Enquiring minds

I've posted before about the varied topics of conversation Little Man and I enjoy on our journey home from crèche. (Little Lady tends to take a backseat to these chats, and flourishes more in one-to-one situations)

While answering the endless questions can sometimes be a challenge, on days like today I find myself wishing that our journey was just a little longer, just to see how far our conversation could travel too!

First, we started with why baby kangaroos (wallabies really) hopped away from us at the animal park.
- It was in case we stepped on their babies by accident, I explained.
- What would happen if we stepped on little baby kangaroos?
- Well, they'd be hurt and would have to go to the vet.
- But kangaroos don't have telephones so who will call the vet for them?
- Probably us or the park ranger.
- Do kangaroos not know that we're not bad guys?
- No, it's very hard to tell who the bad guys are sometimes.
- Well, if I see a bad guy and I know he's not a good guy I will shoot him with my Black Widow gun and the Black Widows will poison him and he will die forever and not hurt baby kangaroos.
- That's a good idea.
- Why are the clouds hiding the moon?
- The clouds are being blown in front of the moon by the wind.
- But why can I not see the moon?
- Because the clouds are closer to us than the moon is.
- Why is the dark black?
- .....?

Happy Anniversary to me!

For the second time in a week, Hubby has forgotten our anniversary.

Today is the 9th anniversary of us moving in together for the first time. Last Thursday was the 5th anniversary of a positive pregnancy test when I was expecting Little Man.
I know. I can't believe he forgot them either.

But, being the amazing wife that I am, I have decided to forgive him.

Instead of tears and recriminations, I'll gently remind him tonight at home as we prepare our dinner. He won't say much, he's that stoic sort of man. But he'll give me a tender kiss on the cheek, and a gentle hug, and I'll hear the words he simply doesn't need to say out loud:
"Oh my darling wife, we'll get you the best help money can buy..."

Back to School - Little Lady

Little Man is not the only one with a big change of pace this week. My darling girl has started Junior Montessori! (I'd really better stop calling her my baby soon...)

We didn't tell her much about Montessori before she started, as she doesn't have the same sense of waiting and the passage of time as her older brother. They started settling her and her classmates into their new room last week, and then Monday morning was the main event.

When you're not-yet-three, you tend to take simple things like room changes within the creche in your stride. Certainly Little Lady does. So what real changes would she experience this week? Well I'm glad you asked.
1) the bringing of a lunchbox (for snacktime) to creche
2) the removal of her daily nap (it was about time anyway)
3) the introduction of more structured, learning play for a couple of hours each day
These three changes were accepted with varying degrees of success.

First, the lunchbox. Having been caught on the hop the Friday before Little Man started Junior Montessori last year, I was determined that it wouldn't happen again. I've had a blue pirate-emblazoned lunch bag sitting in the press for weeks! Before we got the kids up on Monday, I went downstairs and filled it, then presented it to the little madam for her inspection.

Mere words could not begin to express her delight at possessing this lunch bag. Positively squealing with pleasure, she immediately sat in the middle of the kitchen floor to open the bag and explore the treasures within. Little Man sat down beside her and praised and clapped along as she pulled one magical gift after another from the bag.
"Look!! A water. MY WATER! And raisins! It's raisins IN MY LUNCH! Mammy, Daddy look - it's a YOGURT!". 
Christmas morning itself couldn't have brought more joy - things seemed to be going swimmingly.

If you look back at items two and three on our list, you may notice that they don't seem to sit together very well. More work, less rest time. Any chance that could cause a problem? Nah. We'd been reducing her naps anyway, and she doesn't nap at weekends, so I wasn't all that worried about this. On a related note, I am a blithering idiot.

On Monday evening, Little Lady was very, very tired coming home from creche. On Tuesday morning she was just narky. As well as being tired she was ravenous. Seriously ravenous. When I opened my own lunch bag to give her a snack in the car, she ate three cashews without even tasting them. How do I know she didn't taste them? Because she tasted the fourth. And panicked. There may still be cashew nut fragments in the back of my hair, I don't really want to know.

And then Tuesday evening... I knew things were bad as soon as I got her into the car. I only barely got her into the house, hoisting her under one arm like a bag of potatoes. She was so far gone that she didn't even want cuddles or songs (not even Moon River!). I approached her in much the same way that I would an injured lion; speaking soft, soothing words and offering gifts of food. At least lion tamers are armed with a chair.

With all my limbs intact (just) I negotiated a ceasefire based on mutual love and understanding, and a fully-peeled stemless apple. Two bites in she smiled at me. Another two and she sat in my lap. Just one more and she was cuddled up humming sleepy noises. After some healing cuddle time and lots more food she told us excitedly about her day. Any day that involves a pirate lunch, "minding" the babies in the garden, and drawing pictures is ok by Little Lady. She and Junior Montessori are going to get along just fine.

