One more day

The story of five year old Samuel Puttick and his parents Neil and Kazumi has made me shed more than my fair share of tears this week.
Samuel, paralysed from the neck down at just 18 months old died last week of meningitis. But the tragedy doesn’t end there. His parents were so consumed with grief at their loss that they took their precious son’s body, bundled it into a rucksack along with some of his favourite toys and jumped – along with it – off Beachy Head.
The parents were, by all reports, completely devoted to each other and simply could not imagine life without their only child.
They are a family who endured more tragedy in their time together than most of us do in a life time and my heart broke thinking of what they must have been through and what prompted these two people to take their own lives.
As a parent the loss of a child is, without a doubt, my biggest fear. (Of course if I’m ever asked in an interview I answer that my biggest fear is fish. I prefer to keep things light hearted and I don’t like, even for a second, to contemplate the loss of either of my children).
If I’m honest I don’t like to contemplate the loss of anyone I love – but for some reason the loss of a child is the worst fear imaginable. From the minute they enter your life they grab your heart and hold on tight and you can’t imagine them being gone from your existence even for one second.
The Putticks found out last week what it was like to experience that unimaginable loss and for me the scariest thing is that for any of us, life can change in a heartbeat.
Last week we had a health scare with the baby. She’d had a bad dose and was generally unwell – but amazingly still quite smiley, unlike me who adopts a Mother of Sorrows approach to even the common cold. But on Wednesday she got worse. Her high pitched screaming set off alarm bells in my head and when I noticed a purplish rash on her legs, I did fear the absolute worst.
Like a screaming harpee I called to my husband to bring me a glass and when the marks on her leg did not fade under the pressure of the glass I felt the relative peace and calm of our last 12 weeks fall away from under me. My baby was sick. Potentially she was seriously ill. Potentially we could lose her.
I have never felt so scared.
Thankfully, and here I must commend the medical staff at Cityview Medical, we were seen within half and hour and dispatched to hospital. Cara underwent blood tests and was put on a high dose antibiotic for three days. I spent my nights sleeping in a small and uncomfortable bed checking her every 3 minutes for signs of the rash spreading, or her temperature rising again and just making sure she was still breathing.
We were incredibly lucky. She didn’t have meningitis, as it turns out. It was a viral infection – but for those three days I sailed close to where no parent should ever have to go. I felt lost. I felt terrified and yet at the same time I felt lucky. My daughter was receiving superb medical attention. Our concerns were being taken exceptionally seriously. We may not have wanted to be in hospital in the first place but we knew we were in the best place possible for a sick child.
While there, and in isolation, I watched countless parents walk up and down the corridor with their babies and children. I wondered were they all as scared as I was? Where they having the same fears? Where they also realising just how lucky they were?
When I was pregnant with Cara a friend sent me a copy of a book called ‘Waiting for Birdy’ by Catherine Newman which, to simplify it, is the true life story of one woman’s second foray into parenthood.
At one stage in the book her son develops a viral infection – one which makes him quite seriously ill. As she writes about his recovery she muses that she is lucky in that she has so much to lose. I have to say I understand where she was coming from.
The whole experience – and indeed the story of the Putticks – has reminded me of an old poem that I bring out to read when the “joys” of parenthood become too much.
“Just for Today” by Sally Meyer says what all parents should remember – especially when the wains have been driving us to distraction and making us want to reach for the vodka and/or a king sized chocolate bar.
It seems apt that I share it a passage from it with you, today.

And tonight when you are sleeping safe and warm in your bed,
I will think of the mothers and fatherswho mourn for the children they have lost.
I will remember the parents who sit by hospital beds,
watching over the little ones they love.
I will weep for those parents whose children are cold,
hungry and suffering,
and .... this evening,when I kneel down to pray,
I will simply be grateful for all that I have
and not ask for anything...
except just one more day.

Gratuitous Sunday baby picture

I know, I know... but she's so darn cute...

Random conversations with the boy # Chris Moyles

So the boy loves Chris Moyles, especially that Nana Window song. So this morning we are driving to school listening to the show when Joseph pipes up to his cousin..

"Abby, I know what Chris Moyles looks like. He has spikey things all round his face. And he has grey hair and brown eyes. He has a good big tummy and a nose like us. He has nice long legs."

The spikey things are stubble, I hope.

You know last week when I said I looked like Frank from Shameless...

Well it has come to my attention that my hair seems to be falling out, in rather large clumps.
They say it's a post pregnancy thing, but to be completely honest I'm now rather worried I'm going to end up looking like Andy from Little Britain.

Does anyone have any good comb over styles for an almost 33 year old woman??? I could just try the basic sweep over the top, or be adventurous and go for a walnut whip effect.

This made me laugh so hard I almost choked...

It gets better as it goes on, honest. Wait for the possessed choir boys.

I wrote today!

..and yesterday.
And I'm loving it.
I was thinking earlier how I should sit and plot things out methodically but what I like about writing is how my characters and their actions can sometimes surprise even me.
The last time I got so excited about a surprise was when writing Rainy Days as Grace really came into her own. Now Annie is coming into her own and it's fabulous.
She's a ridiculously flawed character - but then I write flawed characters so well because I'm a big one myself (in every sense of the word).
I get a buzz when I think about this book - and I like that. I like that a lot.

So anyway, the last few days...

Thanks for the good wishes for Cara and all the prayers. It has been a hard few days - perhaps the scariest of my life - but I'm pleased to report she is home and well, if a little failed by her experience.
Things started on Monday when she developed a cold. That got worse on Tuesday so we skipped baby massage and by that evening her eyes were streaming and she was really rather miserable. She barely slept that night and was still wretched looking on Wednesday.
At around 12 noon she started crying and could not be settled. It was a high pitched roar and you can imagine that I started to worry.
That worry was made worse when I noticed a purple rash on her legs when changing her. I, like a complete loon, screamed at my husband to bring me a glass which he did and when I put it to her skin the rash didn't blanche.
At this stage I was trying to remain calm but feeling more than a little hysterical.
Thankfully our wonderful doctors agreed to see us straight away and he agreed with me that there was indeed a rash and it wasn't going away under pressure so we were sent straight to hospital.
Three days later, three doses of high strength antibiotics, blood tests and all sorts and she is home and fine. It wasn't meningitis, thank God, ut some viral infection. But my heart was in my mouth for the first 48 hours.
The main thing is my baby is home, and I am blessed beyond words.

