The Night Before Twitmas

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the Twitter,

There were ribbons and jingles and all things that glitter. 

The hashtags were spun by the wordsmiths with care, 

About French hens and partridges in trees bearing pear.

The Tweeters were nestled all snug in their apps,

Filling the timeline with Christmassy snaps. 

With the kids on the couch and the baby in his wrap,

And me taking time out, while he has his nap,

When what to my wondering eyes should appear, 

But smiling avatars full of Christmas cheer. 

So to each one and all, on this cold Christmas Eve,

Take time to share joy, and above all... Believe! 

Love and the sound of silence

90% of my parenting is done through the medium of song. I like to start 'em young. Based on a gut feeling, I sang Beautiful Boy to Little Man from 16 weeks into the pregnancy. When he was a colicky little baby, Hubby and I could always rely on a song to soothe him in the end.
Little Lady's 'Bump Song' was Moon River and I continued to sing it each night as I rocked her to sleep - until, that is, she began to sing it back to me aged just two. I've made up songs about princesses, knights, teething, earthworms, buzzy bees and how long it takes to warm up a bottle. I use these songs, and many more, to soothe, to entertain and to explain.
So far, it's served us pretty well. The kids make up their own songs now - admittedly sometimes about what they're doing on the toilet - and I've even had a four-minute argument about getting out of the bath with Little Lady, entirely through melody. I love that this house sometimes feels like the set of a musical, and that the kids love it too (although poor Hubby ranges from amused to confused). I like to think that when they grow up, they'll have memories like I do - of singing along to 4 Non Blondes with my three siblings in the back of a Fiat Derby, or me and my Dad trying to hit the high notes with Diana Ross on our way to get my braces tightened.
 In short, singing is a huge part of our daily family life. So I'm sure you can imagine our shock when we were told that Little One hasn't heard any of it. Our little cutie is moderately hearing impaired. 
Introduced only in the last 12 months,  Ireland's maternity hospitals are now performing newborn hearing screening. Failing this initial test at 24 hours of age is no real cause for alarm - day old babies are most often quite congested, which interferes with their hearing function temporarily. Even after failing a second hearing test, it never occurred to us to worry. It was only through listening to the two audiologists (the lovely Martin & David) as they recorded Little One's auditory centre responses - or lack thereof - at his  third screening, that I realised something was amiss.  After two more afternoons of intensive testing, we have a very clear picture of his hearing ability - all the better to address it properly with the early intervention that these diagnostic tests allow.
 So the road ahead is a little different for our family than we initially expected. Little One will have his first hearing aids fitted next week, then we'll begin the task of teaching him to listen, and to help develop the auditory pathways in his brain which are so far neglected. To help him develop speech, we'll all have to work on speaking clearly while face-to-face - something that doesn't always happen in a busy household like ours.
I won't deny that a few little tears have been shed, feeling foolish while reading Roald Dahl or dancing beside the kitchen radio. But whatever way you look at it, we are very lucky.  Our little boy is healthy. He has received audiological care on an 'emergency' basis thanks to the new screening and early intervention guidelines. We will get information and support in how best to help him learn the things that other kids seem to pick up by osmosis, and there is no reason that he can't attend a mainstream Creche and school.  
 Life is good. We will all learn together the best ways of teaching, playing and interacting with Little One - in much the same way that we have adapted our parenting to suit Little Man and Little Lady's different personalities. The one thing that won't change is the fierceness and depth of the love every member of this family shares. Oh, and the excessive singing. Sorry Hubby!

A Day in the Life, of a Newborn

So you guys know how it is, right?
One day you find a nice lady, and you decide to make her your home. You even come up with a sort of a pet name for her - Home Lady. Everything's going swimmingly!

And then one day you wake up, and the walls are closing in on you. Like, actually physically closing in on you.
Hey, Home Lady, knock it off! Please? Look, I'll stop playing my music so loud. And I won't put any more posters on the walls, honest.
But she insists on going through with it, and next thing you know the world is a bright, noisy, cold place! Luckily, you've been clever enough to let out some rope behind you so you can find your way back, but the Big People have spotted it and they actually cut it right there in front of you! You make a note to add it to your list of complaints should you be able to find a supervisor.