Back to school - Little Man

So, this Summer has been a fairly tough one on Little Man.

While he continued to go to creche in the same place that he attended Junior Montessori last year, some of his friends were off for the Summer. And he missed them terribly. Even worse, "school" itself had changed on him, bringing exciting things like going to an Upstairs room in which we Wear Our Shoes All Day, but also bringing the crushing disappointment of Being On Summer Holidays.

Yes, you read that right. My poor boy came to me in tears, more than once, to tell me that they "don't even do work in the upstairs room!". We were at great pains to explain what Summer holidays were, and that he had lots of Montessori work to look forward to in a few short weeks. In the meantime, we got him puzzle books and spent the Summer doing spot the difference, join the dots, number recognition and even the beginnings of phonics at home in the evenings.

Little Man is one of those kids who loves to work hard, he knows he's smart and really enjoys showing off what he's learned. He's very competitive, and while that brings a work ethic that will stand him in good stead, I know there are hard times coming down the line when he first learns that actually he can't possibly be the best at everything. Still, for the moment we had our bouncy, happy boy back. He skipped through the Summer holidays, pointing out letters and numbers on every sign we passed, drawing triangles and aliens with 10 eyes and four arms. Happiness reigned.

Yesterday, finally, was the first day back at Montessori. We'd been counting down the remaining sleeps for about a week. With great ceremony we woke Little Man for his first day back. Photos were taken of he and Little Lady with their lunch bags, and off we went to embrace a brand-new day of learning.

When I collected them, I learned that this week is a "settling in week". Which makes sense. Of course it does. Some of the kids have never been to the creche before, some are skipping Junior Montessori and going straight to Senior Montessori from the creche's Toddler Room. Any Mammy worth her salt would have realised that these kids need to be acclimatised before they start any lessons. This Mammy did not. So, I collected my broken-hearted Little Man and his gorgeous sister, and we spent the evening cutting out triangles with brand-new safety scissors.
Tonight, perhaps we'll start Latin... amo, amas, amat, amamus...

Learning the important things

Mostly, through mixing with other kids in crèche, you can see that my kids have benefitted.

They try to keep up with other kids, bigger kids, and so they stretch and grow their own abilities. It's actually both helpful to them, and fascinating to watch!

On occasion though, those influences can be negative, generally the influences from kids who have older and more worldly siblings at home.

Take today for example: Little Man came home singing the following song.
'Scooby Dooby doo,
Where are you?
Shaggy done a poo now!'

Naturally I was horrified at my 4 year old singing this song. I've sat him down, and we've had a Very Serious Talk. I mean really, what if he were to sing it in public?? The potential for embarrassment is huge.

I'm happy to say that my very well-behaved young man is now cheerily singing a new song.
'Scooby Dooby doo,
Where are you?
Shaggy DID a poo now!'

I'd best start clearing a shelf for those parenting awards... ;)

The real issues

We live about a mile from the local crèche. Because I travel to work by car, we also travel home from crèche by car.
It's a short journey, but it still allows us plenty of time to discuss the real issues affecting small children today.

Today, for example, Little Man and I discussed and evaluated the various merits of the following topics:

1. Why leaves fall off trees
2. Photosynthesis
3. How snakes use their tongue to smell
4. What snakes eat
5. What mice eat
6. How fish use their gills to breathe
7. Why slippy snots are easier to wipe with tissue than hard snots

I'm already looking forward to tomorrow's journey of discovery!

When parenting is childsplay

I am a modern parent.

My children are not colour-coded in blue and pink. I take great pains to make sure that everyone does dancing, everyone does roughplay and everyone reads a lot of books.

Even better, when Little Man proudly displayed his red-painted toenails and silver-painted fingernails to family and friends, no one batted an eyelid.

So, when Little Lady adopted (stole) a new Spiderman toy from her big brother I was secretly delighted. It's a small little figurine, with the added feature of a spiderweb-emblazoned backpack with a working grappling hook.*

She played with that toy the whole way to creche that day, then picked him up and played with him again the whole way home. Listening to her pooting the "bad guys" and shouting "pow pow!" every bit as loud as her brother did my heart good. Clearly, I rock at gender-neutral parenting. I should give classes or something. Perhaps there's even a medal...

And then we got home. Having divested herself of her coat and wellies, Little Lady resumed her play, for a few minutes. Suddenly, a shocked voice could be heard declaring "Spiderman! Why are you still wearing your coat? We are INSIDE now and you have to take it off THIS MINUTE!". After she'd taken his coat (backpack) off, she sat him down for some tea and toast.

While I struggled not to laugh within earshot, I realised that actually this was the success that I've been hoping for. A little girl who's not afraid to run, and shout, and save the day, but also a little girl who's not ashamed of the fact that sometimes, she just wants to play at being a Mammy.


