Mammy Dearest

THIS TIME last week I was off work for a week's holiday and
experiencing just exactly how the other half live.

By the other half, I am of course referring to those mammies who don't have to drag themselves and their wains out of bed at 7.30 each morning to ensure they arrive in work somewhere in the vague vicinity of 9am.
To use the lingo, they are Stay At Home Mums (SAHMs) and by my reckoning they've got a pretty good deal going.
Yes, I'm all for work (not least because without it I would be
destitute and living out of a doorway in Ferryquay Street), but there is something quite enjoyable about being a full-time bonafide mammy.
Usually I'm a pretty stressed out mother, having that moment of guilt each morning when I leave Joseph off with the childminder and feeling that mixture of joy and dread when I see him again in the evening.
(I'm delighted to see him, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I'm so tired, so caught up in what needs to be done around the house that I can't fully enjoy him).
To have the time to be there for him is a novelty I still quite enjoy and our week together was like something out of a "How to be a Happy Family" guide book. The wee man and myself used the time to get creative in the kitchen. First of all we decided to bake cookies. However, having quickly ascertained that every ingredient in my baking cupboard was past it's sell by date, we opted to make salt dough instead.
Sure, my kitchen looked like an explosion in a cocaine factory by the time we were done but we had such a giggle mixing the flour, salt and water and cutting moon shapes out of the rolled out dough.
By the next day I'd been organised enough to go to Tesco and restock the cupboard so we got to make cookies for real. Yes, I'm pretty sure Joseph ate most of the chocolate chips before they went in the cookie mix, but again as we iced our decorations I felt deeply contented.
The same feelings flooded over me when we played together at Parent and Toddler Group and Jo Jingles. When the Jo Jingles lady (the lovely Doreen) commented on Joseph's impeccable manners, I was proud as punch- even though I know his manners are probably more down to my aunt Stella who minds him for me rather than my own sense of decorum.
Outside of such quality time with my son, being a Stay At Home Mammy for a week meant that another unheard of phenomenon occurred Chez Moi.
Our house was both clean AND tidy. At the same time. And there wasn't even a blue moon in the sky nor sight of a flying pig overhead.

Spit spot
I had the time, and energy to keep everything spit spot and ship shape and I did feel exceptionally smug about the whole thing. As I stood, hands in the sink washing the dishes, watching 'Loose Women' I decided this was indeed was life was all about. Yep, you could keep your tailored work wear and business lunches- this was miles better.
Of course, I was living in a blissed out bubble. It wasn't all perfect. My attempts at potty training bordered on the disastrous. (I'll not go into detail, suffice to say at one stage every cushion cover on my two sofas was whirring around in the machine while I Febreezed anything that sat still for more than two seconds).
Our trip for a walk along the beach ended in near disaster when Joseph decided that, forget about the sub zero temperatures, a dip in the water (fully clothed) would be a great idea.
And I found that come the evenings I was too tired to apply any mental energy to anything. Where usually I come home from work needing some writing or reading time to wind down, I found that last week when Joseph finally succumbed in to sleep (after a new bedtime routine
involving three readings of a Fimble Book, some lullaby singing, and a who's who of children's TV as part of our 'God Blesses') I wanted to follow suit immediately. I became totally incapable of forming a coherent sentence after 8pm.
Despite these minor hiccups it was a fabulous week and despite my tiredness and the general melting of my brain, I was rewarded with more cuddles than you can shake a stick at it and a million declarations of 'I love you mammy'.
So it was with a slightly heavy heart that I returned to the world of work on Monday morning. Thankfully Joseph seemed none the wiser and skipped into Stella's house with a smile on his face. In fact as we sat to play on the floor he turned to me with a cheeky grin and said:
"Mammy, you go to the Derry Journal now." It was more an order than a statement of fact and I of course did what I was told.
But I'll admit I've already started thinking about my next week off and what adventures the two of us can get up too. Papier Mache Christmas decorations anyone?

And the judges scores are...

Do you think if I ask someone, really, really, really nicely they will let me go on Strictly Come Dancing in a coupla years?(You know, when I'm skinny and fit and don't sweat quite so much.)

My dream has now evolved from that of being the nation's favourite writer to being the nation's favourite writer AND Strictly Come Dancing Champion 2009. I can just about see me getting to grips with the quick step and as for the mambo, I've got that baby down pat already.
I fantasize about the costumes, the hair, the make up, the shoes (My God, the shoes, they whip me into a frenzy- especially the gold ones.) I have imagined my inspirational chat to camera already."Yes, who would have thought it? Me? Dance champion of the world, when just three short years ago I was sat at my desk in work dreaming about this very moment and now," *pause for sniff* "it's a reality."

Whaddya think?

Getting abreast of the matter

C'MON LADIES, don't be shy. Let's get it all out in the open and talk about our boobs.

Of course there are 101 things you can call them. Technically, I suppose they are breasts. Most often in Derry (if we are being polite) we call them boobs, but whether you refer to yours as whazzers, bazoongas, doobies or fun-bags, the truth is all of ladies have them and it's about time we started treating them with a little respect.
From our early teens (give or take depending on Mother Nature) our boobs become lifelong companions and define many of us as women.
Every teenage girl or woman will be able to recall her own rite of passage experience where she was taken up the town by her mother or other suitable female relative to buy her first bra.
I still remember my own as if it were yesterday. I was 12 when my mammy took me to Dunnes and bought a very practical and respectable looking white bra. There were no lacy starter teen bras in my day. Nope, my first bra was itchy as hell which served only to make my more self conscious of my journey into womanhood.
However that was nothing compared to the moment of cringing embarrassment when we ran into my aunt and her friend after leaving Dunnes and my mother announced they could now call me Dolly Parton.
As I journeyed through my teenage years I became fond of my boobs, and my bras and managed to get a couple of nice lacy numbers from time to time.
Developing the attitude of 'If you've got it flaunt it', I liked to dress to low cut tops on nights out because let's face it, no one was going to be overly impressed with my thunder thighs and boulder butt. These bad boys were as good as it was going to get.
Into adulthood, well the relationship has at times been fraught. Pregnancy was not a pleasant experience for my bossoms. First they grew, and then they grew, and then they grew some more. By the end of the nine months I was wearing an E cup and feeling the strain. As I made the choice to bottle feed and not breast feed I had endure the added 'joy' of stuffing my bra with cabbage fresh from the fridge until the swelling went away. (The smell was delightful).
And, of course, when the swelling did go away I was left with breasts which require a degree of industrial support to keep them from hitting my knees. Of course, I'm still fond of them. My son indeed loves them and uses them as his personal comforter sticking his hand down my top whenever he is tired.
By this stage I realise you are probably reading this and thinking to yourself "Yer wan at the 'Journal' has finally lost the plot. Imagine talking about your boobs in a family paper." or screaming "Too much information" at the page- but it's about time we got our boobs out in the open (metaphorically speaking).
This month is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. According to the Cancer Research 1000 women in Northern Ireland will be diagnosed with breast cancer.
Think about that for a while. That could be your mammy, your sister, your auntie, the wee woman who sold you your 'Journal' this morning or indeed, to coin a phrase, it could be you.
The good news is that more and more women are surviving breast cancer. The Women of Hope, who released their calendar this week are prime examples of this, but as with all cancers early detection is vital.
So we need to stop being embarrassed by our boobs and realise that as well as filling our bras, attracting the opposite sex and feeding our babies they are a part of us which require a certain degree of care and attention. We can't just ignore them and hope they behave themselves.
Yes, we might feel a little stupid standing groping ourselves to carry out the monthly checks. Some of us might even be scared in case we find a lump- and let's face it, boobs can be lumpy things- most of us will have had a scare at some stage. In the majority of cases abnormalities turn out to be nothing to worry about, however it's not worth taking a risk with your boobs or your life.
So when you are done reading this column this week get your boobs out and give them a good feel. It might just save your life.
(I would however recommend you go home first. A breast check in the work tearoom might not go down the best, not matter how liberal your employer.)

A simple check
Follow the five point code:

* know what is normal for you
* look at and feel your breasts
* know what changes to look for
* report any changes without delay
* go for breast screening if you are 50 or over

Check your breasts in a way that's comfortable for you, perhaps in the bath or shower.
Changes to look out for:
* changes in the size, shape or feel of your breasts
* a new lump or thickening in one breast or armpit
* puckering, dimpling or redness of the skin
* changes in the position of the nipple or nipple discharge
* new pain or discomfort that is only on one side.

There may be many reasons for the change other than breast cancer. But report anything unusual to your doctor straight away.

Tag, you are it!

Thanks to Keris I bring you another me me

LAYER ONE:

Name: Claire
Birthdate: June 21
Birthplace: Derry, N. Ireland
Current Location:Our family room in self same house
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Newly blonde thanks to luffly hairdressers today
Height: 5'9"
Righty or Lefty: Righty
Zodiac Sign: Gemini (which Keris describes as bubbly, bright, witty, intelligent and charming - all true!)

LAYER TWO:

Your heritage: There's a wee bit o' Scotland in my blood.
The shoes you wore today: Black heeled boots, tres uncomfortable
Your weakness: Chocolate in all it's forms (except the white stuff...Devil's shite)
Your fears: That anything would happen to the J-man, that I'll never feel good enough
Your perfect pizza: ham and mushroom with zero calories
Goal you would like to achieve: To be a published author

LAYER THREE:

Your most overused phrase: "Feck that for a game of soldiers"
Your first waking thoughts: Please- more sleep- please
Your best physical feature: My eyes, so they say...or the freckle on my foot. I'm fond of it.
Your most missed memory: Time spent with loved ones who are no longer here

LAYER FOUR:

Pepsi or Coke: Neither. Diet Coke
McDonald's or Burger King: McDonalds, esp when pregnant. Then I'm fecking mad for it.
Single or group dates: Date? What's a date?
Adidas or Nike: Adidas. Nicks actually. Three for a pound, or something equally cheap.
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Neither. Tetley's does me fine.
Chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate. Duh.
Cappuccino or coffee: I am the only person in the world who does not drink coffee in any form.