And you know what, the next 24 hours are not gonna be easy either.
First, one of the Big People puts these things with writing round each of your arms and legs. Then, every time you fall asleep, they wake you up to see if they're still there and still say the same thing. Really? You think maybe they fell off while I was rock-climbing and I just asked the nearest counterfeiter to hook me up? Unlikely.

We are not even gonna talk about how it feels to basically have tar come out of your butt. Just, no.

Later, while you're just lying around looking at everything within 10 inches, the thing in the middle of your face explodes!! Yes, it explodes. The aftershocks run through your whole body and you're sure the Big People will finally step in and help.
Alas, no. Even Home Lady just smiles and says 'cute'. What the-? She's taking a picture? My face just damn near fell off and she thinks it's a Kodak moment? You've changed Home Lady... :(

Oh here comes another Big People. I wonder what she wants? She's taking my socks off while saying nice things to me. Weird, but whatever. What's that? She's putting something in my mouth, it's so sweet and tasty. I LIKE this Big People. She's super- OH MY GOD SHE STABBED ME IN THE FOOT!! OUCH! Now she's trying to make it better by squeezing it. You're just making it worse you amateur, bring me back to Home Lady or else!

There is no way I'm staying in this weird place. I had a good thing going all by myself - I don't need any of you Big People around so just leave me alone.

Oh hello again, Home Lady. Oh a snuggle. That's better. And she's singing that song about the rain falling like a memory. Makes no sense to me, but I still like it. She smells kinda sweet and warm actually. And she's soft and squishy. And I really like when we get to hold our cheeks together and she rubs my back.

Well, ok, maybe I'll give this *yawn* place another chance. Maybe it'll all be ok in the... Zzzzzz

Baby brain

So, baby brain.

Is it real? Could something as simple as progesterone cause a woman to become more forgetful? Are heightened tiredness and distraction during pregnancy a more likely cause?

I have no idea, actually.

All I know is that it affects me (and those around me – sorry for all the cold dinners Hubby!) in every pregnancy.

Mostly it’s fairly simple things. A pair of glasses found nestled in the fridge or the wardrobe is a great relief. Until I wonder what that means for the eggs or T-shirt I’d been carrying at the same time.

There was the day that I tried and failed four times to simply put a chicken into the oven for dinner. There are many, many instances of my putting the dinner into the oven, but not actually turning the oven on. There are evenings when we eat quite late in my house.

But the story I tell most people when they ask about baby brain is one from when I was pregnant with Little Man.

At the time, I drove the best car in the world. A 94 Toyota Corolla. I loved that car and still miss it terribly. The only problem it ever had was caused by me. While pregnant I simply could not remember to switch the lights off when I got out! And I’ll be honest, this bothered me. That little beep when I opened the damn door was another reminder that I was losing my mind. Remember, at this stage I couldn’t be sure it would go back to normal after Little Man was born.

So, every time I got into the car I’d drive along thinking “Turn off the lights, turn off the lights, keys out of ignition, turn off the lights”. This was WAY less effective than I hoped it would be. It had a failure rate of nigh on 100%. Not ideal, you’ll agree.

And then one day, I drove to the Spar in Citywest on my lunchbreak. I parked the car, opened the door and… silence. In your face stupid beep! I was a functional human being who was entirely capable of turning off lights after all!

My happiness was short-lived. In the time it took me to get out of the car and close the door, I’d lost my keys.

Checked pockets.

Nope.

Looked in handbag.

Nope.

Resigned self to rooting through overly-large handbag properly.

Wallet onto roof of car.
Two novels onto roof of car.

Emergency novel onto roof of car.

Still no keys!

And then, a good Samaritan came along. “Here missus! Are ya lookin’ for your keys?”

Thank heavens! He can see them, that means I must have dropped them on the ground. I thank him profusely while looking around my feet and under the car.

“Eh, no love, it’s just that… well your engine’s still running.”

It’s hard to tell who was the most embarrassed. The poor man really felt sorry for this incredibly round woman who was clearly an imbecile. I thanked him quickly and we went our separate ways, both I’m sure, thinking of the silly story we’d be telling later on.

