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

On Purpose

Loading the Very Small Boy into his car seat recently as we were about to set off to the supermarket, I noticed that all the hair on one side of his head appeared to have been dyed bright pink and then styled alarmingly into sharp, crunchy spikes.

“Sausage?” I turned accusingly to the Small Girl (who was already strapped into her car seat and looking over innocently at me) “did you put nail polish in your brother’s hair?”
“He told me to” she replied sweetly, and then, by way of explanation: “he wanted Jedward hair”.
“She did it on purpose”, added the Very Small Boy, pouting dramatically and enjoying an excuse to use his latest phrase (which to his delight he has recently discovered he can use to get his sister into trouble).
“Oh for God's sake.... well it’s too late to do anything about it now” I sighed, and got into the car.

Once again, the summer holidays have passed in a languid blur, and we all felt grateful for the arrival of September, bringing with it a return to reassuring routine, and a welcome relief from feeling obliged to engage in the futile Irish pastime of Hoping For Decent Weather.

I love Autumn and Winter: crisp, bright days, warm jumpers, long dark evenings in front of the fire and the satisfying anticipation of Christmas. In fact, the only thing that clouds my enjoyment of September is the threat of snow and ice forcing me to suspend my outdoor runs in favour of the much less satisfactory gym.

However, for now the cooler weather is perfect for running and I have been increasing my distance runs to up to 10k at a time, surprising myself with my strength and endurance. So much so that I’ve decided to run the Dublin marathon next October (which thankfully is still a whole year off - because the four-month training schedule looks so gruelling that I fear I will actually have to train for the training).

“Mummy?” asked the Very Small Boy, as I was bundling him out of the car and into the shopping trolley seat.
“Yes darling?” I replied, hauling the Small Girl into the main part of the trolley and locking the car.
“You’re a poo-poo head on purpose!”

Before I could react, the Small Girl (who had collapsed in hysterics in the shopping trolley) sat up frowning, put her hand theatrically to her brow, and, in a brilliant imitation of me, said in mock exasperation “oh for God’s sake…”

And we all burst out laughing as we made our way to the counter to buy the children a Chocolatey Treat for the shopping trip.

Not Over Yet

“You know”, said the wide-eyed man, raising his voice above the thudding music as he leant back against the sweat- damp wall and regarded me, awestruck: “people like you are like God to me…”

I took a drag of my cigarette and regarded my teenage self, stunned. It was dizzying: the drinks we’d drunk, the lines we’d snorted and finally, the pill I’d washed down with tepid water from the bottle in my hand. I could feel it working now; a warm buzz, like adrenaline, starting in the pit of my stomach and radiating through my limbs like soothing fire. Stubbing out the cigarette, I turned from the man and ran to the toilets, pushing my way through the crowds to a soiled cubicle with a broken door, which I managed to close before turning and vomiting into the toilet bowl. Then I was walking back to the dance-floor. Walking, floating, beatific; jaw quivering, eyes rolling, beaming at the rapture-flooded beauty of it all: this club with its pounding music lifting me higher, my hands in the air, encircled by devotion, ecstasy filling me up till I felt like I might die…

I’m not proud of the life I fell into in that strange time at the end of my teenage years. But I have enough compassion for my younger self to forgive myself for what was probably inevitable. For we are all shaped by our childhoods, and the measure of a person is not in how far they fall, but in how they pick themselves up afterwards. I fell a long way, and when I realised I could fall no further, I clawed my way back to the real world, to real life, and I did it alone: without friends or family, without doctors or counsellors or support groups.

“Well, you know what they say about runners” said a friend here in Newbridge the other day over coffee and cupcakes as we discussed our shared love of the activity “they’re always running from something!”.
“I’m definitely running from something”, I laughed, as I thought about how even before I began to run, I loved it for what it represented to me: freedom, escape, the solitary pursuit of striving to be faster, better, stronger.

Usually when I begin an early-morning run, I feel drained and sluggish, my muscles tired and sore and my limbs heavy. But what I love most about running longer distances is that if you push yourself through those first few kilometres, past the aches and stitches and leaden limbs, your body just takes over – endorphins and adrenaline flood your system and suddenly you are running – really running – and you feel powerful and strong and muscular and invincible.

Personally, I don’t think there is anything wrong with running from the past. I have faced my demons and won. I am a stronger, better, more grounded person for it. And if I am running from the past, then I must surely be sprinting towards the future. And the future is a joyous place, filled with light and life, with fun and happiness and with the dazzling laughter of children.