LAYER FIVE:

Smoke: Never.
Cuss: A lot. Too much in fact.
Sing: Badly, very badly.
Take a shower everyday: Nope, every two days is my average
Do you think you have been in love: Definitely
Want to go to college: Been there
Want to get married: Done that.
Believe in yourself: Not one bit/
Get motion sickness: My god yes, prone to random vomits.
Think you are attractive: No.
Think you are a health freak: Freak? Yes. Health- not so much.
Get along with your parent(s): Very much so, yes. Love them entirely.
Like thunderstorms: Yes, they are thrilling.
Play an instrument: No, apart from a mean triangle at Jo Jingles.
LAYER SIX:

In the past month have you...
Drank alcohol: Yes.
Smoked: No.
Done a drug: No.
Made Out: Only with my husband
Gone on a date: No.
Gone to the mall?: No.
Eaten an entire box of Oreos?: No
Eaten sushi:no.
Been on stage: No.
Been dumped: No.
Gone skating: No.
Made homemade cookies: Yup, Halloween ones.
Gone skinny-dipping: Never done that. Probably never will.
Dyed your hair: Yep, this very morning.
Stolen anything: No.

LAYER SEVEN:

Have you ever...
Played a game that required removal of clothing: No.
If so, was it mixed company: -
Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: Yes, had the broken bone to prove it.
Been caught doing something: Yes but let's not go there.
Been called a tease: Don't think so ..
Gotten beaten up: By my sister (not lately)
Shoplifted:Nope.
Changed who you were to fit in: God, who hasn't done that?

LAYER EIGHT:

Age you hope to be married: I was 24
Numbers and Names of Children: Joseph aged 2
Describe your Dream Wedding: i had it.
How do you want to die: In my sleep. aged 123
What do you want to be when you grow up: An adult, preferably.
What country would you most like to visit: The Seychelles

LAYER NINE:

Number of drugs taken illegally: Took a drag of a spliff (man) once.
Number of people I could trust with my life: One, I think.
Number of CDs that I own: Not very many.
Number of piercings: Just my ears, the once.
Number of tattoos: None. But one day ...
Number of times my name has appeared in the newspaper?:Every week for the last seven years.
Number of scars on my body: Three- cut knee as a child, long scar on my heel from bike accident, episiotomy scar.
Number of things in my past that I regret: God loads, but no point dwelling on the past.

Month 32- God Bless Slugsy

Dear Joseph,

We have reached a critical point in our relationship. While you continue to delight me I'm starting to find this parenthood melarky hard work.

By 32 months we would have hoped to have sorted the whole "pooping in your pants" thing (not one of your finest social habits) and persuaded you to give up your nappies for proper big boy pants.

Alas, it's not to be. You seem to resist the potty training whole heartedly and while it's really up to you if you want to walk around smelling like pee the rest of your life, it is frustrating for me as your mother because I know you know how to use the potty. You do it when we least expect- you just like to tease me.

We are also trying to break your addiction to your dummy. We've managed for the most part to hide them from you during the day and keep them only for bed time but we are being thwarted at every turn by people who perhaps don't have as much patience for your whingey phases as we do.

Part of me of course thinks you look so much the baby with your dummy in your mouth and your nappy on that I myself am resistant to change. I don't know when I'll get round to adding to our family, and it pains me to think that I don't have a little baby anymore.

Which brings me on to my next topic- this is kind of inspired by Dooce's ramblings this month and also a thread on Damsels about new babies.

When you were ickle I loved you and I cared for you, but I wasn't in love with you. I was caught up in my own world where I was unwell, tired, depressed and I wished away so many of your early weeks and months. I'd love to hold you now, as a newborn, and shower you with kisses for hours instead of forcing us into a routine.

I hope that I've made it up to you now. That you know I love you with all my heart and soul and would die for you in an instant (although preferably it won't ever come to that). They say a woman discovers the true meaning of guilt when she becomes a mother and its probably not far from the truth. Just know I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you and I promise there won't be one moment, ever again, when you will feel anything but cherished entirely.

And to end on a more positive note, as we say our prayers each evening we've added in a God Bless section this month. I was delighted when after naming all our family members you added 'God Bless Slugsy' at the end.

Love you loads,

Mammy

Signed, Sealed, Delivered- a snippet

Okay, here's a select snippet from the new book.
Copyright me and all that.

I love you too honey. Five words. Six syllables. I can’t remember the last time someone told me they loved me and meant it.
Jake said it a couple of times. Quite often he would say it in a whiney voice when he wanted something- like a blow job. “But baby, I love you,” he would say, puppy dog eyes, pouting lips, big fat erection. They say men don’t love girls that ‘put out’ but I figured if I did enough of what he wanted he would say the words some day without that whiny voice.
I heard him talking one night after a gig. God it had been an amazing night. He was on fire. The place was electric. He’d sung all my favourite songs and even dedicated my all time favourite ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’ to me.
I was drunk on life- on Bacardi Breezers and love and Beth and I had long since kicked off our shoes to throw some funky moves on the dance floor. By Christ we thought we were hilarious. At the end of every dance we did our ‘jazz hands’ and fell into each other’s arms laughing so hard I worried I would pee my pants. How I wish now for the bladder control I had then. I don’t think I ever enjoyed a night as much.
When the gig ended and Jake had bounded over to me- his over inflated ego adding a certain spring to his step. We had snogged- a full on tongues and everything drunken fumble right there in front over everyone as if we didn’t give a damn who was watching or who might shout ‘Get a room’.
We sat together drinking, Beth, Daniel, Jake and me. The rest of the band were there too of course and the usual smattering of groupies but I had nothing to fear from them. We were draped over each other- wearing each other and our passion like a badge of honour and it felt amazing.
A short time later, stumbling back from the toilets I saw him locked in a conversation with a tall blonde supermodel type. Creeping up behind him, longing to wrap my arms around his waist and pull him close to me in another full on embrace I heard what he was saying.
“Eefs is just a mate, seriously. Yeah, we mess about but she’s a mate. Just like you’re a mate, and Beth’s a mate. Seriously.”
I didn’t want to make a scene. Jake didn’t like it when I acted mean and moody, so I took his hand, kissed his cheek and pretended I hadn’t heard. After all, love grew from friendships. And he did say he loved me, sometimes. In fact he said it later that night- when he wanted that blow job.

Ding dong merrily on high

AS IF the arrival of October wasn't depressing enough, here's a thought to make you choke on your turnover this fine Autumn morning- it's only 83 fun-filled days until Christmas.

The shops have already started to fill their shelves with festive treats and I dare say it won't be too long until they are festooned in all their dazzling decorations to tempt the throngs of shoppers through their doors.
The reason I mention the approach of the big day is that this year, despite my disdain for the early arrival of the festive season in our shops, is the year I have promised myself I'm going to be super organised about the whole affair.
I have promised that come December I won't be staring at my meagre pay packet and trying to eek out the money for presents for everyone because I've not bothered my behind to plan things properly.
As a parent on Santa duty, I realise that stretching my December wages between the usual house-hold expenses, presents for everyone in the family and my Santa responsibilities could well be impossible.
The wee man is fast approaching three years of age and has an increasing awareness that Christmas equals toys and that he gets to make up a wish list all of his own. (So far his list consists of a real life Helicopter- you know, like the one that airlifted Richard Hammond to Hospital- and a freaky walking Barbie Horse.)
We are not intending to spoil him- and I'm pretty sure he won't be getting the helicopter or indeed the Barbie horse- but I want to make this a year to remember especially as I'm guessing it will the be the first time he really gets the concept of Santa.
I'm rather embarrassed to admit we have footage from the wee man's first Christmas of this doe-eyed baby staring at the lights of the Christmas tree while we, as sad first time parents, acted out our 'Has Santa been?' routine. Joseph was of course oblivious and the real magic of Christmas wasn't really there.
Regular readers of this column will know that last year, just as Joseph was starting to get the whole Santa thing, we decided to do our familial duty and spent the holidays with the in-laws in England.

Festive magic
It was lovely, but it wasn't the same as waking up in your own bed on Christmas morning and switching on the lights of your very own Christmas tree. So this year, with a toddler who is already getting ridiculously excited at the prospect of all the toys that will be heaped upon him, I'm relishing the thought of spending the big at home and injecting some of the magic into it that all nearly three year olds deserve.
But that is going to take some planning. I'm desperate to make sure I don't become one of those parents who batters the life out of another poor sod as we fight over the last 'must have' of the year in Smiths as the shutters roll down on Christmas Eve.
I'm sourcing the best books, toys and art material for this year already. I was even tempted to buy in a selection box or two at the weekend. The only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that I would no doubt get an attack of the munchies between now and December and the selection boxes would get raided. (Yes, it has happened in the past.)
Of course there is a serious note to all this too. Each year the less organised of us find ourselves relying on credit cards and the Credit Union to make it through the month of December.
The credit hangover inevitably lasts on until January and February which is never pleasant. After all the first couple of months of the year are tough enough, all dark and cold with no Christmas to look forward to, add to that a fat credit card bill and you have a recipe for Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Much as I hate the early arrival of Christmas in the shops it does at least remind me to start budgeting for the big day now and not later. I find I can no longer ignore it and even find myself singing along with the cheesy played out Christmas classics of yesteryear. Christmas shopping this early can actually be quite a calming experience. You can saunter around at your leisure breathing in the Cinnamon scent of candles and cooing over the delicate decorations for sale.
I don't get those people who purposely leave it all to the last minute and fight for the last tatty Poinsettia on a market stall or a lavender soap set with those evil bath cubes which never dissolve so that you end up with a bruised rear upon climbing into the bath.
Likewise, I can't be doing with those souls who are so financially astute they do all their Christmas shopping in the January sales and have it all wrapped from Valentine's Day. These are the folks who delight in spending the Autumn months boasting about their achievements and buying fancy shoes while your hard earned cash is being doled out on toy prams, sock sets and bottles of over-priced perfume.
Yes, I think it is time to give in to the inevitable and get shopping. Just keep me away from the selection boxes.

