Poo-Poo

“I think this town ought to be called “Poo-poo Town”” the Small Girl announced last week as we negotiated our way daintily around the mounds of stale dog mess littering the pavements leading down to Big School.
“I agree, Sausage”, I sighed, having only last week called angrily over to one of my more far-flung neighbours to complain about her roaming dogs using my front lawn as a lavatory. (She had looked at me as if I were quite mad, clutching her door in bewilderment and gazing slowly, mouth agape, from the enormously fat Labrador at her feet to my house, three doors away).

I often wonder why people let their dogs roam the streets this way in Ireland, for it is just as unlawful in Newbridge as it is in, say, London, where dog-owners usually fulfil their obligation to clean up after their pets. It’s all down to sheer laziness, I suspect; the job of picking up after your dog rendered unnecessary if you don’t ever bother to go with it when it goes for a walk.

The Small People, however (being at that stage of childhood where toilet humour is considered the highest form of wit), love the excuse to have constant conversations about poo. “Eeeeuuuurrrgggh! Dog poo!” shouts the Small Girl every morning as we head off for school. And “Where’s the poo? Let me see it!” cries the Very Small Boy, ambling over to peer at it then delightedly crying “Eeeeuuuurrrgggh! Poo-poo!”.

It all adds to my general sense of unreality at the moment, as I struggle to wean myself off my anti-depressants. Rather pleasantly labelled “discontinuation syndrome” by drug manufacturers and GPs, the dizziness, irritability, sleeplessness, listlessness and nausea brought about by lowering your intake of Venlafaxine is in reality nothing other than a pretty unpleasant dose of good old-fashioned drug withdrawal.

I deal with it by running. Concentrating on breathing, posture, pace, becomes my escape - almost a form of meditation - allowing me to focus on nothing other than this moment, now. I went for a long run on Saturday morning, finding it harder than usual because of the withdrawal. Gasping for breath, sweat-blinded eyes struggling to focus, I forced myself to run for 6k until I could practically feel the drugs leaving my system.

The feeling of achievement after a run like that is incomparable and I jogged the last few steps to my front door triumphantly, realising a moment too late that one confident foot was landing square in the middle of a fresh pile of dog poo…

“Oh shit” I sighed, and limped dejectedly the rest of the way to the house to clean my shoes.

Running on Empty

It's hard to believe, but five whole months have passed since I last managed to sit down and write. Not because I've been too busy (although life with the Small People is always fairly relentless), but because every now and again, I experience a need to slow down, to unfocus a little and to turn inwards.

The Very Small Boy turned two in November; we had a Very Small party for him, after which we endured a long, cold winter. Snowed in with two small children for weeks on end, I built endless log fires and dreamed of freedom. As soon as the snow lifted enough to be able to drive, I joined a gym and from then until the first buoyant blooms of spring, I endlessly ran the treadmill; daydreaming, going nowhere fast.

We saw in the New Year contentedly - the Small Girl well-settled at Big School, The Very Small Boy happily attending playschool two mornings a week and DH looking forward to organising our new kitchen extension. But although I had achieved all the goals I had set out for myself in 2010 - finding more time for myself, getting fit, losing weight and mostly (if not exclusively) giving up alcohol, I felt tense and restless.

With the arrival of Spring, I am beginning to find my focus again. I have gone back to running outdoors, running longer and harder than before and pushing myself further. We've had some lovely sunny spring days, enjoying our time together as a family, and as the children grow slowly older and slowly more manageable, my life is becoming slowly easier.

I was sitting out in the garden the other day, when the Small Girl came running up to me, a writhing worm held aloft:

"Mum", she shrieked, "can you tie a bow in this for me?"

She looked slightly stunned at my laughter, my beautiful wild daughter: pale blue dress, long tangled hair, amused green eyes and muddy hands. And I realised then that I have absolutely no reason not to stop taking the antidepressants I needed a year ago. Perhaps it's time to turn my back on them and have a go at life on my own terms, without the pleasant mist of Venlafaxine distorting my focus. Perhaps...

A Moment in my Day

Just occasionally, caught off-guard in a rare moment of calm during a hectic day, I am able to experience life with such clarity that it is almost painful.