The fat and the thin of it

The fat and the thin of it.
Driving home from the school run the other day I listened in to a discussion on the Ray D’Arcy show on Today FM about footballer Robbie Keane’s wife Claudine.
Mrs Keane appeared on the Late Late Show.
The loyal listeners to Mr Darcy’s show had quite a lot to say about Mrs Keane and the fact she looked really rather amazing just 13 days after giving birth to her son – also called Robbie.
Apparently Pat Kenny was almost tripping over himself to tell her what a stunner she was and it caused much debate among the listeners to Today FM.
There were a fair number of callers (mostly men) who made all sorts of “Fair play to her comments” and funnily enough they quite enjoyed looking at her gorgeousness.
And there were an equal number of callers (mostly women) who seemed most put out. There were those put out because the baggage had managed not to put any weight on during pregnancy. And there were those put out because she had left her young baby to come and hit the celebrity circle when, really, they said – she should have been holed up at home with her baby attached to her boobs and her hair a complete mess.
The newspapers also went mad with the news. They commended her for looking so great so soon after giving birth and I admit as someone with bags the size of large suitcases under my eyes 12 weeks after going through the same experience I did feel a pang of jealousy.
I was lucky (and when I say lucky, I mean of course I threw up every day for nine months making it virtually impossible to put weight on) not to gain weight with my latest pregnancy.(The first was a different kettle of fish altogether. I’m still trying to lose the baby weight from that one…) .
I was back in my jeans, rather smugly, six days after my little lady was born but there wasn’t a hope in hell I was looking anything remotely approaching glamorous. If anyone looked close enough they would seen my saggy tummy was almost folded into the jeans and wobbled if I so much as breathed. If my hair was washed it was a bonus. My skin became as dry as the Sahara so that any attempt to put make up on ended in a weird orange blotchy skin fiasco and as for having the energy to shave my legs to slip into a skirt? You have got to be kidding me!
It didn’t really bother me though. I mean the orange blotchy skin bothered me – especially when I saw dodgy photos staring back at me – but that was it. Other than that I was, frankly, too busy to really care. If I made it out of my jammies before 2pm it was a rare and joyous occasion. But I think, perhaps because this baby is my second (and last!), I knew that the first weeks and months were going to be tough so I accepted it. And I also knew just how fast it goes (although, admittedly at 3 in the morning it doesn’t feel as if it going fast at all) I wanted to cherish every moment with her.
I couldn’t imagine getting all glammed up to go on the party circuit or have the nation’s media dissect my appearance in any great detail. I was happy enough with the “bring your own bottle” party happening in our nursery at 4am. The dress code was much more forgiving.
But that doesn’t mean I castigate Claudine Keane for heading out on the town in her gladrags. I may be slightly jealous of how she looks and I may be cursing the genetics which mean that no matter how hard I try there is no way on this earth I will look as good as she does – be it two weeks or two years, or two decades for that matter after giving birth.
But I don’t agree that her going on the ‘Late Late’ will have a flurry of hormonal new mothers weeping into their expressed breast milk. I don’t think Claudine Keane looking great will cause a large number of women to plunge into post natal depression because their bodies haven’t snapped back to shape. In fact, it’s not Claudine’s Keane’s fault (or design) that her body has been so kind to her. She is just a jammy cow.
Where the finger of blame (if there is blame to be apportioned) is at the media (and Ray D’arcy’s exempt from my criticism because I love him) to jump on this story and make it news. “Women has baby and isn’t big fat bloater shocker”. It’s not news.It shouldn’t merit headlines. If I’m honest I didn’t even know who Claudine Keane was before this and nor did I care.
So, if the media was a little more forgiving to women who had babies and realised that what some female celebrity weighs or doesn’t weigh isn’t actually news, we might all be happier.

Get well vibes for my Cara Boodles

My baby is currently in hospital. We've had a meningitis scare and it has been awful. I'm home to grab a little rest and she will be in for the next day or so until all her blood tests are back.
She developed a purple rash yesterday after being quite unwell with cold symptoms for a few days, so she is in hospital, on high dose antibiotics and getting great care and attention.

I'll apologise in advance to those expecting their books from the giveaway. I've not been able to near a post office yet.

I'll post more about this all when she is better and home and when I'm feeling less emotional.

For now though, all healing vibes are welcome for my most precious baby girl.

When I look at my daughter

.. especially when she is asleep or smiling, I feel as if I have known her face all my life. She looks exactly how I always dreamed a daughter of mine would look and there are no surprises in getting to know her face because it has been in my dreams for years.

That might sound slightly mental but it is how I feel as if, my whole life, I have been waiting for her and now she is here and life is complete.

The first words I said to her were "Hello baby. We've been waiting for you such a long time.." I'm not sure where those words came from - we certainly didn't have a long and arduous battle to conceive her but now I think it was my way of just saying "Hey you, pretty girl who has been in my heart forever. It's so nice to finally hold you."

It has dawned on me that this is what I look like in the mornings...

Without the fag and stubble, obviously...

(But I have managed to lose 5lbs now, which is something at least to be proud of. If only I could tackle the sleep deprived scary woman look, I'd be fine...)

Time to get Naked

The lovely people at Naked Body Care have asked me to plug the fact that for the next three weeks you can get a stonking 50% off their products if you order online.
So if you are gutted that you didn't win a copy of Feels Like Maybe then I completely suggest some retail therapy instead...

To get the discount just use the code face09 into the discount code box and they’ll half the price of your purchases until June 14th (offer excludes P&P, because Postman Pat still has to buy cat food for Jess).
To find out more visit Naked at http://www.nakedbodycare.co.uk/ or become a fan on Facebook. It's worth it for the funny updates, if nothing else.