And tell the story I did. Repeatedly. Hubby and I rolled it out on a regular basis, to much hilarity.

Until one day, when we told a favourite uncle, Ciarán, what had happened. Like everyone, he laughed and threw his eyes up to heaven and sympathised with my plight. And then he quietly, casually, asked one simple question “So had you actually turned off the lights? Cos if the keys were still in the ignition, it wouldn’t have beeped.”

I looked at Hubby, horror stricken. And I guess we’ll never know!

Pregnancy myths

So I've been catching up on Grey's Anatomy and I was quite amused by the way they've been showing Meredith Grey's pregnancy.
Christina noticed the pregnancy because of Meredith's 'massive boobs' as well as the fact that she's been crying at the drop of a hat. Totally Hollywood, right?

Real pregnancy is completely different. I mean ok, my maternity coat is fine on my tummy and won't close over my boobs, but that's probably a coincidence, right?

Anyway, a typical day in my life is nothing like Meredith Grey's sobfest.
Take this morning: It is perfectly reasonable to have a little cry because my laryngitis means that baby is not getting to know the sound of my voice right now.

And honestly, who *wouldn't* have cried after driving an hour to the hospital only to discover she'd left payment for her ultrasound at home?

Also, tears of joy when looking at 'textbook' images of the four chambers of your child's heart? What am I, a stone?

Still, I smiled so hard on my way back to my car that my face actually started to hurt. Definitely a good sign. I beamed and wiggled my head along to the radio on my drive home. The epitome of reasonableness.

And then, at the Red Cow, a white van in front of me crashed into the estate car in front of it. Well, that's clearly unfair. I mean, there I was ten feet away, full to the brim with joy and these two people had just had their day ruined! So I shed a little tear for them. Maybe two. Look, who actually *counts* tears anyway?

So yes, I think Hollywood has a long way to come in depicting the realities of pregnancy. Silly melodramatic scriptwriters! It's almost enough to make a girl cry...

Childhood friends

There is a childhood friend that I've neglected in the past few years. One I'd almost forgotten I ever used to love. The passage of time, the geographical distance between us has led us apart. And yet I know that my stalwart friend is still there, patiently waiting. Making friends with others, being an important part of their lives, and always being ready to embrace me once more when I return.

This friend is the King Oak in Charleville Forest. Somewhere between 400 and 800 years of age, it has been climbed on, sat on, wept on, and transported happy children to unending adventures.

When I was too young to go on school tours like my older siblings, my Dad and I would pack a lunch (ok, it was an iced bun in a blue tupperware box) and head off for an adventure to Charleville. Just the two of us. Our first port of call, always, was the King Oak. Gnarled and majestic to an adult, to a (short) four year old it looked as giant as anything could possibly be. Obliging old friend that it is, it has two branches spread out quite low over the ground - absolutely perfect for even smaller kids to climb aboard the horse, train, whale... whatever their imagination called on it to be that day.

Even in my teens, my sister and I would walk to visit friends on the far side of town, and then we would go for a picnic (ok, a bottle of Cola and whatever ice-cream was in fashion at the time) and just sit and chat by, or on, the tree for hours.

I will bring my kids to see my friend the King Oak. They will climb, and I will worry. They'll jump, and I'll catch them. They will hug the tree, and I will smile, and hope that one day they bring their own kids to visit our family friend. And hope that he'll still be there, waiting patiently.


The King Oak in Charleville is currently in competition to win the title European Tree of the Year. Being a tree, it probably doesn't care if it wins or not. But it's nice to think it allows us to remember our friend again, and to honour him in some way. You can vote here http://www.treeoftheyear.org/?lang=en

Breast Cancer BS

Banana my goddamned backside! People are AWARE of breast cancer. We don't need games, and pink umbrellas and branded bottled water to be AWARE that cancer is there, that it can be deadly.

We need money for research, for treatments, for cures. We need to save lives.

We do NOT need giant TVs in the breast-screening waiting room in St James' hospital, and for 'fun' games to 'go viral'.

Put your money* where your mouth is and make a difference.


*The Irish Cancer Society in no way endorses my rant.