'Cool' is in the eye of the beholder

My four-year-old daughter is a thing of beauty. I do not mean her hair, or her skin, although sadly those are what she is complimented on most often.
The beauty that strikes me is her essence, it shines through in a darkened room and cannot be hidden by any mask.
She is brave, funny and ferociously loving. Her intuition and her ability to diffuse a bad mood is damned useful! She is, in her own way, utterly perfect at being who she is.

The other day I was almost - almost - too busy to remember any of this. Feeling under pressure for time, I ignored her sense of style and her utter independence, and I picked out clothes for her. She dressed while I changed the baby, and she walked in to the room with a dejected look on her face. Still thinking of getting out the door quickly, I decided to jolly her along. 'Oh wow sweetheart! You look so cool!'
And then tears filled her eyes, and my wonderful girl's voice wobbled as she informed me 'I know. But Mammy, I don't look cool to me!'

It was a moment I don't think I'll ever forget, and it reminded me that as much as I strive to teach our children something new every day, I will never stop learning new things from them either.

While we have jokingly called my Little Lady a threenager, I don't envy my kids their teens. It seems to me (perhaps through rose-tinted glasses) that the social pressures kids today are put under are much exaggerated versions of the ones we dealt with in our younger years. I have often looked at my independent, feisty girl and thought that hopefully she'll have the strength not to go along with the crowd, to think for herself and be true to her own identity. So what the hell was I doing?

I took a breath, I invited her into my arms for a cuddle, and I whispered into her velvety skin 'Ok, pop upstairs and get yourself dressed properly. We have a minute before we really have to go.'

No appointment, no schedule is important enough to squash the spirit of a small child. It took about 90 seconds for her to present herself again; adorned in rainbow-striped leggings, a polka-dot skirt and a Spiderman T-shirt. And this time, she really did look cool. If those 90 seconds help her to remember at a crucial time in her life, that the only person she needs to impress is herself, then they'll have been worth it ten times over.

The Black Dog

There is a black dog following me. He seems to have come out of nowhere. I wasn't expecting him.

There is a black dog following me. If he catches me, he will sit on my chest - heavy, and large enough to hide me even from myself. I know, because he caught me once before.

I am with the children and I see him creeping up. I tell them about the Exercise Game. We will run, and shout. We will check our pulses afterwards, and look at our rosy cheeks. The dog cannot keep pace with us, and we outrun him.

When the baby is wrapped snugly onto my chest, there is no room for the dog, and I am safe.

The dog is not strong enough to follow me in the sunshine, and I dance in its rays. But this is a land of clouds, and I must find a rainbow to carry in my pocket.

I saw him again the other day. Just around a corner. I will tell Hubby and he will help me get more sleep tonight and I can outrun the dog again tomorrow.

I think I can hear his panting breath, so we start to sing. I cannot hear him over the gleeful shouts of 'Ting, tang, Walla-walla bing bang' and I smile.

I know the dog is afraid of laughter. I tell the kids silly Knock, Knock jokes that they are too young to really understand. Obediently, they smile. In a riot of giggles, they come up with their own silly joke that I am too old to really understand, but their laughter is infectious and our tummies soon ache with joy.

There is a black dog following me. I will not let him catch me.

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...