Fishbowl

“Mummy, do fish have feelins?” asked the Small Girl yesterday morning as we watched our new tropical fish swim in slow circles around their tank.
“No darling”, I replied, “they don’t feel things the way we do”
She thought about this for a minute, then: “do they feel homesick?”
“No sweetheart” I laughed. But I did wonder what the bright little fish, fluttering languidly within their four walls, made of our giant shapes looming up to their tank.

When I fist decided to write a blog, DH was horrified.
“Am I in it?” he had asked, looking concerned.
“Of course!” I had replied, secretly relishing the power that exposing our family life was going to give me over him “so you’d better be on your best behaviour from now on darling!”

I find the experience of writing down and sharing my thoughts both cathartic and liberating. Despite the fact that it means that everyone pretty much knows everything about me, I’m honest about the funny stuff. And I try to be candid about the darker things too: the past, my depression and the challenges of parenting (like how to deal with an hour-long tantrum about post-it notes or how to explain the word “sexy” to a five-year-old who has just heard it in a song on the radio).

But besides the (admittedly deliberate) disclosure of writing a blog, I also find it very hard to escape the close scrutiny of the people I actually live with.
“Have you lost more weight?” DH asked me accusingly yesterday morning as I got out of the shower .
“No darling” I sighed, used after a year and a half of fairly intense running to this line of interrogation. And then, catching a glance of myself in the mirror, “I need to colour my hair though”
“I prefer it your natural colour” commented DH.
“Oh…” I said, crestfallen “but it looks quite natural, don’t you think?”
“No, it’s too blonde” he replied.
“Oh well” I sighed, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much darling, you could be doing a lot worse for yourself”

Hearing the Small People collapsing in fits of hysterical giggles behind me, I looked over to see them wrestling over the Small Girl’s camera. The Very Small Boy pointed to the screen and screeched “It’s Mummy’s bum-bum!” before dissolving back into a giggling heap on the carpet. Rolling my eyes, I reached for my hair colour and left the room.

After we had fed the fish last night, the Very Small Boy reached up to throw his favourite Batman figure into the water. As I stopped him, he cried
“But Batman wants to bash the baddie fish down!”
“I’m not sure the fish want to be bashed down darling” I said, gently taking the figure from him.

“Mummy, do fish feel guilty?” asked the Small Girl thoughtfully.
“I seriously doubt it darling” I replied, and tucking Batman into the back pocket of my jeans, I put an arm around each of the Small People as we peered into the glass to watch the fish dart about, catching the papery bits of multicoloured fishfood that floated gently down through the water to the gravel below.

Road Rage

A very dear friend told me recently “you’re one of the strongest people I know”. I was shocked to think that anyone would describe me this way, because “strong” is just about the last word I would use to describe myself - the world seems to rush in at me disconcertingly; the pain and anger and sadness of others leaving me raw and drained, unable as I am to filter out the groundless worries from the valid.

Dropping off the Small Girl at Big School one morning earlier this week, I was accosted at my car by an alarming woman; broad-shouldered, wild-eyed, harshly tracksuited and loudly exclaiming “You nearly killed my children!”. For a sickening moment (before I realised that she was the horribly aggressive driver who had taken exception moments earlier to a right turn I had made), I really thought that I had actually nearly run someone’s children over, and I subsequently spent two entire nights without sleep, unable to get over the shock of thinking I could have inadvertently harmed a child.

I went for a long run that morning whilst the Very Small Boy was at playschool, completing my 10k circuit around the outskirts of Newbridge in exactly an hour, and returning home feeling utterly exhausted but mentally revived. And I realised that when it comes to running, despite being small and not physically very strong, I am tough – I have the ability to keep on going, keep pushing myself where others would have given up, exhausted.

The Small Girl went home from school that day to a friend’s house, and as always on the afternoons when she is off Being Sociable, the Very Small Boy and I felt lost. I missed her reassuring presence after an upsetting morning, and the Very Small Boy, horrified at having to dine alone, began to stamp his foot and demand:

“I want her to come home now! I want her now!”, before adding quietly “I miss her little face…”

When the Small Girl did finally return, full of chatter about zombie games and chocolate pancakes, she took one look at me and cried

“Ohmygod! Mummy! You have a spot!”
“I know darling” I sighed, “it’s been that kind of a day I'm afraid.”
“You know Mummy” she said sympathetically, “ I saw an advert on the telly for some cream you could buy for that…”

I laughed and gave my small girl a big hug, relieved beyond words to have her back safe with us at home. I find even the small-scale daily onslaught of worry and emotion (like absence or a troubling bout of road rage) so draining that it’s no wonder I struggle to process the bigger things. But if there’s one thing I can say about myself, it’s that I’m resilient, and I can console myself with the thought that, despite the fact that I appear both physically and emotionally fragile, I am actually pretty tough on both counts. So, my velour-clad friend, you may be able to reduce me to tears. But I can run rings around you.

Bold

“1. Not hesitating or fearful in the face of actual or possible danger or rebuff 2. Not hesitating to break the rules of propriety; forward; impudent 3. Necessitating courage and daring; challenging”

There is another use of the word “bold” which isn’t included in the dictionary: in Ireland, it’s also used to describe the behaviour of an errant child. It’s a delightful euphemism for “exceedingly naughty” which eliminates the need for negative and unnecessary words such as "naughty" or "bad".

These days, The Small Girl is rarely bold. At five and a half, she knows her boundaries and is less eager to push them than she is to please me. She does have an incredibly stubborn streak however, and is prone to the odd outburst of door-slamming and pouting. But then again, who isn’t? She has also recently developed a terribly sweet habit of writing notes - I discovered a scrawled and crumpled note in my handbag earlier in the week which read "Mummy you are byootiful" and which moved me to unaccountable tears at the Tescos checkout.

The Very Small Boy on the other hand, is throwing himself with vigour into the business of Experiencing The Terrible Twos. Still an early riser and therefore chronically sleep-deprived, he also has a very low frustration threshold, and has recently discovered that certain behaviours (such as picking his nose and name-calling) infuriate me almost to the point of hysteria.

When I recently banned him from watching a movie because he’d been bold, he began a tantrum of such magnitude that I was (and this is pretty rare) actually lost for words. It began, innocently enough, with shouting and foot-stamping, then progressed to tears of rage, screeching and lashing out. After about half an hour (and having provoked no reaction from me) he began to do all the things which usually really infuriate me. And when, two hours later, he was still jumping up and down in the kitchen screeching and crying, one finger wedged firmly up his nose and shouting “Mummy I hate you!” at the top of his voice, I did what any reasonable parent in that situation would do - and got out the video camera to record the tantrum for posterity.

Usually though, the Small People are both pretty well behaved, and are now at a stage where they gain a great deal from each other’s company. They play happily for whole hours at a time in their new playroom, creating imaginary games and entertaining themselves (while I, unsure what to do with all this newfound harmony, pace about uneasily, half-heartedly starting creative projects which I never quite finish).

I was sitting at my sewing machine the other day, trying to decipher the incomprehensible roman blind instructions in my soft furnishings book, when the Small Girl stalked sullenly in and deposited a note on top of my new Ikea curtain material. It was folded in two and had "luve" printed spider-like on the front. I opened it, and read:

"my bruther haz bin bowld"

Heart sinking, I got up and followed the Small Girl back towards the playroom. But I never did get to find out what bold thing her brother had done – before I had the chance to ask, they had turned on their music and both leapt up to dance to their current favourite Jedward song, which is called - appropriately enough - “Bad Behaviour”.

Bad Behaviour