Shameless plug for BAFAB!

As requested by the lovely and exceptionally talented (and agented) Keris here is a plug for Buy a Friend a Book month!

This week on Trashionista: BAFAB will be fab!

Diane Shipley and Keris Stainton, co-editors of Trashionista, the book news and reviews site whose motto proclaims, “We read books like they’re going out of fashion!” are excited to announce Trashionista’s participation in this October’s Buy a Friend a Book Week (BAFAB).
From October 1-5 2006 on www.trashionista.com, you’ll find exclusive guest blogs from best-selling chick-lit authors (stop by to find out who!), interviews, and seven (and counting…) book giveaways. Plus, find out what books we’d buy for our friends, and why!
It goes without saying (doesn’t it?!) that of course you’ll also find all of the usual great Trashionista content: book reviews (focusing on women’s fiction, chick-lit and memoir) and book news (focusing on anything hot or controversial in the book world in general) all delivered with intelligence and a sense of fun. Please stop by from October 1-5 for BAFAB week, Trashionista style- and help make it a week to remember!

More about Trashionista:
Trashionista gets to grips with the wonderful world of female fiction. We take an unbiased look at beach reads, bestsellers, new releases and old favourites -and we actually read the books before writing about them. At Trashionista we don't believe that 'chick lit' is a dirty word - but if a book is trash, we'll let you know!

To contact the editors email editor@trashionista.comM

I am a domestic goddess

Behold....my creations...

(And yes, they were from a packet. But I added the egg AND a teaspoon of water).




And my handsome assistant...

Lois Lane seeks Clark Kent

BE STILL my beating heart. Superman is coming to Derry and I have become as giddy as a schoolgirl.

Anyone who knew the geeky teenage me will have known that when it came to teenage crushes and unrequited love affairs, my affections were reserved for the one and only Dean Cain.
As I spoke to local film director Danny Patrick this week, who is the man responsible for bringing Dean Cain to Derry, I let my professionalism slip a little and revealed my teenage crush.
When Danny told me that most girls he had spoken to had pictures of Superman on their posters or pencil cases, I admitted excitedly that I had him on my file in school. I may have thrown in a girlish giggle and a batting of the eyelids just for effect. It was not my finest hour.
Dean (as I liked to call him) was my first proper grown up crush. He replaced both Matt Goss and Dana Ashbrook (who was a man, honest, despite the girly name) in my affections and it's fair to say his portrayal of Clark Kent played somewhat of a role in my decision to become a bona fide journalist. (Who would have known the Derry Journal was not a hot bed of sizzling sexual tension? There was me hoping for a Clark Kent to investigate the burning issues of the day with and instead I ended up on my jack jones at a Council meeting discussing waste management.)
My mother used to refer to Dean Cain as 'the babe in tights', while I found myself singing the lesser known song 'Whatta man' every time I saw his picture.
We had a Saturday night tradition in our house that could never be messed with. I would finish work, come home, stick my aching feet in a basin of warm water and my mum would cook the tea. Then the pair of us would sit down, insist every other member of the household keep deathly silent and get our Superman fix.
Monday mornings in school also had their own traditions. They would inevitably include a discussion not only of what Teri Hatcher had worn in her role as Lois Lane but also a certain amount of swooning and sighing over Clark Kent and his tights.

Pulse racing
You see Dean Cain has it all. He has an amazing body, a strong jawline, muscular arms and eyes as dark as the night, but it is his portrayal of the man of steel, and his alter ego Clark Kent, that really sets my pulse racing.
Because lets face it ladies, what we all want is a superman in our lives- he could can leap tall buildings in a single bound or, if necessary, fly around the world so fast that he turns back time and saves our life.
I've always had a soft spot for this particular super hero which probably stems from my childhood and many a Christmas afternoon spent watching Christopher Reeve fly around the earth to that famous John Williams theme tune.
Who as a youngster didn't fall for the love story between Clark Kent and Lois Lane and long to one day visit that hotel room at Niagara Falls with the fancy fireplace?
Who didn't hope to one day find her own superman to share her life with- a strong man who fought for the greater good and could lift us without grimacing even the teeniest bit- no matter how much weight we piled on?
My attraction to the man in tights (or babe in tights, if you prefer) only deepened with the arrival of 'Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman' on our TV screens. At the time I was 16, just deciding to follow a career in journalism and I was caught up in the hype that surrounded the programme.
Yes, I had my hair cut in that famous Teri Hatcher bob and bought shoes which I thought were just 'so Lois Lane'. She was a wonderful role model; a strong, confident, successful and beautiful woman.
I could pretend I was watching the programme because of those very reasons, but no matter how successful Lois became or how good she was at her job, the main draw of the show was seeing how long it would take for her to fall for Clark Kent and for them to get their happy ever after. (And of course I watched to see Dean Cain in Lycra- that had a certain appeal).
You see the relationship between Lois and Clark is among the most romantic of all time and I am essentially a soppy eejit who likes to believe that love can be everlasting and overcome any obstacle.
Couple that belief with a handsome and strong male lead and you have a potent combination, especially in the eyes of a gawky teenager just learning about life and love.
That was, of course, before I learned the harsh truth that Lois Lane probably got hacked off picking Superman's discarded pants up off the bedroom floor just like the rest of us mere mortals. But nonetheless a girl can dream.
Speaking of which, I wonder if it would be at all possible to convince Dean Cain to visit the 'Journal' offices during his visit to the city? And if so, could I persuade him to sit opposite me for a day so I can at least pretend all my teenage dreams came true?

Desperate for a Housewife

ON A number of occasions in the past I have written in this very column about how I have a secret yearning to be a 1950s housewife.

As much as I'm aware that I'm suffering from 'grass is always greener on the other side' syndrome, the thought of having no expectations on me other than keeping my home tidy and minding my son is, at times, remarkably appealing.
But I've changed my mind.
After reading an email doing the rounds at the moment from Housekeeping Monthly magazine in 1955, I have decided I don't want to be a 1950s housewife so much as have one at home to look after me.
You see the way I've worked it out is that if I had a housewife at home I would come home after a hard day at the office to a clean house, lit fire, quiet child and lovingly prepared meal on the table.
My housewife would be cheerful and chatty and allow me to vent about my day. She would pour me a cold drink and help me take my shoes off. She would perform a modern day miracle by making sure my son was first of all clean at 6pm and, second of all, quiet. If I so desired she would fetch me a pillow to rest upon.
Yep, it sounds good to me. I could get quite used to the idea of having someone who saw it as their only duty to make me comfortable and relaxed in my own home.
I've even tried to talk the husband into hanging up his suit, donning a pinny and becoming a househusband- but his levels of housekeeping are simply not to the standards of your average woman. (To put it mildly, we would be needing Kim and Aggie in within a month.)
'The Good Wife's Guide' as published by 'Housekeeping Monthly' on May 13, 1955 has created quite a stir on our office. All the modern wives have been having a jolly good laugh at the advice dolled out to the 1950s wife.
The guide includes some classic gems of information such as "Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first- remember his topics of conversation are more important than yours."
My favourite line however is "Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgement or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will within fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him."
I can only dream of this being true in my house where my 1950s housewife would replace my husband's judgmental glares when I arrive through the door laden with shopping bags or reach for a second chocolate mousse after dinner.
My 1950s housewife would never be so bold as to question my judgement in such matters. She would know that my shopping is always for necessary items to relax me after all, I live "in a world of strain and pressure".

My comfort
And when I returned from work, weary from fielding calls about graduation photographs, she would let me off-load before launching into her list of problems. In fact, I'm almost sure she would be, to quote Housekeeping Monthly, concerned with "catering for my comfort" she might not even whinge at all.
It sounds like bliss. I think every modern woman should have a housewife at her disposal.
Of course behind our laughter is the truth that our grandmothers and great-grandmothers really were expected to behave in this fashion. This was an era were children were seen and not heard and were a wife dared not question her husband's actions even if, as 'Housekeeping Monthly' states, he came home or even stayed out all night.
The reason I want a housewife all of my own is because I would generally love someone to act as my dedicated servant. It seems that in the 1950s that was very much a woman's role- to serve her man and raise her daughters to believe that they were not worthy of careers or independence simply due to their sex.
Modern relationships do not (or at least should not) work that way. In theory at least my husband is my equal in the house and we share the household chores. (I know, I'm snorting myself at that one- my husband, God love him, thinks sharing means him emptying the bins and washing an occasional cup and me doing everything else).
But we both know that when we finally get five minutes together at the end of the day we both have an equal right to chat, let off steam and put the world to rights.
While the noise from the wee man can induce a grade three migraine on your average Wednesday evening, neither of us expects him to be silent to keep us content. In fact we cherish his childish chatter and hearty belly laughs. Much as I would like to come home to clean and tidy child, I at least know if my son is covered in mud, water, juice and yoghurt at the end of the day, he has had fun.
So yes, give me a housewife, someone to clean and tidy and fix me a drink. But leave me my husband to sound off too and my son to carry on with at the end of the day. That in itself would achieve the 1950s housewife's goal of making sure my home is a "place of peace, order and tranquility where I can renew myself in body and spirit".