AND THE WINNERS ARE...

Katy24286, Amanda and IrishCat!

If you kind ladies could forward me your contact details to mail@claireallan.com I'll get the books in the post.

Thank you all for your interest and for those who didn't win I'll be running another competition when Jumping in Puddles comes out in September/ October.

Fecking brilliant!

Thank you for all responses to the FLM giveaway. I'll post the results tonight or tomorrow (want to give 'Journal' readers a fair shout).
You have all cheered me up no end and I've had a good laugh (in a really childish way) that I've made so many people say the acceptable swear word. (Yes, I am THAT immature!).

To clarify things, this is the paperback (Small format) edition of Feels Like Maybe which is due for release shortly. (Note lovely purple cover and fancy dan review quotes..)

Book three - Jumping in Puddles - is due for release at the end of September/ start of October and I hope to do a giveaway then too. In fact I may even do a triple whammy then and give away my back catalogue!

Anyway - check in on Saturday for definite results to the giveaway and thank you again.

GIVEAWAY!!! Signed Copies of Feels Like Maybe

I'm definitely doing this time - so have THREE (count 'em) signed copies of Feels Like Maybe to give away to blog readers!
To be in with a shout of winning, just leave a comment (using the word FECK! if at all possible) to this thread and on Friday I'll put all the names in a hat (or probably a bowl, or Tesco bag or the like) and get the boy to pull three out.

Now I'll find out for sure if more than three people read this blog!

For those who want to know, FLM will be in the shops from June 2!

Who was your crush?

I clearly have too much time on my hands at the moment. While moseying (is that spelled right? I have baby brain, big time) I came across a group devoted to former Twin Peaks actor Dana Ashbrook - who despite the girliness of his name is very much a man.
He was the delectable Bobby Briggs in the series and when I was a teenager (many, many moons ago) I was mildly obsessed with him. I watched Twin Peaks on repeat and saw many a dodgy movie (Ghost Dad with Bill Cosby, anyone?) just because he was in it.
I was mad about him. Seriously. Posters of him even replaced those of Matt and Luke Goss on my walls.
I'd love to know what he is up to now (Considering that was about 15/16 years ago) and what he looks like.
Who was your teenage crush? And here's the big question - would you still, as you fantasised at the age of 16, still run away with them if you asked?

Going to the chapel (or indeed the civil ceremony)

That's all the talk in our house at the moment.
My sister gets married in nine weeks. We are currently trying to figure out the appropriate music for her civil ceremony. While she laughed heartily at the suggestion that she walk back down the aisle to the theme from EastEnders (Think about it "I now pronounce you husband and wife" cue dramatic drum roll....) I don't think she will go for it.
Being with child she has herself suggested "Knocked Up" by the Kings of Leon - but perhaps it won't set the right tone.
I'm useless for other suggestions. I had a big old fancy church wedding (eight years ago this month) and my music was largely religious. I walked down the aisle to a string quartet playing 'The Minstrel Boy'. Had everything from The Song of Ruth to Amazing Grace in between and walked out to a very happy 'This is the Day' song which had us all bopping in the aisles. (Canon in D was in there too, while were out in the sacristy signing the register, so I missed it).
All suggestions welcome.

And just for show, this is the version of The Minstrel Boy we had at our wedding..

Grouchy? Just a little

It's the carb withdrawal, and the chocolate withdrawal.
I swear should I find a stray chocolate button anywhere I will eat it - even if it is covered in fluff and dirt.
But I do feel less bloated already.

I did catch an unflattering glimpse of myself earlier. I was out with the wee woman - who was safely ensconsed in her BabaSling and we were in a lift. As I looked down to check on her I caught the sight of my quadruple chins in the mirror of the lift.
Oh yes, this diet is well timed.

I've even managed to persuade the husband to eat well with me - although I dare not refer to it as a diet in his presence. Men don't diet. They "cut down". He is wandering about like a lost puppy, almost whimpering with sadness when I hand him his diet (sorry, cutting down) sized portions - which are are still twice the size of the portions I'm eating myself!

I think I may have to erect CCTV by the fridge to check he isn't cheating!

It's done...

My third book - rewritten and awaiting the official edit from the publishers.
And I love it.
And I'd forgotten just how much I loved the end and how it all works.

You know when you see a picture of yourself...

... and you thought you had looked quite good - and it comes as a shock that you actually looked a little eeny bit like Jabba The Hut?
And you want to cry?
Or eat chocolate?
Or cry while eating chocolate?

Well that happened today - just now. A super-de-dooper fat pic of me at the wee woman's christening which was very unflattering and showed off the fact that, seriously, I don't even have a chin. I'm just mouth and neck. Swear.
And it's a fat neck.

Anyway, I'm dieting again. As of the morning. A low GI approach.
Wish me luck. But if I'm really, really crabby the next few days/ weeks you will at least know why.

Eight Things...

I'm delighted to have been tagged by the lovely Sharon McPherson for this 8 things doodah... all pretty self explanatory so here goes...

Eight Things I Like...

• My family - especially the little ones and that includes my niece and nephew. But perhaps that is a little predictable.
• White Wine - current wine of choice being a nice Pinot Grigio but sadly cannot think of it without hearing David Hasselhoff say the name of said wine after strange Scott Mills on Radio One type jokey thing a while back.
• Sleep - except I don't just like sleep. I LOVE sleep. I am also a very vivid dreamer and I get very excited about my dreams. Although hate the recurring 'house is falling down around my ears'/ remember I've not cancelled the lease on my student flat / trying to pack in three minutes dreams.
• Chinese spare ribs - guess what I'm eating right now?
• Work - strange as it may sound. We have great banter in the office and I am missing it a lot while on maternity leave.
• Writing - although it is more of a compulsion than a like.
• T'interweb. I would be lost without it and I would not have made some of the nicest friends in the universe.
• Good books - by the likes of Marian Keyes, Sharon Owens, Kate Long and many others.