*Incidentally, I have no idea why Spiderman needs a grappling hook. Tobey Maguire had already made Spiderman my least favourite superhero, but he's really fallen in my estimation now...

From baby steps to giant steps

Being a parent is a tough job. Some days, I think you'd have to be crazy to sign up for it.
I'm not complaining about the sleepless nights, the terrible twos, the fevers and worries. Oh no. TV, books, stand-up comedians - the whole world prepares us for that. But really, the difficulty in parenting is that even when you do it right, when everything goes according to plan, it's bloody heartbreaking.

When you have a baby, the first few weeks are a sweet-smelling haze of unusual hours, nappies, feeds, cuddles and secret smiles shared with your partner about the magical being you have created. About six weeks in, you get your first 'First'. That smile. The one you're certain wasn't wind. Baby has reached a milestone, and you bask in the pride of the moment.

Soon, you're excitedly waiting for signs of a first tooth. With Little Man, we waited ten and a half months for a tooth! The eventual arrival was greeted with celebrations of the highest order. Once again, our clever boy had achieved a wondrous thing, a step towards being a proper person.

There are first sounds, first words, first tentative steps. Each one a moment that you look forward to, that you cherish.

And then it hits you. Those perfect pearly teeth mean no more gummy smiles. When they're older, the changes are bigger and faster than you expect. Dressing themselves, using the toilet, saying 'please' and 'thank you' without being prompted. Each of these is a sign that you have done your job well. As a parent, you have created and nurtured a person who can survive in the big wide world, a person who will be liked and accepted in that world. A person who each day is growing further away from you.

Pride and heartbreak have a strange symbiotic relationship for a mother. Our job is to make our children independent of us. We shoulder this burden, we know it from the moment we feel the first flutters in the womb, those are the first strainings towards autonomy. We just know that the journey is what we've got to look forward to. That all of those firsts, and seconds, along the way are ours to enjoy and encourage.

But sometimes, a step towards the future feels too big, too sudden, too unexpected. My Little Lady had her first haircut at the weekend. She has a layered bob now, with a side fringe. She looks gorgeous - like a proper Little Lady indeed. Somehow, it makes me want to cry. Those blonde-tinged curls, that unruly mess of hair, that was the hair of my baby. She's two-and-a-half now. Of course, I knew she wasn't really a baby anymore. In fact, she loves nothing more than to mind babies herself! Little Mammy would probably be a better name for her. But those curls, they made her mine, my tiny baby who needs me more than anything in the world. And now, they are discarded on the barber's floor. And my Little Lady is a little girl. Not even really a toddler anymore.

So, I'm feeling slightly in shock. Amazed at where the last two-and-a-half years have gone - where the last four years have gone since her big brother was still nestled safely inside me. But with the tears sparkling in my eyes, I'm still smiling. Because they have been the best four years ever. Because that serious Little Man and kind-hearted Little Lady are just as I would like them to be. Funny, charming and strong, alternating between fierce independence and a desperate need for affection. I know that if we continue to do our job right as parents, our children won't need us around anymore, but if we do it really, really right, they'll still want us around. For now, I'm going to keep enjoying the journey, and for every secret tear I shed when I feel them moving from my reach, there are a hundred kisses, a thousand smiles and a million memories that make it all worthwhile.

The unbearable lightness of being... a redhead.

You’ve pretty much all seen my red hair, my new cropped style. Most people complimented it. I really liked how it looked myself actually, unexpectedly.

But, my red hair was not long for this world. Why? Well, it just didn’t feel like 'me'.

Having met numerous new people since Shave or Dye, I found myself telling them about it. Trying to 'explain' my red hair. It took a while before it clicked with me what the problem was. I was trying to let them down gently.

My red hair was cool, it was funky, exciting even. I am none of those things. This was a rather depressing realisation, and at first I kept my hair red, thinking perhaps it would boost my self esteem or something.

But I was still self-conscious. Everywhere I went, I felt like a fraud. That at any moment I could be found out, and ridiculed.

Finally, the answer came to me. I don’t WANT to be cool. I’ve been desperately uncool for thirty years and now is not the time to change. I have no idea how one becomes funky, but it seems like it would take a lot of effort. Exciting? That’s a day when you get three loads of washing dry, right?

So, I am once again a brunette. It’s still not my natural colour, but it’s closer, and I’ll get my natural colour back in time.  

I am a fairly boring person. I like to knit, and read, and sit on the couch watching House and Bones and How I Met Your Mother with my husband. I jump in muddy puddles with my kids, sing nursery rhymes and made-up songs from morning till night (even in the office), and sometimes I mop my way out of the house in the morning.

And, like my natural hair colour, that suits me just fine!