Month 31- Chatter, chatter,chatter

My darling boy.
You have not shut up all month. It amazes me to have the most grown up conversations with you when you freak me out with your knowledge of the world.
Okay, you aren't ready for your slot on BBC 24 just yet, but you know all about emergency vehicles and their uses. You also have developed a very keen interest in theology, debating at length and at great volume about whether or not a church in is fact a house of God or a castle. Your Auntie Emma is exceptionally proud of your aetheist leanings.
You also seemed to have developed a keen interest in popular culture. I cannot tell you how close I came to crashing the car as your encouraged me to "shake my rudebox". Damn that Robbie Williams for corrupting your innocent mind.
Last month I wondered would it be possible for me to love you any more. The answer is yes, God yes, I love you now more than ever. It is, I think, that as you grow more independent you still keep that special place in your heart for your mammy and when you call my name, beg me to play with you or hug me close and tell me you love me, I feel the most content I ever have in my life.
With love for always,
Mammy
xxx

The long and winding road

IT'S NO secret that I have a reputation for being a poor travelling. In fact all 86 guests at my wedding were told exactly how much of a poor traveller I am by my darling daddy during his father of the bride speech.

As some of you may be reading this over your morning turnover, I'll not go into details, suffice to say that between the ages of 5 and 15 I was not a welcome passenger in anyone's car.
Like a good wine however, I have improved with age and as things go I'm not all that bad these days. I can manage most short to medium length journeys without feeling queasy and it's been a fair few years since I found myself taking some Quells, just in case.
I guess I've learned my limitations. Boats are a big no-no, especially after a particularly horrible experience while on honeymoon in Tunisia. (The boat was fine, by the way, and I doubt we got above three miles an hour, but did that stop me crying and wanting to clamber over the side to escape? Not a chance!)
Airplanes are generally speaking okay. I'm not a fan of turbulence- but then again, who is? I'm all right when driving or taking short journeys through the town on the bus, but there is one journey which always fills my heart with dread and it's one that I absolutely have to complete within the next week.
The Derry to Dublin journey (and indeed the return leg) is my least favourite travel experience bar none. I don't say that lightly. I have spent eight hours on a crowded bus in the Sahara in degrees in excess of 40 Degrees Celsius and it was still more fun than those miserable four hours spent traipsing down the road to the big smoke.
My first experience of the delight that is Bus Eireann was in 1992 when I travelled to Dublin with my best friend for the weekend. We were both 16 and were off to stay with her big sister who was at college in Maynooth. (How were we to know the only single young men would be those destined for the priesthood?) We thought we were the proverbial bees knees as we loaded our rucksacks into the Derry bus and set off.
Four hours later, dizzy from being thrown from one end of the bus to the other on the bumpy roads and melting as the driver had the air conditioning set to 'Tropical Heatwave' we reached our destination (the salubrious surroundings of Bus Aras) and I was almost tempted to kiss the tarmac and thank God we were still one piece. (However kissing the tarmac would have left me too open to attack from the pick pockets the loud speakers in the bus centre constantly warn you about).

First taste of a hangover
Of course, what goes down must come up and sure as eggs are eggs, we had to get back on the bus and travel the winding, pot-holed roles back North two days later. Although I didn't drink back then, I'm sure the lurching of the bus gave me first taste of what a hangover felt like.
It was then I decided, as I queued for the toilets in the equally glamorous Monaghan bus stop, that I would never, ever, as long as I lived travel to Dublin again.
Life has a funny way of changing your mind however and when I started to date himself, who at the time was living in Wales, I found myself back on that bus on a regular basis- with the added bonus of a boat journey from Dun Laoghaire at either end.
I can't say I ever really had a positive experience. You either got a driver who was trying to set the world land speed record, or someone who was so laid back you could almost hear him snoring.
The bus was inevitably over crowded and stuffy and there was always a child who inevitably lost their patience just outside of Omagh and starting to screech, only letting up at Slane.
For the approach to the capital city, the roads were of dire quality and the only entertainment to be had was spotting the big houses on the hills and wondering if Bono lived in any of them.
Having taken a Quells to calm my stomach I also managed to spend most of these journeys horribly drowsy but afraid to nod off in case I snored.
Once I'd managed to persuade himself to give up live in Wales and move to Derry I made myself yet another vow that I would make my best efforts never to make the journey again. Once a month for 24 was enough of that journey for any sane person to take.
I've managed seven years, something I'm exceptionally proud of- but next week I have to travel to Bray for a meeting and it already fills my heart with dread.
I'm told the roads have improved greatly with the passing of the years. I'm promised that the journey now takes a mere three hours and some as opposed to the four hour trek of old. My mammy, God love her, has offered to drive. I'll probably stop by Boots for some Quells to be on the safe side and I still can't say I'm looking forward to it.
I wonder how much it would cost to charter a private jet?

Music me me me me

Five songs that remind you of being a small child:

1) Grandma's Feather Bed- especially "I even kissed aunt lu! whoo!"
2) Stupid Cupid or Paper Roses by Connie Francis- my mum's ironing music.
3) Smile though your heart is breaking- my granda used to sing that all the
time.
4) Get into the Groove- the first pop song I really remember.
5) Dancing on a Rainbow- by that famous Derry group 2x2



Five Songs That Remind You of Your Best Friends

1. Shocked- Mandi
2. Praise You- the Vickster
3. Flashdance- Lisa
4. I Will Survive- the Thornhill girlies
5. The Cha Cha Slide- you should see Vicki do that one when drunk

Five Songs that remind you of when you first started going to bars/clubs.
1. Boom Shake the Room- The Fresh Prince
2. U2- Even better than the real thing.
3. All that she wants (is another baby)- memories of painful nights in the Embassy. I HATE that song.
4. Superstition by Stevie Wonder- the Foy Vance years.
5. Come Baby Come- K7 (Bounce, c'mon now, Bounce, c'mon on now)


Five Songs Guarenteed to Make You Cry or, if you're too manly to cry, mist
up

1. Songbird, Eva Cassidy, reminds me of my very gorgeous boy and how I fell
in love with him.
2. Angel- Sarah McLachlan- for when I'm feeling low.
3. Goodbye my Lover- James Blunt. It just is berluddy sad.
4. Sometimes I feel like a sad song- John Denver.
5. When the River Meets the Sea- John Denver again- because of my father
telling me I was to play it as his funeral.


Five Songs Guaranteed to Make You Smile
1. Flashdance
2. Got to Turn Around- Phats and Small
3. Praise You- Fat Boy Slim
4. Now That I Know What I Want- Brian Kennedy
5. that damned heart, soul song...I Got Life, Nina Simone. My boy loves it.

Five Current Most Played Songs
1. Nina Simone- see above about the boy.
2. I wish I was a punk rocker (or prawn cracker as my niece calls it)
3. The Island- Brian Kennedy and Juliet Turner
4. Signed, Sealed, Delivered- in a Stevie Wonder phase.
5. I Don't Feel Like Dancing by The Scissor Sisters.

Detached from reality

I LIKE to consider myself a fairly modern and with-it mammy. I've read enough parenting books to know how to get through the next couple of years hopefully without scarring my child emotionally or physically for life.

I know about quality time and I love the hour between finishing work and packing my wee man up to bed for our sleepy-time cuddles. I love how he comes toddling into our bedroom in the middle of the night, pulls the covers off, climbs in, and asks me to "close the bed" over him.
For the most part, when I'm not trying to get 101 odd jobs done around the house, I love my days off and spending time doing all those things mammies and sons should do. (Like wandering around Tesco avoiding the toy aisle, and hurtling myself down slides at Bananas.)
I think I can say with a degree of confidence that I'm a good parent. My boy often tells me I'm the best (sometimes, he even does it unprompted) and that he loves me.
However, according to a certain parenting movement gaining increasing popularity in America and the UK, I'm a terrible, terrible mammy who does not deserve the child I love so much.
For those who didn't see the Channel 5 documentary 'Honey, I Suckle the Kids', let me explain to you about the philosophy of 'Attached Parenting'.
According to followers of this movement a child should be a parent's be all and end all from the moment of conception until adulthood. They don't hold court with any of that nasty pain relieving medication during labour malarkey, arguing that if you don't feel the pain you won't appreciate the end product as much - or some other such nonsense.
Once baby has arrived, the attached parent should spend 24 hours a day, seven days a wee devoting themselves to raising their children. This includes 'Baby-wearing', which means they shun buggies, bouncy chairs and cribs in favour of slings to carry their children (some as old as five) everywhere. This 24 hour attachment to junior extends to bed time when baby becomes the third person in the bed until they are old enough to want choose to sleep in their own bed.
Attached parents believe in extended breast-feeding, again choosing to feed their children until the age of five or beyond. To add to this they don't believe in dummies and will happily allow their children to spend as much time as possible on the breast if it keeps them calm.