(summer of '94... we were the Beautiful People)

Bye Bye Baby

Since successfully weaning myself off Venlafaxine a couple of months ago, I’ve been suffering with something of a crisis of identity. So single-minded was I when I was taking the stuff, so focused on running, losing weight, living healthily, that I lost myself a little. Admittedly, it was the perfect antidote to the preceding five years, in which I was enveloped in a kind of motherly baby-haze of pregnancy, plumpness, breastfeeding and the nurturing of others. But the strange result of my year of tunnel-vision is that I find myself catapulted suddenly back physically and mentally to a time before babies; before even the need for babies.

Being the youngest in the family, the Very Small Boy will, in some ways, always remain my baby. But as the summer has progressed, he has all of a sudden become rather grown-up. We decided to toilet train him at the beginning of the Small Girl’s summer holidays, and ditching the nappies felt to all of us like a symbolic step; leaving behind us the last vestige of babyhood. And as much as I loved The Baby Years, I suspect I am better suited to dealing with children: real people who eat real food and are able to walk downstairs by themselves, and with whom you can (in most cases anyway) reason with.

Boys baffle me in many ways: whilst I understand the Small Girl in an innate way (princesses; pretty dresses; a tendency to over-accessorise – I just get it), the Very Small Boy’s propensity to climb and jump, throw things against walls and generally fling himself violently on the floor – this is behaviour which just leaves me feeling puzzled. Of course, his bewildering boyishness is also incredibly endearing and often when I see him dashing about playing football in the front garden with The Big Boys from next door, I can’t resist the impulse to run out and gather him up (much to his embarrassment) and smother him with kisses.

So I am trying, at the moment, while I decide who I am (sensible almost-nearing-forty mother of two? semi-glamorous vaguely youthful mum? teetotal hippyish fitness fanatic?), to relax and enjoy these two small people with whom I suddenly find myself living.

The Very Small Boy is even sleeping longer now, finally - often not waking until almost half past six… I was woken yesterday morning at the usual time of 6.24am by the familiar sound of his bedroom door crashing open, followed by his Very Small footsteps thudding down the corridor, before the sound of our own bedroom door being flung violently open.

“What’s the craic, poop-head??” demanded the Very Small Boy cheerfully, before clambering over us, into the middle of the bed and under the covers for his morning cuddle.

Keep It Together, Girl

Not so long ago, around two months into our kitchen extension, DH was unexpectedly called to the States for a week to work, and I was left alone, living in a building site with two children. We had no hot water, the entire downstairs of the house was unusable and the constant and deafening drilling meant that we had to be out of the house every day from 8am to 6pm.

“Keep it together, girl!” said Ken the Builder cheerfully one morning as he stood, sledgehammer aloft, in the rubble of what once had been my kitchen.
“I’m trying”, I sighed, attempting to prise an enormous screwdriver from the Very Small Boy, who was jabbing it alarmingly into the salmon-pink smoothness of a freshly plastered wall.

I gazed through the hazy dust at the scene before me. Despite knowing that the three builders, two plumbers, two plasterers, a roofer and an electrician were carefully orchestrating the various complicated stages of destruction and creation, all I saw was a grey mess of ugly wires protruding from bare breeze-block and copper piping sticking out of drilled-up concrete; everything covered in a thick layer of dust and great blood-splashes of plaster.

I suppose I had expected some kind of grand finale - an unveiling - but of course it didn’t end like that. We lived a few weeks with the kitchen half-finished. I fretted quietly about painting the woodwork and putting up shelves. The constant stream of workmen slowly decreased before ending finally, undramatically, with an electrician calling by one Saturday morning to fix a boiler problem.

And now, when friends call by and admire my beautiful new kitchen (“the skylight!” “the worktops!” “the fridge!”), I can’t help feeling slightly uncomfortable to be surrounded by such excess. And I realised today that, although I'm thrilled with it, and the new kitchen has made my life easier and much more pleasant, it’s not the source of real, unadulterated happiness that I thought it might be; it's more a pleasing background to the things that make me truly happy.

A couple of days ago, the Small Girl (who’s on her summer holidays at the moment) came with me to pick up the Very Small Boy from Playschool, and after strapping them both into the car, we set out back home.

“What happened at Playschool today darling?” I asked the Very Small Boy as we drove.
“We played with shaving foam!” he cried gleefully, before adding thoughtfully “And Samuel did have hair like Jedward...”
The Small Girl looked up sharply from her Barbie. “Jedward?” she asked

And they both burst raucously into song: “She’s got her lipstick on, here I come, da da dum…”

I laughed out loud, and I was still smiling to myself ten minutes later when finally we got home and, still singing, they climbed up together to the new breakfast bar to wait for their milk and cookies.