True love, aged three-and-a-half.

So, it appears that Little Man has gotten married. Just like that. I didn't even get to rock an old-fashioned Mother Of The Groom outfit! Now, I know that there are many worried Irish Mammies out there whose little boys are in their mid-thirties and showing no signs of settling down, but as we're still in the mid-threes I thought I had a little bit more time!

There are so many things I wanted to teach him before he was married. How to tie his shoelaces, for one. Perhaps even tell the time. And I know that Hubby hasn't had The Talk with him yet. Still, he knows enough to give regular compliments and daily snuggles. That's a good start to any marriage!

As for Little Man's Little Bride - well, she's a loquacious little cutie-pie. And as adorable as her smile is, it is her perseverance I admire most. Since naming her pet turtle after Little Man aged only two, she's been asking him almost weekly to marry her. With that kind of determination on her side, I imagine she'll have no trouble whatsoever getting him to bring out the bins, or collect her from the hairdresser when it's raining.

They were married in creche, just after snack time, with one teacher as bridesmaid and one as flower girl. I haven't been able to ascertain who exactly performed the ceremony, but I'm told that the vows were simple and elegant; "Hey baby, I think I want to marry you!".

So far, married life seems to be going well for the Little Couple. They now hold hands during story time, and regularly exchange secret smiles during both free-play and dinner time. Let's hope the honeymoon period lasts until at least their fourth birthdays!

The Mathematics of Parenting

Prospective parents are often nervous creatures. They don't really know what to expect for what is, basically, the rest of their lives. Sure, at different stages there will be some certainties - sleepless nights, homework, romantic worries - but what about the day-to-day of it? What is being a parent really like?

That's where I come in. After extensive research (aka things I noticed over the bank holiday weekend) I have broken parenting down into a series of easy-to-comprehend percentages. Once you've got these mastered, it's all plain sailing* from here on in.

Parenting is:

2% wiping things (if you have to ask, you don't want to know)
2% alphabet, colours and counting to ten
3% teaching them manners
4% reading "just one more" bedtime story
4% learning how to pack a tiny bag for every possible eventuality on trips lasting from 10 minutes to 10 days
5% pre-empting hunger
7% making them run around so that they just might be tired at bedtime
10% various snuggles and smooches
63% being able to say "You're right! We do need to go and rescue the baby puppies who are trapped in trouble on the mountain with glitter!" with just the right tone of urgency

See? Easy as pie. Messy pie. That sometimes smells. And makes a lot of noise. But still, pie.


* Definitions of plain sailing may differ from individual to individual. The author accepts no responsibility for any unforeseen carpet stains, trips to the emergency room, or embarrassing questions asked in supermarket queues

It's the little things

So I haven't blogged in a little while. I suppose it's to be expected.
As a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend and an employee, it seems like being a blogger is going to be difficult to fit in.

But that's ok. Sometimes it's enough just to do things, rather than talk about them. And sometimes, like this little post, the little things are fun too.

My darling Little Lady brought me one of those little moments of perfection this week. We were playing. I was the baby and she was the Mammy. And I pretended to cry. So, my gorgeous girl came over to me, threw her arms around me, cocked her head to one side and said 'It's ok baby girl! I know, I know. It's a tough old day.'

So it turns out she does listen to me after all!

Hair today, gone tomorrow! Or yesterday. Or something.

Where to begin??
Perhaps with Dee, the amazing woman who runs Headrush salon in Kilcullen. 

When I walked through that colourful door on Wednesday afternoon, I expected just to have my hair chopped off, dyed a slightly ridiculous colour and to be sent on my way. 

As we all know, Shave or Dye is a very good cause. Rather than running a marathon, or starving myself or staying awake for an improbably length of time, all that was asked of me was to subject myself to mild ridicule in the hopes of raising some much needed funds for the Irish Cancer Society.  

Friends, family members and the amazing Twitizens I've come to know and love all kept up their end of the bargain. Sponsorship came flowing in. I was delighted. 

But no one had reckoned with Dee O'Connor. In one sense, she failed miserably. I have been subjected to no ridicule whatsoever! This was not the plan AT ALL.

I expected to feel self-conscious, a bit stupid. I was prepared to buy headscarves and hairdyes and basically go into hibernation until everything was back to normal. 

I did NOT expect to feel gorgeous, pixie-ish. I was unprepared for the volume of compliments, jealous looks and declarations that I look years younger (woohoo!). All of those wonderful bonuses are down to the talents of one extremely generous hairdresser who gave me time, dye, patience... and a whole new look!

So, although we joked yesterday that we'd missed the point entirely, I think that Dee's work can only be called a huge success!

So where does that leave us? Well, with over €800 sponsorship so far, and a very happy lady. It would be remiss not to mention that Hubby seems fairly impressed too - although I was surprised by his reaction to the intermediate blonde stage as well! There's a pandora's box it's probably best not to open...