I was sitting today with the Very Small Boy. We were in the garden, perched side by side on the back step, laughing together at the slurping sound he was deliberately making as he drank his juice; his big brown eyes filled with delight. I put my arm around him and we looked up at the crisp white sheets on the line, flapping optimistically in the breezy autumn sunshine. The Small Girl and her friend, The Girl Next Door, were laughing and chasing each other through the neighbour’s garden. I smiled at their squeals of delight and closed my eyes, savouring the warm sun on my face as I breathed in the buttery sweetness of baking flapjacks drifting out through the open door behind us.

When I reach the end of my life, it is moments like these, I realised, that I wish to remember. For we all experience the momentous things: life, birth, death, marriage… But what really shapes our lives are the little things that happen in between – beautiful, fleeting moments that catch us off-guard; threatening to slip by, unremembered.

Life in the Fast Lane

“Why do you always accelerate towards speed bumps?” asked DH the other day as I was driving us back from Sunday lunch at the pub.
“What do you mean?” I replied, puzzled
"You accelerate towards them, then slow down suddenly, then accelerate off again really fast” he said, before adding thoughtfully “you always do it”

I can’t say that I’ve ever noticed this peculiarity of my driving, but I was thinking about DH’s comments during a recent run, when I realised that I run in the same way I apparently drive: with short bursts of speed, going all-out wherever possible before slowing down, exhausted, completely unable to pace myself.

The summer holidays have come and gone, passing in a slow blur of languid activity and frantic listlessness. For the whole eight weeks, I was entirely committed to focussing on the looming prospect of Big School. And so I was slightly thrown when the Small Girl, in pristine uniform and pigtails, her school bag almost as big as she is, quietly accepted her new status as schoolgirl, and settled happily into her new routine of lessons, packed lunches and playground drama. Perhaps, after all, it was destined to be a bigger adjustment for me than it was for her.

“So what happened in your first assembly this morning, Sausage?” I asked her on the walk home from school, a few days into term.
“The Archdeacon came to talk to us!” she replied.
“Oh lovely – and what did he say? Did he tell you a story?”
“Yes, about Baby Cheesus” she replied quietly, frowning.
“Baby Jesus… and what did he do in the story?” I prompted

The Small Girl thought for a second, before replying “he came to Newbridge and fixed a hole in the road!”. The she skipped off ahead to peer at a snail making its way slowly along the pavement.

There is no inherent reason why I should feel such a huge sense of urgency about everything I do. The only conclusion I can draw is that I am constantly spurred on by a persistent anxiety that sits in the pit of my stomach and is as disquieting as it is groundless. Because I really have no reason to feel anxious - if you had asked me ten years ago where I hoped my life would lead, I would have described almost exactly the life I have today… all I have to do now is teach myself to slow down enough to actually enjoy it.

The Girl With Tears In Her Eyes

I packed the car early on Friday morning, and after breakfast the children and I (DH was planning to join us later) set off for Kingscourt and Nanny and Grandpa’s house. DH and I had been invited to a work colleague’s wedding in the North, so we had planned to go via his parents’ house, leaving the children with them overnight.

The car journey was, as anticipated, somewhat challenging. Ten minutes into the two-hour drive, the Small Girl began to fuss relentlessly:

“Mum, are we nearly there?”
“No darling, it will be a little while longer yet”
“Oh… can I start lookin’ out for Nanny’s house?” she countered
“It’s probably not a good idea to start looking just yet” I replied, already feeling exasperated.
“Can I start lookin’ out for Nanny’s car then, Mum?” she asked, her voice starting to sound mildly hysterical.
“NANNY!” shouted the Very Small Boy in agreement.

I turned up the radio and began to sing along, in the hope of distracting them.

“Muuuummm! Stop singin’!” whined the Small Girl, with a very good approximation of teenage exasperation.
“Oh – don’t you like my singing?” I replied, sounding hurt.
“Well it’s OK… except for the words” She paused, before adding decisively “and the tune.”

When we arrived at the wedding the following day, I was feeling understandably nervous at the prospect of not drinking. I have to admit that, having only decided a couple of weeks ago to turn my back on alcohol, the idea of enforced sobriety whilst all around me were rolling drunk didn’t particularly appeal. And for the first few hours of socialising, I did miss that reassuring glass of wine in my hand. For one thing, it would have distracted me from missing the children. But in the end, I decided, remaining sober was simply a matter of having slightly less fun the night before and significantly more fun the morning after.