Elimination communication
The most bizarre thing that attached parents practice however is 'Elimination Communication' which, in layman's terms, is allowing your baby to roam about without a nappy and teaching them to pee upon hearing a cue sound from their parents.
This starts with new-borns until the baby eventually toilet trains him or herself at around two years of age.
One mother admitted encouraging her child to go 'pee pee' or 'poo poo' up to forty times a day and she frequently whipped down his pants exposing his poor wee bum to the outside world whenever the need arose.
Now call me close minded if you will, but I could not help but feel these parents were three scoops short of a box of formula powder.
When it came to labour, I have to say effective pain relief would probably have helped me bond with my son rather than damage our relationship. As it stood when he finally arrived I was so sore and tired that I had no inclination to jump straight into the super mammy role. I wanted to sleep and not, as the Attached Parents in the programme did, invite my friends over for chips and dips to watch my perineum tearing on a home video.
As regards 'wearing your baby'- well I have to admit that I loved skin to skin contact with my son. That said, I had a life to lead, washing to be done, floors to be hoovered etc and not all of that was easy carrying a baby around strapped to my person continually. I carried him for nine months- I think I paid my dues. Carrying him about now would no doubt give me a hernia, as it would necessitate bringing Scoop, Muck and Dizzy and Rolly too along.
When it came to breast-feeding I'll maintain to this day that breast is undoubtedly best (and I say this as a bottle-feeder) there is something disturbing about a four year old whipping out her mammy's boob looking for a drink. That's why God made taps.
And so we come to the concept of 'Elimination Communication'. Personally, I see few merits in allowing your new-born to poop and pee freely in public and from what I could tell from the programme it doesn't necessarily mean your child will be independently potty trained any earlier.
As a mother who is trying (and failing) to potty train a particularly independent minded two-years-old and who has already spent several days cleaning up pee and changing Thomas the Tank Engine Pants, I can think of nothing less appealing that trying the same process on a younger child knowing that they have neither the physical or mental know how to learn from the experience.
I'm pretty sure these parents love their children, just as much as I'm pretty sure I love my son. If giving up your life to be there as a servant and general dogsbody for your children floats your boat then by all means go for it- but please don't tell the rest of us we are doing a lousy job.

Debt and Danger

IT'S BEEN more years than I care to remember since I left school and started my university career.

I remember my first day very well. I packed up my newly purchased kettle and hairdryer, threw them in the back of my parents' car and we set off for Jordanstown where I moved into the small, freezing cold cell that would become my home for the next nine months.
My surroundings at the Halls of Residence where far from luxurious, but I suppose I was lucky in that they were clean and cheap enough for me to be able to afford to pay for them with my meagre student grant.
Yes, I was one of the lucky ones who still got a grant. If I remember properly it wasn't an awful lot, but it covered the rent and books and left a few quid over to buy essentials like food and West Coast Coolers in the Students' Union (I was never a trendy drinker- while my cohorts sipped beer or cider I was the nerd in the corner with the fruit flavoured drink).
I got a couple of Student Loans out in my time- small amounts I used to fund end of term trips to visit my sister in London but I didn't leave university shackled with enormous debts.
I'm not showing off about that because I have no doubt that if I was just starting out I would be facing thousands of pounds in debt all in the name of gaining an education.
I read on the BBC website yesterday that students packing up and heading off to the likes Magee, Coleraine, Queens or Jordanstown can realistically expect to end up more than £22,000 in debt at the end of your average three year course. And if the people doing the sums are right, your average student may not even have had a single West Coast Cooler to show for it.
Fees for entry to most university courses are £3,000 per year, add to that the cost of living at what will still be a subsistence level and you don't need to be a mathematical genius to work out that the graduates of 2009 will be starting work knowing that a large portion of their pitiful graduate wages will be going directly back to the Student Loans Company.
I have to say that in the same position I would be questioning whether or not a university education was worth the inevitable financial burden.
Being out the other side I know how enjoyable it can be. My three years at Jordanstown where not only years in which I learned bucketloads about ethics, philosophy and- weirdly- what the lyrics to 'American Pie' really meant, but I also had a genuinely enjoyable time outside of the classroom.
Everyone should have the chance- if they want it- to sink a few drinks (cool or not) in the Students' Union. We should all have the chance to live in substandard accommodation with poor heating to 'toughen us up' and everyone should spend at least one night in said house with 20 other students drinking to the wee hours and using a space hopper up and down the street.
We should all have the right to fight with another student for the last edition of that much coveted text book in the library and we should all have the chance to sit nursing a fry in the cafeteria on the morning after the night before.

Letting loose
Having settled down all too soon into adult life I can look back on my uni years and realise they were the nearest I ever got to be being wild and letting loose. I studied hard and played harder and I can honestly look back on those years (with the exception of the freezing cold of our house which was decorated primarily in brown and my finals) with fondness. They really were among the best of my life.
A university education is about much more than book-learning and getting good grades. Of course that is a major part of it and the ultimate reason for going, but your three years should be about finding yourself, becoming an adult and- if we are being honest here- having a degree (geddit?) of fun before you settle down to the nine to five of the rest of your working life. (Even saying that depresses me).
Students should not have worry about the debts they will face or work their fingers to the bone in menial jobs to try and prevent them accumulating in the first place. Time spent mopping floors in McDonalds should be spent studying, relaxing and enjoying life.
Without starting to sound too much like a new age leftie here, an education should be a right and not a privilege and I think it is a damned disgrace that people are starting out in their working lives with a massive debt hanging over their head.
I dread to think what it might all cost by the time my wee man (just two-and-a half and so obviously a child prodigy already) reaches university age. I have friends who are already saving huge amounts to ensure they have enough in the pot to put their toddlers and babies through college.
Not everyone can afford to have that much forward planning however and I think we will have a generation of young people who miss out on education simply due to the prohibitive expense.
It's about time those in power re-examined their priorities and stopped making a good education simply available to the wealthy.

I can sing a rainbow

Month 30- How could I love you more?

Dear Joseph,
If this were an ordinary relationship and you were just some random little creature I let crawl out of my uterus two and a half years ago I would be thinking the appeal should be wearing off by now.
I can't imagine I'd have put off with tantrums so loud and public as I do with you and I imagine had you just been "some guy" I would be kicking you to the curb right now.
But you aren't just some guy. You are my boy and tantrums and all aside I love you now more than I ever have done. Each days brings a new joy, a new thing to laugh at, a new smile, a new word and new moment of heart-stopping pride.
Month 30 will go down in the history books as the month you asked "Why do my have to go to sleep?"- Daddy was amazed, and so was I but then we've always known you were by far the most clever boy in the history of the world.
From the moment I see you each day- when you bark hello- I want to spend so much time just drinking in your babyness, revelling in your innocence. It blows my mind that just 3o months ago you were as much a part of me as my own heart. It feels now as if you are my heart and I love you so fiercely.
Stay precious my gorgeous big and beautiful boy.
Mammy loves you.
xx

Operation Bridesmaid

In precisely 47 weeks and one day my sister will be traipsing down the aisle to marry the man she loves. I am very worried.

You see I'm going to be a bridesmaid- a chief one if you must know- and unless I take some drastic action in the very near future it's just not going to be pretty.
For the last two and half years- indeed since my son made his grand appearance into this world- I have been vowing to lose some weight and gain some self esteem.
To be fair to me I have lost about three stone- sadly it has been in half stone bursts and I've managed to put the same half stone back on between each attempt.
I've tried Rosemary Conley, Weight Watchers, Paul McKenna, going it alone and a half hearted attempt at Slimming World.
I improved my fitness levels so that I could swim 50 lengths without getting dramatically out of breath but then the winter hit and I'm afraid climbing into the paddling pool leaves me out of puff these days.
And of course in this time I've also managed to pass my driving test and much as that has changed my life in 101 positive ways it certainly has done nothing to improve the girth of my rear end or my cardiovascular fitness. (I'm not quite as bad as my husband who has been known to drive to the corner shop- but I'm not far off).
So I'm faced with a dilemma. I want and need to slim down and get fit but no matter how hard and fast I have looked for my willpower I have been unable to find the blighter. (Admittedly if I looked in the right places and not in the vending machine at work or through the pizza takeaway menu I might get a bit further with things).
On Saturday I accompanied my sister (aka Bridezilla) to Direct Dresses in Springtown to have a lookie at bridesmaid dresses for myself and my two fellow maids. Somehow it all seems to have become a lot more complicated in the years between my own wedding and Bridezilla's forthcoming nuptials.
First we had to design on straps (wide, spaghetti or not at all) length (long, ballet or Tea- which was new to me) and material (Satin, silk or taffeta). Once that was sorted and we spotted a dress (strapless, satin and tea-length so you know) that we liked, the assistant muttered the dreaded words "Would you like to try it on?".

Size matters
I knew from looking at it that it wasn't in my size. When she handed it to me and I straddled my wide hips into the skirt I knew for definite it wasn't my size and it was only made worse as I struggled (in vain) to try and zip it up at the back.
My sister, God love her, did her best not to look overly alarmed but I can assure you that the sight of me in a dress three sizes too small with legs that had not seen a razor in a week and back fat spilling between the seems is not for the faint hearted. No amount of breathing in was going to make this a pretty sight- it would take liposuction and a bout of gastric banding.
That said, I knew the dress could look stunning in the proper size but I made a resolution that I don't want my current size to be that right size.
So I'm joining the hordes of women who each day/ week/ year/ month decide they are going to do something about their appearance in advance of a big occasion.
The only problem is, I'm not quite sure what that something is going to be. I don't do so well at calorie counting and my current work pattern means it is difficult to fit in exercise or indeed keep to a healthy eating regime. When I get through the door at 7pm, and once I've deposited the wee man in his bed and cleaned up Thomas, Percy and James from the floor the last thing I crave is salad and grilled chicken.
The strange thing I know I feel better when I do eat salad and grilled chicken. I have more energy, feel less bloated and my skin takes on the glowing hue of a baby's bottom and yet I still can't seem to get that message into my thick head in anything other than three week bursts.
I know I don't want to look like a green Mr. Blobby in my sister's wedding photographs. I want to be able to walk down the aisle with my son (who will be page boy) by my side and not trailing three foot behind me because my rump takes up too much space.
But I'm open to suggestions. I'm willing to try almost anything- from Weight Watchers (again) to dysentery, I'm not fussy. All I know is that I have reached the point of no return.
So if you see me heading for the sweetie machine, or giving into temptation in Thorntons- then I'm pleading with you to hit me a quick skite across the head and remind me that in 47 weeks and one day I'll be a bridesmaid for the first time ever- and it would be nice if I managed to fit into one dress and not two sewn together.