And, of course, the kids were keen to give their reactions to Mammy's new look.

Little Man: I like it. It's very pretty. Mammy, when I go to school tomorrow will you get your long black hair back? And you can give your red hair to the sick boys and girls if you want!

Little Lady: No liiiiiike it. No! No! Not nice. Mammy not red hair, Mammy black hair. No liiiiike it. 

Well, you can't please everyone! 

For those of you who missed the live-tweeting yesterday, here are the pictures of the whole event!

Not a bad afternoon's work at all!

Toddler talk

In our house, we have our own language.

We didn't always have it. I was careful to ensure the kids had the correct pronunciation of each word they tried, paranoid after we were told that their (temporary) hearing problems may have an impact on their speech. But life is short, and toddlerhood is even shorter. One of the most heartbreaking times of our lives was when Little Man stopped saying 'crocodiler' and 'the affe' and started saying 'crocodile' and 'giraffe'. His own affinity for language meant that we got less than 24 hours of 'eebops' before he self-corrected to 'hiccups' - who can honestly tell me that's an improvement?

So, we've relaxed. And by 'we', I mean 'I'. Hubby has always been more naturally relaxed with just watching them grow. I'll still help them with pronunciation when they're stuck, but maybe not everything needs to be totally perfect just yet. This means that when you come to our house, you'll see a drawer in the playroom labelled "pooting things and booping things". I was genuinely shocked when I revealed to coworkers that Little Man wanted a pooting thing for Christmas and they didn't understand my dilemma. Apparently, most people would call it a "gun". Who knew?

I've also recently been guilty of telling the doctor that Little Lady's cough is not improving "even though she's using the Roro every day!". Thankfully, when I explained that we always sing "Row, row, row your boat" while using the inhaler, she realised that I am still a fit person to be a mother!

There is so much joy to be had in the kids while they are small, and excitable and utterly innocent that I just can't bear to take any of it away just yet. So come to our house, where you'll notice as flish as a flash that things are a little different there. Our favourite television show is Happy Pig, which is best watched while wearing jaamas. We love it when Nanny and GwanGwand come to visit, or our "Auntie" Beeraid. We do NOT like things that are Beeskusting, but love eating Beetatoes.

Our little language sets us aside, says that the four of us are in this thing together and that we understand each other like no one else can. It is our language of love.

I'm dyeing to help

This is me.
Although in real life I'm a little less blurry.

Soon, I won't look like this though. Why, you ask? Well, because I'm taking part in Today FM's Shave or Dye campaign.
So, on February 29th, I'll be doing to Deirdre in Headrush salon in Kilcullen, where she will (for free - she's been extremely generous and helpful) cut my hair quite short and dye it a vibrant shade of red. The hair cut off will be sent to Little Princesses in the UK, to be made into a wig for a cancer patient.

At this point in the explanation, a number of people have again asked me "Why?" - with varying degrees of panic in their tone. To be honest, I'm not really sure. The best answer I can come up with is simply "Because I can". I have been blessed with good health and also with strong, thick hair that is constantly commented on at the hairdressers. So, why not use it to help someone else?

My plan is for my hair to help someone to regain their dignity, to feel more like themselves again. And also, for you to help fight the disease that has stripped them of that dignity (and much besides). All you need to do is make a donation. Money goes to the Irish Cancer Society, who fund services for cancer sufferers, as well as much needed research to help fight this disease.

Now that I've got my lovely sponsorship pack, I will be fundraising in earnest. If you'd like to sponsor me in person, just let me know and I'll arrange to collect the money from you. (On reflection, I feel I should point out that this option is preferred for people I know, as opposed to ax-murderers...)
You can also sponsor me via mycharity.ie (where you can also see how much money I've raised so far).
Finally, don't forget that you can also simply text "Shave" to 57080 to donate. Texts cost €2 and a minimum of €1.56 goes to the Irish Cancer Society.

A final note, I started off with the suggested target of €500, but as I'm getting close to that already, I think it would be lovely to reach for the stars here. It feels dishonest to go back and change the target - but please don't think that once I've reached €500 that I don't want any more!
And, of course, thank you to all the wonderful people who have already sponsored me. Every single cent is much appreciated!

Don't forget to come back to see my fab new hair on March 1st :)

Romance in real life

It's a dreary evening. Around about 8pm. I come downstairs in my pyjamas and dressing gown, tired from settling Little Lady down for the night.
Hubby can be found on the couch, in his pyjamas. Running through the list of recorded programs on our Sky box to decide what we'll watch this evening. Neither one of us even notices the toys strewn around the floor anymore.
Dinner will be eaten in front of the TV. Leftovers from the healthy meals we cooked at the weekend.
Apart from the strains of a lullaby over the baby monitor, and the voices of the cast of How I Met Your Mother, silence reigns.

