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

Easy Peasy Chutney Squeezy (reblogged from Bebo)

Note - I actually used this topic in my wedding-party speech. No, really!

The wonderful Sharwoods have come up with something extraordinary, something innovative and cutting edge, something that helps me in my daily struggle to appear normal! Yes, it could only be.... mango chutney in a squeezable bottle!! Now that may not sound like much to some people, but to me, it's genius. A friend, who knew just how important it really is, texted me on the very day that he discovered this wondrous invention and followed up his news with photographic evidence shortly afterwards. I'd like to thank this selfless man, as I think it's fair to say, he saved my relationship. Have you ever sat down to a nice evening meal of fajitas beside the man with whom you intend spending the rest of your life? It's quite a pleasant way to pass the time. Laughing, sharing stories about one's day, and sharing food. Unfortunately, it was the sharing knives that was the problem.  Hubby's one flaw is that he quite likes mayonnaise (I know, I know - but really, I do think it's worth overlooking in his case!) When making our fajitas, we would use two knives (knives - pah! What were we, savages?), one for the chutney only and one for the mayonnaise only. These two knives were supposed to allow us to continue our relationship in relative harmony. A harmony in which NO traces of mayonnaise would ever end up in the chutney jar. Well, to Hubby, one knife looks much like another, and let's just say errors were frequent.  I began to fear for our status as a happy couple. Could I really spend the rest of my life knowing that the chutney could well have been contaminated? That it could become contaminated at any time? Would we ever be able to eat fajitas without fear of tears and recriminations? Enter Sharwoods. It was so obvious, so convenient, it was sheer genius. Chutney, in a squeezable bottle with NO NEED WHATEVER for a knife.  Well, I'm happy to say that I now have two of these ingenious bottles at my disposal. One for home and one for work - where relations are also now improving daily! Hubby and I can have fajitas whenever the mood takes us and he can use whatever knife he wants on the mayonnaise. The night terrors have stopped and we're again able to contemplate a future together.  So thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart to Sharwoods and to James, whose timely text saved our relationship. We owe you one.