On a lighter note, (no pun intended) I'm off on my holidays for two weeks so this column will be taking a short break.

Just a word of thanks...

AS regular readers will know I'm an aspiring writer. Well because of that I've been hanging out at Write Words a lot and have made some lovely new virtual friends- esp in the Chick Lit forum.
I have to say these enormously talented ladies have taught me so much about my craft and I want to thank them wholeheartedly.

And for the record I"m now 10,000 words into my second novel 'Signed, Sealed, Delivered'.

Enjoy this tiny taster:
After Jake had left me, swaggering out of my flat with his T-shirt inside out, I had tried to win him back.
I became, I can admit with the fullness of time, a little psychotic over the whole thing. I bombarded him with phonecalls and when he changed his number I started with letters and emails.
I wanted him to know that I was as shocked by the whole thing as he was and that I had reacted myself with the same anger and disbelief but that it would and could be ok and sure we hadn't planned it, but that didn't mean a baby would have to be a bad thing.
He didn't reply. I would have handled the whole thing better if he had repeatedly told me to feck off, but he didn't. He just ignored me and that allowed me to tell my pregnancy addled, hormone riddled brain that perhaps he never got the 36 letters or 49 emails and that his phone must have a fault.
Eventually, after sobbing like a mad woman all over Janice Grayson's new nursery, Beth sat me down on the luxury rocker and told me that I needed to let go. I needed to realise he didn't want me or our baby. I nodded, agreed- I mean I hadn't really wanted our baby myself. So I decided that I had to change my tactics. He might not have wanted us then, but surely that would change when he heard about his own daughter?

Disgusted with Derry

I'M ANGRY, and -to paraphrase that great philosopher of our time 'The Incredible Hulk'- you will not like me when I'm angry.

I have always been exceptionally proud to call Derry my home. I have been proud as punch of our sense of community spirit- our ability to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and get on with life when everyone and his granny seems to be conspiring against us.
Always a home-bird, I have never wanted to leave this city. I never wanted to be part of the 'brain-drain' and when I'd finished studying I returned to Derry to set up a home, start a family and settle down. I even managed to persuade my other half, an English man who had heard enough about the Troubles to put him off Northern Ireland for life, that Derry was different. I persuaded him that all that nasty business of the last 30 years was behind us and that this was actually a safe place to live. I was very smug in my praise of my hometown.
Last Saturday night Paul McCauley was kicked half to death. Two others were injured. My own brother had been at that party earlier in the evening and, by the grace of God, had gone home early. I cannot bear to think about the position our family may have been in now had he stayed.
I know the people who were at the party. I've met most of them at various times as they sauntered in and out of my mammy's house to see my brother. It seems trite to say it now, but there isn't a bad bone in any of them- but then no-one deserves to be jumped upon in their own garden and have their heads kicked in, bad bone or not.
The attack may or may not have been sectarian, but I think that in focusing on putting a label on the assault we are ignoring the most frightening aspect of this whole episode: There are people in this city who think it is perfectly acceptable to do as much physical damage to another human being as possible without thinking, for one second, about the consequences.
Those people include, but are by no means limited, to the scumbags who left Paul McCauley for dead. They prowl our city streets every weekend looking for people to batter to within an inch of their lives. They enjoy it. They thrive on seeing people scared, on hearing people beg them to stop. They are the worst kind of scum and they are dirtying the name of this city every time they lash out at someone for a bit of craic.

Emotional
I find it hard not to get emotional when talking about this issue. Twelve years ago my brother was their target. He was pounced upon at 8.30 in the evening as he walked along the river with his friends. He was kicked in the head until he was battered and bruised and his teeth were smashed. His attackers kept on kicking him in the head until a passing car stopped and hauled him to safety.
I have emphasised the fact that he was kicked in the head because this shows how his attackers clearly didn't give a damn if they killed him. Every blow could have been fatal. Every blow knocked a little bit of confidence out of him that took many years to rebuild and yet we know that he was ultimately lucky.
If you are wondering, my brother's "crime" was that he dressed differently to his attackers. He didn't talk to them, didn't engage with them. He was just walking to a friend's house (in fact the same house where Sunday's attack occurred) when those responsible took a dislike to him.
My mother's best friend is a social worker attached to the Brain Injury unit. She admits she has been shocked at the increase in people needing support and treatment as a direct result of beatings they have sustained in this town we all love so well.
It is a shocking and sickening indictment of this city and how it is becoming a place that people no longer feel proud of.
At a time when we should be pulling tourists in by the thousands, when the City Council is doing all it can to make Derry as attractive as possible to residents and tourists alike, these animals think of nothing of destroying anything, or anyone, in their wake.
I think it is time that we got tough on our culture of street crime. I think it is time the people of Derry told everyone for once and for all that enough was enough and we aren't going to stand for this any more.
The fact is it could have been any of us who were beaten to a pulp in the early hours of Sunday morning. This wasn't a city centre street, it was a private back garden and any one of us could have been in it, enjoying a few drinks with friends while waiting for the sun to rise.
The attack on Paul McCauley shows once and for all and none of us are safe as long as these thugs are allowed to wander our streets and get away with attempted murder.
So yes, I'm angry. I want to be able to convince my husband that he lives in a city where we won't judged for our accents, our religions or what clothes we wear. I want to know that in 16 years time when our son goes out for the night I won't be pacing the floor worrying that he will be the latest victim of an unprovoked attack.
I want to feel proud to call Derry home again.

Boys and their toys

MY SON is a typical wee boy. He loves Bob the Builder, Noddy and Thomas the Tank Engine and gets terribly excited when he claps eyes on a 'PC Plum' (police man), fire engine, "ambliance" or airplane.

He looks every inch a boy- from his curly bap to his battered sneakers. He always has looked like a boy, to the point that he has never once in his entire life, even as a week old infant, been confused for anything other than a little boy. (I do remember one well meaning old dear peering the pram and saying: "That can't be anything other than a boy, can it?")
But love for cars, trains, planes, footballs and rough-and-tumble aside, the real love of his life at present is a TV character most certainly aimed at little girls- the wonderful Fifi ForgetMeNot.
He has not one but two talking Fifi dolls (he did have a third but she met a sorry end under the wheels of a passing car). Fifi must go everywhere. In her pink welly boots and denim dungarees, complete with flower motif, she must sit in his high chair with him at every meal time, must go to bed with him, to his Auntie Stella's with him, in the car with him and dare he wake in the middle of the night and she is not to be found there is all hell to pay.
I have taken to avoiding Foyleside because Joseph has renamed it "Fifi's House". He knows that Adams sell Fifi clothes and that the Early Learning Centre stocks a variety of Fifi toys- all of which he thinks he has an automatic right too just because he loves her so much.
Similarly I have lost count of the amount of times I have been woken during the night to Jane Horrocks' voice announcing "Hello, I'm Fifi ForgetMeNot, you're my best friend" as Joseph brings his cuddly best friend into the bed beside me. The added joy is that Fifi also has the power to automatically switch herself off after two minutes declaring loudly: "Don't forget to come back soon!".

Fifi's world...
As a doting mammy I don't really have any problems with my son's fascination for Fifi (who comes scented with a real flower smell). At times she is a welcome relief from the endless episodes of Fireman Sam or Noddy but other people are perhaps not so understanding of my son's love for a girl's toy. In fact I have received a few odd looks when people see my child cart his treasured pink and yellow doll around with him.
Earlier this week I bought a bright pink Fifi ForgetMeNot duvet cover for Joseph and some of my mammy friends were shocked. A few said that while their sons loved Fifi too, there is no way they could put a pink duvet on a boy's bed- and their husbands would go mad at the very notion.
It seemed strange to me. My friend's little girl, Amy, who is the same age as Joseph happily sports a pair of Bob the Builder pyjamas. They are dark blue and clearly designed with little boys in mind. No one has batted an eyelid. Amy loves "Bob De Da" (as she so very sweetly pronounces it) so why shouldn't she have pyjamas emblazoned with the Bob the Builder logo?
It would seem it is more acceptable for a little girl to cross the gender boundaries than it is for a boy. No one would be concerned if Amy had a Bob the Builder duvet cover. I doubt they would bat an eyelid if they saw her peddling around the streets on a Bob the Builder bike- but should you put your average Derry young fellah on a pink bike or in pink pyjamas and you would be asking for trouble.
Personally I've never had any problem at all with Joseph playing with toys for girls as well as boys. He owns a tea set (admittedly he is about as interested in it as he is in molecular biology), a pram and a rag doll. He has been known to dress up in a Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus costume and practice his Bella Ballerina dance steps in his granny's living room. I don't think any of this will have done him any harm. He is just as likely to spend three hours driving the same truck up and down the garden path or to run around the garden dressed as Superman shouting 'Super Joe' at the top of his lungs.
So I don't have a problem with letting him go to sleep at night under a pink duvet cover. I'm aware that as he grows older and spends more time with his peers he will more than likely die with embarrassment at the very notion he once took Fifi to bed every night, but for now, while there is still a touch of babyness about him, he can do whatever makes him happy. (That said I'll be vetoing his his repeated request for Fifi pants to go alongside his newly acquired set of big boy underwear- a mother has to draw the line somewhere and wearing girls' underwear is a bridge too far, even for me.)

I predict a riot!

All because the lady loves her wain...

What a stunner, eh?