Eight things I did yesterday

• Took the wee woman for her first immunisations and comforted her as she looked at me with a kind of "why mammy why?" look on her face.
• Picked the boy up from school and took him to get petrol - tres exciting.
• Returned to the school to pick up my niece and had an argument with the lollipop man - yes, really. I was late and hot and bothered and he was being an ignorant fecker with no understanding of my hormonal rage. He won the argument but I seethed the rest of the day. Not my finest hour.
• Watched the boy play Mario Kart on the Wii - he is addicted.
• Had my tea in my lovely mammy's house - mammy chips - woohoo!
• Came home and set about the edit - changed one aspect of the storyline.
• Emailed my editor about use of the name Chewbacca in book 4 -yes, really.
• Became mildly addicted to the "Five things" application on Facebook.

Eight things I wish I could do

• Fly, right up the sky, but I can't...
• Get a UK book deal, or indeed any book deal outside of Ireland even though I love the lovely people at Poolbeg with all my heart. I long to see "Feck" translated into French. (La Feck?)
• Lose weight and keep it off.
• Fix my crooked smile - preferably without the aid of expensive and more importantly painful dental work.
• Ban the phrase "Credit Crunch" from newspapers and media outlets.
• Know what the baby means when she says "Aaaaah na, dee dee, gooo aaah"
• Know whether or not my car will pass the MOT on Monday before I send it down there.
• Share a glass with my VBF just about now.

Eight things I don't like

• People who don't indicate. I've even made up a song - honest.
• Editing books - love the writing, hate seeing all my mistakes glaring up at me.
• The baby's uncanny ability to start to cry as soon as I sit down to eat/ go to the loo or anything which requires the ability to use my arms.
• Being pregnant - seriously I'm very crap at it and no use to anyone for the whole of the nine months.
• Depression - nuff said. Don't want to get all Saturday night maudlin on youse all.
• The fact that chocolate contains calories and generally lots of 'em.
• Saying goodbye.
• Jimmy Carr. He is a pain in the arse.

And now. I pass on this wonderful chalice to these talented bloggers...

Irish Mammy, Stickhead, Keris, Fionnuala, Pierre - Mon Frere and Emily.

Almost there...

... with the edit.
Of course it will then go to an editor who will request a further edit and then a copy editor who will request yet another edit, but I'm pretty confident that the book is now about the best it can be without help from an outside source/ divine inspiration.

Jumping in Puddles will go down in history as the biggest love/hate obsession of my life. I think it's a corking book - but boy has it been hard to write.
I'll liken it to my baby girl. She's amazing in every way, but pregnancy with her sucked the big one. Seriously, it was awful. But the end product was worth it.

And then, when this is done, I can turn my attentions back to the joyful pregnancy that is writing book four.

Anyway, in the absence of anything witty and funny from me, here is a little joyful snippet of the comedy genius that is Marian Keyes.
Sadly at the moment, I would love to have the chance to have insomnia!!!

Accentuate the positive

The very lovely Fionnuala has been, whether she knows it or not, kicking my arse this week about my slump in mood and general meh-ness about my career.
This has been couple with the equally lovely Keris posting on how even Marian Keyes gets the slumps when it comes to edits.
I think editing is classicly the time when you you just think "Feck it, it's all rubbish anyway. Who did I think I was trying to kid?"
So when a reviewer on Amazon (yes, I'm still harping on about that) said just those things it mirrored back my worst fears to me.
But, as Lloyd Grossman would say, let's look at the evidence.

• I've been published twice.
• Both books have been Irish best sellers.
• I have had some corking reviews in the national press.
• I have had women email me to say RD&T helped them overcome post natal depression.
• I was able to work with Aware Defeat Depression to help other women.
• I have been on the telly, and the radio and the papers and not made a complete arse of myself.
• I have a publisher and an agent who believe in me.
• I got some lovely emails/ comments after my last self pity post on here which made me smile (Thank you, genuinely..)
• I have a third book coming out in a few short months.

So while I have a fear that I'm not good enough, I think I have to remind myself of this amazing quote...

‘Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond imagination. It is our light more than our darkness which scares us. We ask ourselves – who are we to be brilliant, beautiful, talented, and fabulous. But honestly, who are you to not be so?
You are a child of God, small games do not work in this world. For those around us to feel peace, it is not example to make ourselves small. We were born to express the glory of god that lives in us. It is not in some of us, it is in all of us. While we allow our light to shine, we unconsciously give permission for others to do the same. When we liberate ourselves from our own fears, simply our presence may liberate others.’

Gratuitous Friday picture of the boy

Only fair he gets a shout... here he is, and no, that wasn't real champers in his glass.

Random conversations with the boy

J: I can't wait to be a grandad. I'm going to be a daddy first. I'm going take my children out in the car for a drive and they are going to say "Daddy, was that always there?" and I will say "No children. It wasn't always there when I was a little boy."
Me: What kind of car will you drive?
J: A BMW.
Me: And how many children will you have?
J: Two, no ten, no, let me think, seven.
Me: What will their names be?
J: Dave.

A sneaky peek at Jumping in Puddles

... which has been the subject of my ferocious editing for the last few weeks.