Shortly before making my excuses and retiring to bed, I sat idly near the band, watching the wedding guests on the dance floor. And suddenly I felt incredibly touched by the small details: an old couple dancing intently but frowning with serious concentration; a group of carefully groomed young women (their dresses complex, their hairstyles more so), tripping over their heels and laughing self-consciously; the Groom’s awkward movements as he danced with his bride, trying carefully to avoid stepping on the dirty hem of her beautiful dress.

I suppose to the casual observer, I must have looked like someone who’d had a few too many, but my tears really had nothing at all to do with alcohol. I was just a girl who was overwhelmed, suddenly, by the frailty of humanity, in all its beautiful vulnerability.

Extremism

“I don’t know why you do it to yourself, Darling” remarked DH as I set off in the drizzle at 8.30am on Sunday morning for a run. As I pounded along the country lanes, a straggling assortment of farm dogs snapping at my heels, I wondered what he had meant. To me, it made perfect sense because I’ve made up my mind about this: I will become a runner, and I will therefore go running three times a week, regardless of the weather, the ridiculously early hour or the fact that I happen to have a nasty throat infection.

“Fair play to ye!” called out a pyjama-clad woman tending her front garden, as I sped past feeling slightly surreal (probably on account of my temperature).
“It’s got to be done!” I gasped grimly in reply, and I meant it: since having the Small Girl four years ago, I have wanted and needed to tone up and lose some weight. Once the Very Small Boy settled at Playschool and I had a little time, I decided to throw myself into the business of Getting Fit.

As I made my way, red-faced and breathless, back through our estate towards our house, it occurred to me that I am a person of extremes; whatever I happen to be doing, whether it’s cooking Sunday lunch, crocheting a throw, getting fit or simply going for a few drinks, I do it to the extreme – and with a single-mindedness that occasionally borders on the obsessive.

“Well, I’m running a lot, and I’ve lost a stone”, I told Granddad on the telephone this week.
“Mummy, which stone did you lose?” piped up a Small Voice in the background, reminding me that, fanaticism aside, it is really best to try not to take oneself too seriously.

Still, I’ve decided – and this is quite momentous, even in view of my current puritanical inclinations – to give up alcohol. Because as with everything else, when I’m doing it (which is admittedly rarely), I’m usually overdoing it. And since I’ve decided that I’m Being Healthy, I might as well take things to the extreme and give up that unpleasantly seductive poison altogether.

But I wouldn't have made the decision unless I absolutely meant to see it through: when I make up my mind to do something, there's no going back. That's the unexpectedly useful thing about being an extremist.

Cupcake Massacre

“What does a horse say, Pootle?” I asked the Very Small Boy one afternoon last week as we browsed through his animal picture book.
“Beep beep!” he replied enthusiastically.

I was attempting to distract him while the Small Girl decorated a cake. A plain sponge, a spatula, a tin of chocolate frosting and assorted pots of sprinkles, and half an hour later, we had a monstrous, toppling mound of chocolatey goo for her to take to Playschool the following morning to share with her friends.

“Mum, am I four yet?” She asked me, loading a spatula-full of chocolate frosting into her mouth and then wiping her sleeve across her face.
“No darling, you’ll be four tomorrow –when you wake in the morning, then you’ll be four and after Playschool, all your friends will be coming over for your party!”
“Yaay!” she cried, leaping up and down, and I beamed at her infectious enthusiasm, despite my growing dread at the prospect of having my lovely house taken over by hordes of screaming preschoolers.

The party the following day was incredibly hard work; besides baking several types of cupcake, I had undertaken to create a “Finding Nemo” cake, as well as providing sandwiches and snacks and party bags. And then there were balloons to blow up, presents to wrap and party games to plan. And that was before the children arrived: screeching and running and throwing and shouting and trampling bits of sticky cake into the floor. But of course in the end, all that mattered was that the Small Girl had a fabulous time with all her friends, dashing happily about in the sunshine and stuffing themselves silly with sweet treats.

Some time later, after all her guests had left and the Small Girl sat happily in the kitchen playing with her presents, DH was sweeping bits of wrapping paper and used paper plates into the recycle bin as I chiselled cupcake remnants from the kitchen floor.

“That was hard work!” he remarked.
“Yes well… at least we only have to do it once a year!” I replied.

Then we both turned with slow and dawning horror in the direction of the Very Small Boy who, oblivious, was standing by the patio door and staring out to the garden where he’d seen a neighbourhood cat.

“Neigh!” he cried, pointing to the cat. And, nodding in quiet agreement with himself, he continued to watch until it leapt delicately over the fence and disappeared out of sight.