Drum roll please!!!

This is my 100th post on this blog.

It should be something momentous I feel- sadly it's not.
It's just me, sitting here, smiling and feeling rather smug.

When you're smiling...

TWO YEARS ago when I was dealing with the 'joys' of sleepless nights and other new parenting gems I took to yamming down the phone on a regular basis to my VBF friend Vicki.

As a mother of three (well, she had two then- but she breeds fast) she was well versed in the stresses of dealing with family upheaval and she calmly told me that a good laugh beats a good cry any day of the week.
I thought about what she had said and realised she just may have been on to something. You see, when I phoned Vicki to off-load my woes, or vice versa, we inevitably managed to bring the conversation round to something light-hearted in an attempt to cheer up whichever one of us was standing on the proverbial window ledge.
At the end of each conversation we would have laughed until our sides hurt and gone away much less stressed and ready to take whatever renewed 'joys' the next 24 hours would throw at us.
I started to realise that when I needed a release of emotion, it was often more productive to stick on a Billy Connolly video and laugh until my pelvic floor muscles begged for mercy than to lie in a darkened room listening to Sarah McLachlan CDs and weeping like a Banshee.
I'll admit however that being a typical Derry woman my immediate reaction to almost every situation is to automatically think the worst, get myself into a state of blind panic about it and come to the conclusion that the world as we know it is set to fall in around my ears in a spectacular style.
I have always believed, you see, that if you prepare for the worst and expect it to happen you will be pleasantly surprised when things go right. I have always seen huge danger signs when it comes to anticipating that everything will run smoothly. It is in just these situations that someone on high will delight in switching on that great big celestial candid camera in the sky and then watch with glee as your life implodes around you.
I'm not sure where I got my extreme pessimism from. My parents are fairly normal, and my sister is positively Mary Poppins-like in her outlook. She lives life one day at a time, having developed a rather impressive"cross that bridge when she comes to it" attitude. I, on the other hand, have been building imaginary bridges to cross most of my adult life.
My husband is equally optimistic in his approach to life. The phrase "so laid back he is horizontal" was designed specifically with him in mind. So there I am, the lone merchant of doom in my family.
Unsurprisingly I have discovered that walking around under a black cloud of my own making does not make me happy so - with the help of Vicki and her wicked sense of humour - I've set about trying to make myself laugh when I'm more tempted to cry.
Billy Connolly is a good start. I have yet to watch a video of his without howling with laughter throughout. The jokes don't get tired. I find his impression of drunk man, be it walking or singing, hilarious.
Also guaranteed to raise a giggle is an evening spent with friends, be it the real ones who I know in person or the TV show of the same name. It is a great treat to lock the doors on the world and curl up on the sofa with a kingsize Galaxy and an hour of two of Ross, Rachel et al.
Vicki and I share many in jokes. All I need to do is call her Mabel and she returns the favour by calling me Betty and the laughter starts. Likewise, and back to the Billy Connolly theme here, there is one friend I only have to mention the phrase "A Roman and only one" to and we both convulse with laughter. (For those now looking at this page with a look of confusion on their face, I highly recommend the 'Billy and Albert' DVD)
I'm sure onlookers would think we are cracked, or as the lovely Rosie McCann who used to sit beside me in work would say, that we were on the glue, but nonetheless such simple expressions and jokes can lift you from the sourest of moods and make the rest of the day that little bit more bearable.
Of course there are situations when a good cry is necessary. It would be wholly inappropriate to hoot with laughter at a funeral, but in the majority of cases a smile can and does help.
So, I'm asking the people of Derry to cast aside our reputation as grumpy so and sos and to start smiling more. It won't be easy- old habits die hard- but go one give it a go, it can't do any harm!

Month 29- Behold the spawn of Satan

Dear Joseph,
I would like to start this month's letter by saying I love you dearly with all my heart and what may follow should not take away from the surge of positive emotions I feel about you on a daily basis.
You have turned into, what we in Derry like to call, a wee shite. It's not that you are bad as such. You haven't killed any puppies or thrown anyone out of a window (with the exception of your Tigger glove puppet)- you have just become, how can I put this, trying.
You have discovered the joy of tantrums and, much to my 'joy', the ability to do the full body slump whereby you collapse into a gelatenous heap on the floor and wriggle about so that even the most wily of mammies/ childminders/ daddies can't lift you up as you screech and shout "Me no want to".
I should, I guess, applaud your stand for your rights but when you take that stand in Tesco, while people tut and look on, it can be hard to deal with.
You have also discovered the 'excitement' which can be created by you running off in crowded shopping centres sending your mammy/childminder/daddy into a frenzy of panic as we search for you all the time imagining the worst.
And, you have also discovered just how much 'fun' it is draw blood from your own mother while you sink you teeth into her boob while giving her cuddle.

That's not to say you aren't a joy. You make me roar with laughter each day. Just yesterday you sang "Don't you wish your mammy was fun like me, don't you, don't you" in the car and I almost choked. You tell me I'm "so handsome" on an almost daily basis now and you love me, entirely and totally.
And I do love you back baby boy. But, if you can help it all, please stop with the mammy abuse.
Love you squillions.
Mammy
x

A friend for every season

YOU'LL FORGIVE me for sounding exceptionally smug this week when I say that I really have been blessed with some of the nicest friends on the planet.

My birthday has been and gone and I now, as a woman in my 30s, reserve the right to be exceptionally self indulgent and quite publicly say a huge thank you to everyone who made my transition from a young thing to an official grown up lady so smooth and enjoyable.
I think we women rely on our friends much more than our male counterparts. There is a many a crisis I could not have survived without my friends around me. Himself has a role to play, of course he does, but he doesn't understand my need for chocolate, wine and a good cry or giggle in the same way as 'the girls'.
Now usually us women have a group of friends from every era of our lives and never the twain shall meet. You know, you have the school friends, the uni friends, the work friends and the mammy friends. Then, of course, you have the family friends, those who are bound to get on with due to blood ties but who you do actually quite like when you think about it.
Each of them knows a different you. Your school friends know the gawky, silly you who wanted to be Teri Hatcher in 'Lois and Clarke' and who cried herself silly for a whole day when Bros broke up.
Your uni friends know how you were madly in love with the class mate who didn't ever look at you twice. They may even have driven you past the object of your affection's house as you did your best 'Fatal Attraction' impression.
Your 'mammy' friends can sympathise about the sleepless nights and could recount your labour story to you as if were their own. They even know the appropriate moments to cross their legs and grimace while telling the tale.
Your work friends know the you that is both at times the consummate professional, but who at other times is prone to a snottery big cry in the toilets when you have a bad day. They know what bun you take with your morning cup of tea and when to leave you alone as deadline approaches and steam rises from your keyboard.

Do you do voodoo?
As for family, well they know everything about you. Nothing escapes them and when everything goes horribly wrong with your non-related friends you know there is at least one person who will be nice to you and help you make the voodoo doll.
As a general rule, you don't want them to mix. Your work colleagues could do without knowing that you used to make up dance routines to Bananarama songs in your family friends' living room.
Likewise your Mammy friends, who think you are exceptionally grounded and responsible, do not need to know how your uni friend also brought you to the shop where your unrequited love's mother worked just so you could check out the prospective mother in law.
For my birthday, however, they all got together and, better than that, they all got along wonderfully with each other.
I was spoiled rotten. My sister booked me and my VBF (very best friend) into the City Hotel for the night. My school friend brought enough pink champagne to sink a small ship. My work friend showed up with a voucher for a fancy pampering session at a local hairdressers. My VBF (who is also a mammy friend) travelled over from Scotland just for the occasion and jointly they paid for a trip around town in a fancy stretch Mercedes limo, where all my friends had put together a collection of my favourite songs for us to sing to.
Each song, just like each friend in the Limo, represented a different stage of my life, but funnily enough each friend sang along loudly to every song and we roared with laughter together as we shared our individual memories.
As we sat together in Pitchers for our meal, I looked around and couldn't help but feel emotion choke me. It's a wonderful experience to realise people care for you and genuinely want to spend time in your company. Each of them gave me a thoughtful gift, from some gorgeous jewellery to a bound copy of my novel (perhaps the only time I will ever see it in print).
More than that, these girlies, many of whom had never met and only knew about each other through me, had been scheming, plotting and saving for weeks before the big day to make it special for me. They had formed their own friendships through email and phone calls.
Ever since that night each of them have contacted me to tell me how lovely the rest of them were. They have vowed to keep in contact and we all plan to meet up again next year when my sister gets married (exactly one year today- woohoo!).
Self indulgence aside (before this gets too tedious), I think this is a perfect example of just how supportive, open and welcoming women can be. Friendships can be the most nurturing and inspiring relationships in our lives and as far as I'm concerned every woman should have her own set of 'the girls' to call her own.
So to 'the girls' I'm proud to call my friends, Lisa, Vicki, Erin, and Nora- thank you all from the very bottom of my heart and remember, a friendship is for life- not just for a 30th birthday.

You're beautiful, it's true

MY SISTER phoned me on Monday night to tell me about an ad that is currently airing on TV. (Sadly, no, we don't have more exciting things to talk about in our family).