Then, Lily says something funny to Marshal, and Hubby laughs. Just once, just quickly. But it is enough. I take a second look at him. At his stubbled jaw, his dimples and the crinkles he has around his eyes from smiling.
"Oh," I think. "I remember you!"

And I do. Suddenly, I remember that this is not just the man who distracts the kids while I run off to the bathroom, or splits the weekend's lie-ins with me. Nope. This is my Hubby, a man who I adore.
He's the one who visited me in work every day for weeks, when I was clueless about his feelings. And the one who got up out of bed at 2am just to dance in the rain with me. Who very patiently watched me disappear two nights a week for college, for four years, just after we'd moved in together. The very Hubby whose funny stories can make me laugh in an extremely unladylike manner. The one who said "There's no way MY pregnant wife..." any time I tried to lift more than a feather while pregnant.

So I smile. And I cuddle closer. My darling Hubby turns and smiles, and that is it. We remember to share the funny and ridiculous stories of our day. The television is paused indefinitely while we chat and laugh and generally act like normal human beings instead of zombies.

Some days, the memory of each other is triggered by a sneaky kiss to the back of my neck while I'm chopping vegetables. Or a "Hey, I brought home this bar of chocolate for you". It might even be so simple as a request to be taught how to do ponytails in Little Lady's hair.

It's easy to forget about each other in the mundanity of real life. I think everybody gets bogged down to some extent in the day-to-day routine of it all. There is so much demanded of us, all day every day, that I think it's inevitable, and understandable, and even forgivable.

But, we chose each other for a reason. And even now, at the tender ages of 3.5 and 2 years, our children are showing signs of independence. They are reminding us that one day, they'll leave us behind, and it will be just the two of us again. When that day comes, we'll have all the time in the world for each other and I believe we'll make the most of it. Until then, we'll keep on muddling through. Most importantly, we'll keep remembering to remember.

I Came to Dance (Dance, Dance, Dance)

Zumba! Even the name sounds kinda cool doesn't it? It seems to have its own flourish.

Goodness knows it's popular at the moment, with classes seeming to spring up straight from the ground after a fresh bout of rain. Despite this, and despite having wanted to do a class for aaaages, I prevaricated, procrastinated and well, basically sat on the couch a lot.

Enter Pigsback.com (yes, I have an affinity for Pigsback, but I think they've earned it) and their MegaDeals. Shortly after my crochet class had been cancelled, with no option for substitution, the lovely Curly dropped an email into my inbox with a deal for six Zumba classes for only €24. I actually hurt my mouse-clicking finger by snapping that deal up so quickly!

Signed and sealed, I duly delivered myself to my local community centre Tuesday night to be overwhelmed by the sheer number of women there! Women of all shapes and sizes, all ages, fitness levels and ideas of what constitutes fitness wear... But ALL of these women had one common trait - a smile on their faces. They were here, on this freezing cold night, because they love Zumba. After an hour there, I understood exactly why - and left with a smile on my face too!

Zumba is fun, it is exercise, it is a way to get out of the house and it is easy.

In my first class, I'd estimate I picked up 75-85% of the steps. They're designed in such a way that you can pick them up quickly, and get up to speed. This way, no time is wasted on slowly learning steps at the pace of the least coordinated person in the room. Every person there gets a full workout, and if you don't have the step exactly right, you just keep going. No one minds, no one is looking at you. Some of the steps are repeated in later songs, and you get them a little bit better the next time, and so on.

The music is fantastic, exactly what you'd hear on the radio, or in the oldies sections of some nightclubs (by oldies I mean anything other than the UNSS-UNSS-UNSS places). This is music that you sing along to, and that you want to dance along to. The moves are maybe a little more extravagant than you'd normally go for in a public place, but that's part of the fun! I don't think I'll ever be able to get that shoulder shimmy right, but I certainly enjoy pretending :)

And here was the clincher for me. After an hour of putting my body through things it is not used to, of using muscles that had themselves forgotten they existed, the Zumba girls did a proper cool down and stretch routine. A really good one. I've done cardio-salsa classes a couple of times before and the cool down was either inadequate or non-existent. Thanks to the comprehensive cool down routine at Zumba, I have no aching muscles afterwards!

I will be back. Sure, I'll finish out my 5 already-paid-for classes, but I'll also certainly be going back on their extremely useful drop-in basis. It's nice that I don't have to commit, to feel like I have to go on a given night. This makes it feel even more fun, it's certainly never going to be a chore to go along.

For me, Zumba is time to dance, time to exercise and time out of the house. What a nice way to kill three birds with one stone. (I'm hoping to use the stone that currently sits around my waist. I feel it's poetic somehow)

Cute conquers all

"Wah"

...