The cemetery in Rathinch sat, as all good Irish cemeteries do, on a hill. It was shielded from the wind coming off the sea by a row of tall and sad looking trees which were shedding their leaves all over the gaudy floral displays and stony paths.
Niamh was pretty sure that if she tried she could walk to Sean's grave with her eyes closed. She had been there often since he died just to make sure the flowers were fresh and the stone kept clean. Sean would not have liked a dirty headstone - nor would he have liked wilting flowers. It would have tarnished his image and he was all about the image.
Standing at his grave she thought of all the times she had cried there and all the times she had hidden her tears because the children were there to leave pictures and presents for their daddy. Still there, on the foundation for his headstone, was a little yellow tipper truck Connor had left the last time they had visited. Normally the sight of one of her son's toys on her husband's grave would have made Niamh weep wild and hysterical tears, but today it just made her angry.
"They didn't deserve a daddy like you," she muttered, snatching it and putting it in her bag.
"And I didn't deserve a husband like you. All I ever did was love you," she said, sitting down on the damp grass.
"How could you hurt me?" she asked. "How could you deceive us? Why was I not enough? I did everything you wanted! I was the perfect wife. I cooked. I cleaned. I gave you as many blow jobs as you wanted. I polished your shoes. I never showed you up in front of any one. I never told Kevin to fuck off, even though I wanted to tell him on many, many occasions. I loved you," she said, realising that with every word she had been tearing flowers from his grave.
He loves me. He loves me not.
Standing up, she dusted herself off and looked at the gold lettering again. "Beloved husband and father". She wondered how much it would cost to alter and then, walking away knowing she would only ever come back when her children asked her, she walked through the weeping willow trees and onto the beach.
She didn't feel sad - disappointed maybe, but not sad.

Had my big cry...

... it made my head sore.
And then a few friends sent soothing text messages of support.
I've had some sleep and feel mildly better.. although that said it is 3.34am and I'm awake and online. What is wrong with that?
The lady is asleep. As is the husband and the boy. I'm down washing bottles and doing some general tidying up.
See what you did, nasty reviewer lady? You made me go all OCD and robomum for a bit?
I will however resist the urge to start hoovering. No one will enjoy that - least of all me.
I will try to get back to sleep soon - however so far tonight my dreams have largely consisted of dancing to "It's Raining Men" with the cast of Holby City/ Casualty (including Tom Chambers) and a local, to remain nameless, solicitor.
Oh and then dancing to 'Cabaret' with Liza Minelli and Judy Garland before having breakfast with my fellow site experts on Write Words.
Strange times, indeed.

Just for the record

Reading stinkers of reviews on Amazon is not good for your spirit - especially in a postnatal haze of meh-ness.
How did my my books ever get published? That's the question asked by the latest reviewer.
I know you can't please all of the people all of the time and reviews are part and parcel of the writing world but, you know, there isn't a need for nastiness either.
I have to believe that what I have written has merit. I've certainly had some lovely, positive feedback on both books. But it is at times like these when you wonder why you put your head above the parapet?
I'm quite happy in my own wee world.I keep myself to myself. I write my books, put them out there and hope for the best. I'm not determined to be right in the public eye - I just enjoy writing and the occasional bit of craic.
But there are times when I just get a bit "what's the point" about it all?
Of course I'm very priviledged to have a successful writing career and I should probably just catch myself on. And I will, I promise. Just after I have a big old ugly cry.

It's worth bringing this out again...

For a rainy bank holiday Monday... this always makes me smile.

Random conversations with the boy

J: "Mammy, I feel sick. I think I might have the chicken pops."
me: "Is your tummy sore?"
J: "Yes, I think I might bomit"

Gratuitous Friday baby picture

In the words of Stevie Wonder, isn't she lovely?

Work it, a little - or a lot

I have a new found respect for those breed of women who define themselves as Stay at Home Mummies (SAHMs to get with the internet lingo).
I admit I have on many occasions said I respect whatever decision a woman makes and that raising children is as hard as working 9-5 but secretly – like many a working woman, I imagine – I actually thought SAHMs were a bit jammy.
I mean, get up, slouch about in your PJs, watch a bit of Phil and Fern, stick a load in the washing machine, chat to their kiddies and make the dinner. Easy - or so I thought. I could do that, no problem.
I will admit, here and now, I was wrong – and exceptionally naïve. While I’m sure there are some SAHMs who do lounge about all day watching the telly (just as there are some employed people who have the uncanny ability to make doing nothing look as if they are working very, very hard), I have realised it is actually quite exhausting being at home all day.
How older generations of mammies did it – with umpteen wains and no labour saving devices like automatic washing machines and vacuum cleaners did it beyond me. Once again Granny, I take my hat off to you. I would be for the funny farm if I had to live like that. My washing machine broke down four weeks ago and I felt as if my right arm had been cut off. I was like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown until my shiny new washer arrived. The poor delivery man was scared – very scared – that I might start crying or otherwise make an eejit of myself in thanks for having the power to clean clothes back in my possession.
There was something lovely about leaving the house first thing in the morning and only returning under the cover of darkness. Somehow you could miss the cobwebs in the evening and the fact that the windows needed cleaning could be ignored.
It’s not so easy when you have to face it all the time.
And when you have two children to run after (not that the baby does much running away, mind) it gets even more fun. Who would have thought a small bundle of pinkness could create so much washing. If she is like this now, I dread to think what she will be like in her teenage years.
While, to accompany this, the boy has taken to leaving to things at his rear end because mammy is home and can clean it up and, to be honest, the husband has started doing the same.
If a woman is at home there is an expectation – no matter how far we think we have progressed into the age of equality – that she will keep that house to a certain standard.
When I have complained of being tired or of being sick of housework the husband has looked at me somewhat incredulously and said “But, you are not working at the moment”.
Not working? Ha! Just because I’m not clocking in at a desk that does not mean I am not working perhaps harder than I ever have. And I’m doing something new – something I’ve never done before and never had any training for. I’ve never been a mum of two before and I’ve sure as heck never had the chance to try and keep a house to such a reasonable standard while caring for more than one other human being at any time. And all for no wages, exceedingly poor holiday entitlement and the added bonus of sleep deprivation.
I’m trying to be a little like Bree Hodge from ‘Desperate Housewives’ – all in control and perfectly on top of things but sadly I’m a little more like Susan – destined for a disaster at every turn.
On top of the baby brain (see column a few weeks back) I’ve managed to break a significant number of household appliances, drop a significant number of glasses and other breakables and realise, sadly, that I am never going to be one of those women other people look at with envy because she is such a good housekeeper.
And I’ve yet to see a complete episode of Jeremy Kyle or Loose Women. My house is relatively tidy and I’m become obsessed with finding the perfect cleaning products and hoovering every square inch of the house frequently.
The upshot of it all is that I don’t get two minutes to myself. Baby comes first, then the boy, then the housework and then writing as I’m still on deadlines for books three and four. Staying at home, an easy task? No chance.