She said the new ad for Dove, of all things, was really moving. Well, in the interest of journalistic investigation of course I sat down in front of the TV and flicked the channels until I found out what she was going on about.
Dove, who make very lovely soaps and shampoos, have launched a 'Self Esteem Fund' for young girls. While Cyndi Lauper (or someone trying to sound like Cyndi Lauper) sang about letting your true colours come shining through, images of young girls flash on the screen. One hates her freckles. One thinks she isn't smart enough and then an impossibly skinny girl lets us know she thinks she is fat.
Then Dove announce they are going all out to show every little girl just how beautiful she really is. It's a lovely sentiment and I admit feeling all warm and glow-y as the ad ended.
The cynics out there will no doubt write this whole escapade off as a cynical marketing ploy by a company who, by dint of their very existence, are more interested in selling products to stop you smelling like a back end of a donkey than changing the world.
But I, for one, have to commend them. I like that a company isn't afraid to use real women in their ads. I like that they feature ladies over a certain age and women with real, saggy boobs and wobbly cellulitey thighs in their campaigns.
And I really like a company who has made it their mission statement to make little girls feel like the most special and beautiful little creatures on the planet.
I visited Dove's website (www.campaignforrealbeauty.co.uk) and discovered that 92% of girls aged between 8 and 12 would change one or more aspects of their appearance.

Sindy and Barbie
My God, when I was eight all I cared about was Sindy and Barbie and which was the cooler. I remember being vaguely aware that I had a wee touch of a pot belly and what my mother lovingly referred to as a "duck arse", but this was, in my mind, just the normal S bend shape of a child.
I never thought about getting rid of my freckles, nor did I really contemplate my weight or long for bluer eyes or a smaller nose. I never thought I was stupid, even when long division baffled me beyond words.
It saddens me to think that young girls can doubt themselves in this way- and it angers me that we have allowed them to believe they are anything less than perfect and beautiful and that up until now no one has really deemed it an important enough issue to do anything about it.
Sure, we had the Spice Girls, with their "Zig a Zig Ahs" and shouts of "Girl Power" but in reality were they role models for us to aspire to? Erm, there was the skinny one who married a footballer and lives off his money. Then there was the chubby ginger one, who became skinny, the chubby, then normal, then had a baby she called Bluebell. I'm sure there were a couple of others too, but they didn't really amount to much in the grand scheme of things.
Looking around today it's hard to know who young girls aspire to be. The charts offer little inspiration. I mean there is that stupid Fergie woman singing about her humps and her lady lumps or there are the Pussycat Dolls (or is that Dollz, with a z? I'm so not with it) encouraging young girls to be freaks like them.
The best selling toy for the 8-12 year olds are dolls (with an s) called Bratz (with a z). Now I know I'm nearly 30 so hurtling towards old age at lightning speed now but surely things haven't moved on so much that we no longer regard being a brat as a bad thing? Next thing you know there will be a range of dolls on the market called "Wee Feckers" and no one will bat an eyelid.
If our toys and our heroes aren't there championing our self esteem and letting us know it is ok to be nice, polite and non freakish young ladies then how are our young girls supposed to accept themselves for the people they are?
I, for one, find it so sad to see young girls trying to conform to perceived notions of what being beautiful and cool is. It's a sad day when you see a seven year old wrestle her way into a boob tube and slip on a pair of heeled shoes. Similarly there is nothing as heartbreaking as seeing a child of the age of four point to her belly and tell you it is fat.
So I'm all for Dove and their Campaign for Real Beauty and I want to tell all the little girls out there with freckles, or pot bellies, duck arses, sticky out ears, you are beautiful, it's true!

A load of balls

*First published on June 2, 2006.
DISCLAIMER- THIS COLUMN WAS WRITTEN WITH TONGUE FIRMLY INSERTED IN CHEEK. ANY ENGLISH PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE DISPOSITION SHOULD LOOK AWAY NOW


IT IS with a heavy heart that I have realised we are now in the month of June.

As the days pass, the sense of impending doom and dread I feel grows stronger and stronger. This is the month I have dreaded all year- the World Cup is almost upon us.
In precisely seven days time my husband, my male relatives and the lion share of my male colleagues will morph into football obsessed yahoos who will become incapable of discussing anything other than the qualifiers between the Ivory Coast and Serbia.
This delightful experience will last a joyless month, during which time I will have to fight with himself for use of the remote control- which I imagine will be a pointless exercise anyway as there will be nothing on the TV remotely non-related to the footie.
There will be no escaping it. Matches will be played at all hours of the day and when the matches aren't actually on there will be pre-match coverage and the post-match coverage and the between match coverage.
Nothing will be sacred. They will move Coronation Street and EastEnders to accommodate the matches. (I am physically restraining my hands here from typing bad words to express my displeasure. I realise that is neither big nor clever and I apologise for my thoughts).
To add insult to injury even the priests are in on the act- and worse still they support England!
As you may have guessed I'm not a ladette. The astute among you may realise that I don't care for football. The closest I've got to watching a match in recent years is checking out the latest series of 'Footballers' Wives'.
I may have feigned an interest if Ireland had managed to qualify. I'm pretty sure that if the boys in green had made it to Germany (and yes, I did have to ask my colleagues if that was right) I would have shown some enthusiasm just as I have done in the past, when I joined the throngs of people watching the big screens in Squires in 1994 when Jackie's Army stormed the USA (and yes, I had to ask that too).
I'd have found a player I fancied and ogled his legs. I'd have gone to the pub with my friends and waved a cheap agus nasty plastic Irish flag around and sang a resounding chorus of "Ole, ole, ole, ole"- but in the absence of a national duty to watch the football, I would love to ignore it entirely.

Tense month
Unfortunately I am married to an English man. You may realise that sets the scene for a very tense month in the Allan household.
It's not that I hate the English football team. I'm sure some of them are fine footballers in their own rights. What I hate, however, is the jingoistic, self satisfied smugness that particular nation sees fit to adopt if they win a match.
They go overboard with the news coverage, the songs, the flags, the Union Jack boxer shorts and (yes, I've seen this) toddlers carted about in special edition St. George's Cross buggies.
It's galling. It is not like they've found the cure for cancer or caught Osama Bin Laden shopping for Weetabix in Tesco. One man who has spent his whole life kicking balls around has simply managed to kick another ball into a net the size of your average bus. Oh, some men chased him while he did it. Whoopee! Hardly cause for national celebration now, is it?
Himself, of course, is very excited. He loves the World Cup. He is is giddily excited about being able to share the World Cup with his son for the first time. They will bond over it, as I sit with a face like thunder in the next room- excluded entirely from my family unit.
I should say I'm lucky most of the time. Himself is not a mad football supporter, so for three years out of four I can more or less pretend the blasted sport doesn't exist- but there is a strange mist that descends on him around the time of the World Cup that changes everything.
He becomes an English version of Homer Simpson, who melds into the sofa, can of beer in one hand, cheering and jeering at the footie and nodding at the sage words of Gary Lineker as if he was given said words on tablets of stone from on high.
If he gets together with his best mate Chris, we have a real life version of 'Men Behaving Badly' played out in our living room. I remember France 1994 being particularly traumatic on this front. The two of them dragged a cool box, filled with ice, into the living room for each major match and drank their way through the Ivory Coast's supply of cheap and nasty beer.
For four solid weeks I gave up on the notion of getting any sensible conversation out of him. There was no point. Like all strong women, I know when I am beat.
I'm hoping the eight years between then and now will have mellowed and matured my other half and that his threats to train the wee man to fetch the beer from the fridge for him are, indeed, just idle threats.
I'm stocking up on a selection of the finest Chick-Lit books, fine wines and soppy DVDs and I'm going to lock myself into my room to escape the nonsense. Hopefully by the time 2010 comes along (which will be in South Africa- and yes, I had to check) I'll have a little girl to bond with and the men can get on with it themselves.

Watch yourself Mazza!

Dear reader,
I have written a novel! A proper one with loads of words (86,000 of the blighters if you want to know). Most are spelled correctly. Some have more than one syllable. There is a fair smattering of incorrect usage of the whole its/ it's thing, but hey, it's a first draft!
It's called This Little Piggy and if any agents out there fancy signing me up and finding me a fancy dan publisher, that would be just dandy!
I'm prouder than punch about it because this was one of the three life goals I set myself for before I turned 30!
The first was to learn to drive and pass a test. Well I ticked that badboy off the list on March 21! This particular ambition was resolved on 6/6/6 (hope that isn't an omen!).

Big up to Queen Mazza who inspired me in 'Under the Duvet' by revealing she wrote her first novel in her 31st year and also big up to my friend and colleague Siobhan, who always wanted to write a book but sadly never got the chance.

Also thanks to everyone who read it while it was a work in progress! Love ya all!

(For the record, my third ambition was to lose bag loads of weight- but in the words of Meatloaf, two out of three ain't bad!)

Month 28- "No Mammy, it's a orange lorry"

Dear Joseph,
Welcome to your 28th month birthday. In so many ways it feels you have been here forever and yet, there are times, I wish you really had been. It seems like a heartbeat since I held you in my arms and wondered what the holy feck I was going to do with this newborn creature.
You seem to have become a human sponge this month. Of course, as your mammy, I have to say I'm well aware of the fact that you were born the most handsomest, smartest child in the world bar none- but this month you have exceeded even my wildest handsome and smart expectations.
The curls on your head have become wilder than ever and I swear when I looked at your this morning your eyes were that little bit bluer.
The real beauty in you though is your personality. I love to hold you close and say: "Joseph's my baby"- this month you have learned that the best way to impress your doting mother is to reply "Mammy's my baby" back.
Smart and gorgeous- what more could a mother want?

Of course you can catch me out. On our mornings in the car, driving to see your favourite Pepsi dog, we like to spot the vehicles as we go.
By about now, I can tell you what we meet before we go and I can get sometimes get a little lazy with the lorry spotting.
Seeing a lorry speed towards us I said: "Look Joseph, it's a yellow lorry"
"No mammy, it's an orange lorry," you replied.
My heart swelled with pride as I skited you one across the top of the head for being cheeky!
Love you loads,
Mammy

(No children were actually skited across the top of the head during the month of May)