"WAHHHH! Maaaaahhhhmmmyyyyyyy!"

Sit straight up in bed. Mmf? Check clock. 00.47. Ugh. Scramble for dressing gown. Give bleary medicine instructions to Hubby.

"Maaaaaahhhhhmmmmmyyyy!"

Stumble down hall. Cranky. Open door. Crying stops. Mumble soothing noise. Pray she'll go back to sleep.

"Mammy - the silly cough is coughing in my mouth!"

Smile. Relent. Well played, gorgeous girl.

Lift her up. Sit in rocking chair.

Cuddle.

I am Mother, hear me roar!

They say that in times of duress, a mother can draw on reserves of superhuman strength to protect her children. I think most mothers believe this. Because love is powerful.

When you find that perfect man, you love him. You love every fibre of his being with every fibre of yours. To you, he is perfect. But when the two of you decide to make a child together, that child is a part of you. The love is fierce, and visceral. It is shocking in its intensity.

I have tried to explain this to my own darling Hubby a number of times. I know, and have always known, that if anyone harmed my husband, I would kill them. Of course I would. And then we had children. And I know with utmost certainty, that if anyone harmed my children, I could kill them. I may have said this a dozen times since the birth of our son, but I'm still not sure I understand the difference there. But something, somewhere behind my solar plexus knows what I mean.

On a day-to-day level, protecting your kids is - thankfully - rather more mundane. It's making sure their feet are dry and their chests and throats are warm. It's kissing fingers better, and scolding the "silly" doors that have caused pain. It's letting your kids know that you, for now, always have the answer.

I think that parents need to be a source of constant security for their children. Of strength and courage. All too soon they will learn that we are people too, but for now we are parents, a higher breed. An infallible species. This is why my kids do not know that I'm terrified of the very milk that I pour into their bottles at night. They don't know that I'm scared too when Daddy's not home yet on his motorbike. And why I'll never let them know that I have gone almost a year too afraid to use a set of downward-moving escalators.

Having broken my teeth falling down the stairs, I'm terrified of escalators. For years I could manage them if I waited until the third step had passed (I don't know why) but I've gotten worse and worse to the point that it's not worth it. The fear of falling is the thing most likely to make me fall and so I've given up.

Until this weekend. When Little Man and I were out shopping alone. With no buggy, we had no legitimate reason to take up space in the elevators. And of course, being the adventurous child that he is, when he saw the escalators, he made a beeline for them. Excited, happy. Exactly as he should be. I took a breath, held his little hand and said "Yay! Escalators" and we hopped straight on and went downstairs not just once, but twice.

A small victory, but it was mine. My happy, courageous boy knows nothing of what we achieved, and I hope he never will. I also hope, fervently, that this is the biggest test of the powers of a Mammy over the powers of a mere Aisling. But still, I know that for my Little Man and Little Lady, there is nothing I wouldn't do, nothing I couldn't do.

You might say it was one small step for a Mam, one giant leap for my peace of mind.

Holding out for a Hero!

Over Christmas, one of my very good friends gave Little Man a fireman helmet. No one could have suspected that a simple piece of yellow plastic with a black flap at the back of the neck would bring so much fun.

Now, I don't know if you realise this, but being a fireman is an extremely serious business. Everything must be done quickly, and to Little Man's exact specifications if we're going to save the day. A typical Saturday morning in our house could be described as follows:

Little Man: "Mammy, Mammy, come whickly! Someone is in trouble and we need to rescue them. It's an emergency!"

Mammy dutifully runs to the playroom where roles and responsibilities are doled out.

Little Man: "Ok, I'm gonna be Fireman Sam, Mammy will be Penny and Little Lady will be Fireman Pat. Let's go! My baby leopard is in trouble!!"

Mammy, Little Lady and Little Man don their (real and imaginary) fireman helmets. We sit in the firetruck (also known as the futon) and put on our seatbelts very carefully. After a thorough seatbelt inspection by Little Man, he drives us "whickly" but carefully to scene of the emergency, siren screaming all the way.

At this point, I'm starting to get a little worried about the fate of the poor baby leopard, but I have faith in Fireman Sam - he'll know what to do.

Soon, the firetruck comes to a stop. Now, we must all take off our seatbelts, open the doors and put our helmets on the seats of the firetruck. (Yes, I have asked that question, and apparently it's because we don't want them to fall and get hurt. Perfectly logical.)

Now is Little Man's time to shine, his big moment, his opportunity to show us what a big, brave fireman he is and to save the day. We locate the poor unfortunate baby leopard, lying prone on the floor. It doesn't look good. I turn to my own little Fireman Sam, and ask him what we're going to do next. He tells me and his little sister to stand back, holds his arms out to protect us from harm, and with just eight little words, he saves the day:

"Baby leopard, come out from trouble! This minute!"