It's a meh day...

Feeling uninspired, a little fed up, a lot fat, very tired, very poor, rather stressed and a little OCD-ish.
Must learn to say no.
Must learn to let go of worrying about tomorrow and concentrate on today.
Must take some deep breaths.
Must trust that it will work out - just maybe not in the way I anticipated.
Must not sweat the small stuff.
Must appreciate the smiles more.
Sleep would probably help to. Or alcohol.

Anyway, as I'm in a meh mood here's something which is really quite funny.

A night in the life

Number of baby-gros harmed in the caring for a pukesome child = 4
Number of bottles prepared = 4
Number of bottles dropped on the floor (with no lid on) in a fit of exhaustion = 1
Number of squares of kitchen towel used to clean it up = 3000
Number of times I slipped and almost fell on my arse = 2
Number of swear words uttered over said incident = 5 (in a quick succession, a kind of feckity, feckity, arse pants, feck thing... only with the bad f-word instead...)
Number of nappies changed = 3
Number of times nose was assaulted by stinkiest smell ever (from baby, not DH...)= 1 (thankfully)
Number of consecutive hours sleep = 2
Number of bags under eyes = 3457853 (a whole luggage set, and some...)
Number of times baby smiled and seemed to say "sleep is for wimps" = 200.

The Susan Boyle Effect

Everyone has been talking about her – the funny looking, ungroomed woman who wowed the judges of 'Britain's Got Talent' with her rendition of one of my personal favourite songs of all time – 'I Dreamed a Dream'.
Susan Boyle, previously unknown and pretty much the kind of person you wouldn't give a second glance to, has taken the world by storm.A You Tube video of her performance has had the most internet hits of a video ever – even more than Barack Obama's inspirational inauguration speech and almost every TV chat show is vying to get her on their programme. (Believe me, I'm watching a lot of daytime telly at the moment while stuck in the feed/ change/ burp routine. For the record 'Loose Women' is quite good and Jeremy Kyle is an annoying eejit who likes the sound of his voice too much.)
The Susan Boyle Effect, as it has become known been one of the best good news stories of late – something which puts a smile on my face each time I read about it. It sure makes a change from all the tales of woe out there. I have now developed a nervous twitch at the very mention of the term 'credit crunch' and there is only so much you can read about the global recession without wanting to stick needles in your eyes.Susan Boyle's story is a happy one – it gives us all hope because – essentially, there is a little of Susan Boyle in all of us.
Certainly I can relate to her scruffy appearance. If truth be told she looks a little like me on a good day – only my eyebrows are even more in need of a good waxing at present. Her figure, I'm sad to say, is probably more enviable than mine at the minute but at least I have a half decent excuse.Ordinary womanI love the fact that she is just an ordinary woman who has spent a great deal of her life getting on with things and living her life.
Sure she enjoyed her weekly sessions in the pub singing karaoke but she never pushed herself.Lord knows why she decided to try for 'Britain's Got Talent' this time around, but I'm glad she did. I don't think I'd have had her courage – but then I'm a complete feardy cat about most things.
As she walked on the stage for her audition she was met with hoots of laughter – and not the good kind. They were not laughing with her but at her. These were the kind of hoots of laughter that would have made me run off the stage crying – very fast, without passing go, collecting £200 or facing Simon Cowell.
When she told the audience she wanted to be the next Elaine Paige, and they hooted again, she bravely started singing her song to prove them all wrong. I would have crawled under a rock and hidden.But there is no reason why she should have done so. She has an amazing voice and performed her song with a degree of confidence that really impressed me.'
I Dreamed a Dream' is not an easy song to sing – and believe me I've tried many times in the shower or under the influence of several glasses of wine (and generally in the company of my fellow musical loving colleague Erin Hutcheon).
Susan Boyle has proved that none of us should judge a book by its cover. It also made me think that there are probably a whole load of people out there who have amazing talents but who keep them to themselves for whatever reason.Strange as it may sounds there could be a Susan Boyle sound-a-like living next door to you. (Unless you are my neighbour – in which case I really can assure you that I am not a secretly amazing songstress and am, in fact, about as tone deaf as they come..). There could be an amazingly talented actress, or comedian, or singer or dancer. There could be someone secretly dreaming of taking the world by storm but who doesn't, yet, have the confidence that Susan Boyle did when she stood in front of Simon Cowell et al.
It may seem like a very obvious lesson to learn – to give people a full chance rather than writing them off based on your first impression – but it seems we all needed a reminder.There is talk of giving Susan Boyle a makeover. One national newspaper even mocked up a computer generated image of what she could like with some plastic surgery, a good hair cut and some make up. But I don't think we need to change her. Surely the most important thing is how she sounds – which has absolutely nothing to do with how she looks.
Hopefully now more and more people will be given a chance to show off just how talented they are and we will have all learned that looks can very much be

Mixed blessings

I went to visit my granny yesterday. She's in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's and hadn't met Cara yet. As Cara's middle name - Anna - is in her honour I so wanted them to meet even though I knew my granny wouldn't know her, or me for that matter and that whatever time she spent with her newest great-grandchild would be forgotten within seconds.
So I went and introduced my daughter to her and she held her so tenderly in her arms that I had to fight the urge to cry. She hushed her and instinctively her loving motherly instinct soared right in and while I knew the connection was broken - she would never know who this child was - it was a lovely moment.
And then it was over. She was distracted and my daddy handed me my baby back while granny was lost back in her own world.
It was gone and done and over and I wish with all my heart it wasn't.

So if you have a spare moment and a spare couple of quid please please visit the Alzheimer's Society and read more, or donate some. For granny's everywhere.

I can't figure out how to upload Twitter here..

So today's update

ClaireA is editing - a lot.
She is not blogging.
She wishes she had time for blogging as she rather misses it.
But she is editing instead, and you know what it's a good book. And funny.

Normal service will resume presently.

