to peer in to see the familiar sight of her up and dressed, sitting on her bed, eyes fixed on her phone, muttering crossly, "why aren't the boys up yet? They'll be late!".

Oh don't get me wrong, she's always been hard work. Always infuriatingly independent, she's never allowed me to be the doting mother that the boys have. She is strong-willed with a burning agenda, never willing to compromise.

I see so much of myself in her, and so much of my mother, but added into that mix is a hardness and determination neither my mother nor I possess.

The first year of her life she never left my side; I refused to put her in her cot - she slept beside me - I wanted to feel her close in the night, to know she was safe. The daycare place booked for her - right around the corner from my office - was cancelled, as was my job, nothing on earth could persuade me to leave her in someone else's care.

But when her younger brother appeared a year and a half later, I saw a look of betrayal in her eye, and for many years I felt she couldn't forgive me for bringing a third person into our little world. I'm still  not sure she forgives me.

And now I feel like I've betrayed her all over again. We moved to the outback to get away from the hellish fly in fly out existence that nearly destroyed us last year, but the cost is that, rather than DH living a two-hour flight away, she does.

So she is there and we are here and despite the four very lively boys, the house feels strangely empty. Every family has its own rhythm, its own sound, words, catchphrases, jokes or silly songs - things that only its members can understand - and the sound of this family has her voice stamped all over it. She's been instrumental in creating the culture of this family, she's the ringleader, the Pied Piper whom the boys have always eagerly followed, adoring her, hoping to be singled out by her for affection.

And now, for the most part, it is up to the boys to keep the traditions going, to leave their own imprint, to create new rhythms, at least while she's away.

This arrangement is temporary, I'm not willing to have her away from me full time just yet. But even if it's only for a few months I know the child I get back will be forever altered, brimming with new experiences and influences and that's not a bad thing, even if it tugs at my inner control freak a little. She's entered an exciting world that I will know nothing about, apart from what she's willing to share, and I'm glad she has that opportunity. I know she is going to cope just fine.

I just hope I do too.

An unique Christmas gift from DH, courtesy of artist Natalie Briney...

For Christmas DH got me possibly the most special and original gift ever. He commissioned a piece of art by Pilbara-based artist Natalie Briney, whose art I came across when I was covering the local annual art exhibition PACT (Pilbara Artists Coming Together) for a local paper last year. I loved her work on sight and immediately sought her out for a short interview for the paper.

After that I spent several months obsessing about owning one of her wonderful paintings, and Christmas provided the perfect excuse.

Heavily influenced by the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo, Briney nonetheless puts her own wonderfully refreshing, feminine and unique stamp on the work, to create beautiful and extremely individual pieces.

I'm not an art critic - my knowledge of art doesn't extend beyond the Leaving Cert - but I think that the future holds great things for Briney. I hope so, since I own an original!

In times where, let's face it, there's very little we want for, a commissioned piece of art is a brilliant idea for a truly unique gift. When the iPads or glittery shoes are long gone, the artwork will endure to be passed on to the next generation.

The painting is below and really, the photo doesn't even do the original justice - there are layers and texture in this piece that bring it to life, and it brightens up what otherwise would be a very dull, dark living room in our 70s mining bungalow.

The piece is called Gemini Fridas and is loosely based on the tweenager and me (see on the left the girl has 'E' stamped on her dress - that's for Emily, I'm on the right - 'C' for Claire...) and offers up a sort of challenge to us, since we spend most of our relationship arguing. Perhaps it can serve as a sort of Picture of Dorian Grey; as we bicker on in real life, our painting snuggles in for a closer hug.

Being immortalised in your own commissioned piece makes one feel like a latter-day Catherine de Medici - a patron for the arts so to speak - and I for one shall expect DH to reach such dizzy heights in the gift-buying stakes from now on.

Gemini Fridas by Natalie Briney

For more information, check out Natalie's blog http://nats-ramblings.blogspot.com.au/
or like her on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/NatalieRBriney?fref=ts