Well, that solves that then.

For sale: One Mammy, hardly used.

It's a really old cliché; Kids grow up so fast.

Most of us accept it as patently true. Sure, they grow half a foot every time you turn your back, you can hardly pretend it's not happening. I think most parents though, are allowed to actually *help* their kids to grow up. Not us though. I'm starting to suspect that our kids only keep us around in order to reach the sweets in the high presses.

Heading off into their future together

Last March, one Saturday morning while Hubby wasn't even in the country, Little Man decided to potty train himself. He did a great job. Heaped praise on his own successes, insisted on cleaning up his own messes, and decided it was time for nappy-free nights just a couple of months later.

The dodie tree

Last weekend, this same Little Man decided he was now too big (cue gesture from toes to head to show exactly *how* big) to have a dodie. In fact, he wanted to give his dodie to the baby birdies. In Nanny and Grandad's garden. Tomorrow, after lunch.

Having been informed of these plans, Hubby and I happily went along with it. The dodies, tied to coloured ribbons were strung from the trees, and Little Man sang a song to encourage the birdies to come along and take them. Another success!

This weekend, Little Lady - who is not yet 26 months - decided to potty train herself. She didn't even feel the need to tell us. Oh no, it was the presence of an idle nappy on the sitting room floor that alerted us to the fact that she was now wearing a pair of her brother's pants, pilfered from a radiator!
After a few false starts on Saturday, she seems to have the hang of it, and has been despatched to creche with enough spares to last the day. I hope.

Once again, Mammy has had little input here. Still, at least I can feel confident that when it comes to parenting their own kids, they'll already have first-hand experience, having raised *themselves* so well.

Actually, I've just realised that I can only reach the lower shelf of the high presses. Even I need Hubby to help with anything higher!

Oh dear. If you need me, you'll find me on a street corner, bearing a cardboard sign. "Will parent for food"

Goodbye, Crappy Tuesday

Yesterday was quite the humdinger of a day.

In the course of 12 hours or so, I

1) Sent my glasses and wallet to creche in Little Lady's bag
2) Drove my car into a wall on arriving at work (Ref: point 1 - no glasses)
3) Realised I'd left my laptop at home
4) Dropped my keys in a puddle outside the house while retrieving laptop
5) Got locked out of the work carpark on returning with laptop
6) Endured a headache caused by stripping out crappy code while not wearing glasses
7) Walked into a wall (admittedly, not an uncommon occurence)
8) Slipped on the kitchen floor, spilling milk EVERYWHERE
9) Twice
10) Allowed myself a healthy swear on the second spillage
11) Got told off by Little Man, as "There's no need for shouting Mammy"

I would contend that this day was clearly unfit for purpose, and I fully intend to demand a refund.

Perhaps, if you've had a similarly crappy day - at any time - we can band together and initiate a class action lawsuit against the provider of these substandard days?
Does anyone know how to get in touch with Alan Shore and Denny Crane?

Answers on a postcard please!

To bed, perchance to sleep!

Some people may wonder why I'm tired these days. Why I don't spend my evenings in cool coffee places with friends, or even sitting on the couch chatting on the phone.

Mostly, these are people who don't have a daughter who has just turned two.

To be honest, I've been a bit baffled myself. She's tired, I put her to bed. Simple, right? So why am I still in her room an hour later?

Well it turns out that 2 year olds are very busy people. My Little Lady even has a checklist that she *must* complete before sleeping. It's quite complex actually. Really, I should be the one feeling sorry for her.

I happen to have gotten my hands on a copy of her checklist and I decided to share it here.

1) Give Daddy and big brother a Night Night Giss
2) Go to bedroom
3) Run back down hall to give Daddy another Night Night Giss
4) Close bedroom door BY MYSELF
5) Sing ABC song. Twice
6) Round of applause for a song well sung
7) Ask Mammy if Daddy is assileeeeep?
8) Ask Mammy if Ebbybody is assileeeeep?
9) Give Mammy a Giss
10) Tell Mammy that Baby Fuffie (Sophie) was crying in school today, because she was sad
11) Tell Mammy that Baby Fuffie is NOT crying emmymore. She is all better
12) Take dodie OFF blankie NOW
13) Sing Mr Golden Sun
14) Sing Bob the Builder
15) Tell Mammy to SHUSH, because Ebbybody is assileeeeep!
16) Ask Mammy to put blanket on my back
17) No, my OTHER back!
18) Put dodie ON blankie NOW
19) Sing Jedward song
20) Tell Mammy I'm singing Jedward song
21) Tell Mammy that Daddy is lawffee (lovely)
22) Tell Mammy that Daddy is assileeeeep
23) Give Mammy another Giss
24) Go to sileeeeep