Silly little things which make me happy

Okay, I'm going through a mildly OCD/ Robomum phase at the present so forgive the increased amount of references to house work in this post... but still, silly little things which are currently making me happy

• The ability to hang clothes out on the line - I hate winter and Chinese laundry/damp kitchen syndrome. I also now completely believe and am impressed with the sun's abilities to bleach out poop stains (the baby's... for the record) from reusable wipes and baby gros after impressive baby poo-splosions.
• The fact that a lot of the stuff on my line is small and pink. (Not the actual baby... although I have heard newborns can be hung from washing lines and their grip means they are perfectly safe...)
• The smell of a room after it has been hoovered. I know that is a very sad thing to make a person happy but it makes me feel all clean and lovely. I think it reminds me of the smell of my granny's house or something.
• Scented candles - especially Yankee Candles which make my house smell even lovelier than just freshly hoovered house.
• Driving on a sunny day - especially towards the Donegal coast.
• The smell of the baby. Or the smell of the boy after a bath.
• My nephew's smiles and the fact he now gives you a cuddle when you ask. (He's seven months.. incredibly advanced if you ask me).
• My friends and family.
• A clean bathroom and the smell of bleach.

The World According to Mom

This is an interesting blogging experiment - 80 moms from as many countries as possible, all being asked to talk about the five things they like most about being a mom (or mammy, as is my case...)

I was tagged by David Wescott, who I think was tagged by Catherine Connors and I think I'm the first Northern Irish participant to share my mom-ly thoughts, so here goes...

1) The feeling of my son's hand in mine.
He has squishy five year old gorgeous hands which fit perfectly in mine. As we cross the road, or just snuggle on the sofa I will hold his precious, still a little babyish, hand in mind and feel a surge of love so strong it will almost take my breath away. I know one day they will grow to big old man hands and if I think about that too much, I sob.
For Mother's Day he presented me with a poem about handprints and his own little hand prints laminated - the whole thing bearing the phrase "These are the hands you used to hold, when I was five years old". I can't wait to see the man he will become but boy will I miss the little hands.

2) How children can make you laugh until you are almost sick.
My son has a fabulous laugh. Seriously, it should be bottled. It's the kind of laugh you get on ads with cool kids on the telly. It truly is infectious. When he laughs, I cannot help but laugh too. And he does so many funny things that have us both creased up. Recently though the introduction of our little lady has increased the laugh factor greatly. Joseph finds everything she does (even pooping) hilarious so that laughter is ringing through our house all the time. Sometimes it's a little manic (that'll be me, then) but mostly it is just exceptionally joyous.

3) The way a newborn fits against their mammy perfectly.
I think she was made to fit each curve and crease of my torso. She lies there, curled in and even though she is no longer in my stomach she feels just as much a part of me as she ever did. Except now I can kiss her.

4) Pushing a pram
I know this sounds a bit basic. But I love pushing my pram. I love feeling all mammy-ish and grown up and having people coo into it and look at her and exclaim what a gorgeous baby she is. And I don't care that's probably some throw back to being a child and having a doll and pram because sometimes she feels just like my little doll - she even looks like a (non-scary) cabbage patch doll when she smiles.

5) The person being a mammy has made me become
I'm not perfect, but I am different. I am complete now. I am blessed. I am very tired and rather overweight also, but I wouldn't swap my life. (Tweak it slightly, maybe....). Being a mum has made me the person I always wanted to be.


ooooh, and here's the thing I've got to tag some mammies - so here goes Keris, Emily, Stickhead and Fionnuala

oh...smiley face

I know - baby bores are us, but is this just not too, too cute?

Tomorrow I shall be mostly editing...

... if you see me anywhere near here then shout at me... loudly.
But before you do, if anyone can come up with a one line shoutline for Jumping in Puddles, I'd appreciate it.

It's the story of four lone parents in a small village in Donegal, which makes Stepford look like Metropolis. Each has a very different story and very different background but find they forge amazing friendships which help them cope with the good and bad in their lives.
Oh, and it's all made possible through a lone parent support group run by the formidable Bernie - who might just have a story of her own to tell.

At the moment - while having a crisis of confidence about my writing - the current shoutline in my head is "Please buy it and say you like it" but I'm thinking that's not what the publishers are after. I'm thinking they want something a bit more....

"In a wee village in Donegal, no one can hear you scream..." (Not quite representative of the book)

"Four friends, four stories and a whole heap of wine..." (The wine was consumed by the author...)

"Friendship comes in the most unexpected of places" (Too twee????)

HELP!!!

Easter bunny

Here she is, one month, one week and one day old...

Things I have to had to stop myself saying in the last five weeks...

In reply to "Are you feeding her yourself?"-
"No I have a team of robot nannies who do it for me".

No, I'm not breastfeeding but yes, I am actually still managing to feed her myself the majority of times. It does not mean I love her any less or care any less for her future thank you. And she is thriving - so while I appreciate your concern for the welfare of my child - trust me she is just bloody fine so butt bloody out.

And secondly... in response to "Are you using real nappies?"
"No, I prefer the imaginary ones."

I don't use cloth nappies because they don't suit me. That does not mean disposables are not "real". I do use reusable baby wipes however (which grosses my sister out...) so I'm not totally un-eco aware.

Parenthood and the competitiveness which comes with it really, really sucks.

Pretending to be intelligent

Part of being a published writer/ publicity whore is that from time to time you get requests to do certain press things. Sometimes these are about your book. Some times they are fairly random and just fill a line a wider article about something topical. Recent short one liner interviews have included pondering on who I would hate to be stuck in a lift with, what I think of two-timer dirt bags (clue in how I've worded that one...), what my favourite Abba song is and, today, what my favourite Seamus Heaney poem is.
For those who don't know (which is my husband), Seamus Heaney is a vay famous County Derry born poet. His works are standard fair here at GCSE and many's a young local person will have studied the poem of horror that is 'Digging'.
So when I was asked what my favourite Seamus Heaney poem was my initial response was "Well, not fecking Digging, anyway".
I did remember that I found 'Mid Term Break' - a poem about the death of a four year old - very moving so I opted for that. But when I was asked what other Heaney poems I liked I struggled. I cast my mind back to those long hours studying for my GCSEs but my mind was a blank.
I no longer remember award winning poetry. The only poems circling through my head on a regular basis are nursery rhymes and I'm pretty sure Heaney didn't write 'Pat-A-Cake'.
Thank crunchy for Google and the ability to type while chatting on the phone however. I hope I managed to sound at least a little bit intelligent.

My family

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Some blogs of note

If you are wanting a wee look around blog land and fancy something new and interesting... and vay funny... then please stop by
Slightly South of Sanity - it is quite possible you will laugh til you pee. The thing is, it's all true. I know the lady is question and she has the ability to turn the more serious of things into laugh out loud moments and believe me she has been through some serious crap. (Two bouts of post natal psychosis for a start...).
Anyway, please read and if there is a God out there can someone give her a publishing deal?

And if you want something really very new then stop by the blog of Deborah Riccio - a writer friend who also the ability to make every situation funny.

Book 4 - the sex scene dilemma

So when I attended a recent writers' event in the Central Library in Derry two of my fellow authors commented that my work is a wee bit racy.

I never thought it to be so, to be honest. Yes, there is a fair smattering of swearing and in Feels Like Maybe there is the odd bonk - after all it is a novel about baby making and all it entails. But none of it is graphic.

Now book 4 is something a little different (and no, it's not a Jackie Collins bonkbuster type thing... fear not). It is essentially a romantic comedy - the story of a woman so determined to have the happy ending she imagined in her childhood that she would do anything to find "the one" before her self imposed deadline.

That involves kissing (and, well, shagging) a few frogs. Now I'm not comfortable writing sex scenes. To quote Eliza Doolittle, I'm a good girl I am.

But I can't really write a modern romantic comedy without a fair smattering of sexy stuff. But at the same time I know my granny will read it - so it has to be fairly clean.

Today I wrote a big date scene - one of the pivotal moments in the novel - and yes, it did end with the two characters getting intimate. And I'm blushing already at the thought of my agent and my publisher reading it - even though it's really not graphic at all.

You would think two babies in, I would have no qualms with talking about intimate human relations - it would seem I'm wrong.

Madonna and Child

*NB written before the decision of the Malawi court yesterday.

So Madonna wants to adopt another baby – this time an absolutely gorgeous four year old girl from Malawi called Mercy James.
The wee tot is a picture of beauty, with huge innocent eyes and gorgeously chubby wee legs. Heck, if I wasn’t all babied out myself at the moment I’d want to take her home with me.
But the thing is Mercy James has a family – a grandmother who desperately wants to keep her and uncles who do not want the child to leave the country of her birth to live in America.
This is not about, for them, the fact that Madonna is a megastar and may or may not be a bad influence on their beloved Mercy.
It is not the case that they are so blind-sighted they do not want the child to have the best of everything. It’s just that they know something that a lot of really should – that having everything money can buy is far from the same thing as having everything a child wants or needs.
Madonna used to be a hero of mine. In fact in the first album I ever owned was ‘True Blue’ and I’d prance around our house having a good old sing song to myself about someone’s love fitting me like a glove. I thought her songs innocent.
(Although I admit I never felt comfortable singing ‘Like a Virgin’ in front of anyone. I hadn’t a baldy notion what a virgin was – apart from some vague notion of Our Lady – but I knew it was not the kind of song my parents would appreciate their eight year old singing as her party piece either).
I spent many a night swirling around to ‘La Isla Bonita’ or singing about getting myself into the groove. I even stood by my hero during her controversial ‘Like a Prayer’ days when she got into all sorts of hot water for cavorting with a Jesus figure in the video.
But then, you see, she got a bit, well, sluttish. And it all appeared a little desperate. It no longer seemed like she was a woman championing equality and the power of the female sex. It just seemed like increasingly she was a sad old baggage stripping off to sell records. It seemed as if she was causing controversy for the sake of causing controversy. And while she still had the occasional good record, she certainly wasn’t the kind of person who would look at and automatically point out as good mother material.
She has not slowed down on her career path one jot – and while, of course, I’m all for working mothers there has to be a time when any of us with responsibility for young children makes certain sacrifices. Oh yes, still work. Oh yes, still bring out records. Oh no, please do not strip off to your scanties and talk graphically about your personal sexual preferences.
And please, while your babies are young, put them first – don’t run around the world promoting your music like a single woman with no commitments. Your children need you more than your fan base does. And if you can’t be there for your children then why have more?
It feels, at the moment, if her bid to adopt Mercy James is just one more attempt to court controversy – one more dramatic, headline grabbing plot to increase her profile.
I’m not for one second saying she should not adopt children. I’m not for one second saying that to take on someone else’s child is not a great and noble thing but you have to question Madonna’s methods and motives.
She is asking that, for the second time, the laws and practices of a country be bent and changed to suit her needs and wants. She is expecting to be handed a child – and seems to have no regard for what that child’s birth family want. In short she is running rough shod over the feelings not only of a family but of a nation and I have to say the whole thing smacks of an unprecedented level of arrogance.
We have to ask ourselves why this child? Why, when there are hundreds of orphans with no birth families in Malawi does Mercy James fit the Madonna profile? Why, when there are indeed many young children in the UK and America in need of adoptive homes does Madonna seemed determined to have this child, and only this child? Is it that she is approaching the whole thing like you would a shopping trip?
Is that she is so used to getting her own way, she can’t imagine anyone ever saying no to her? Not even a whole country?
That in itself marks her out as not great parent material – not to this little girl anyway. I hope Mercy James finds happiness. I hope that if Madonna does adopt her she is loved and cherished as all four year olds should be. I hope that Madonna proves me wrong – even if I’m certain she doesn’t give a flying fig what I or anyone else thinks.
But I hope, more so, that the wants and needs of Mercy’s family are taken into consideration as indeed are the laws of Malawi and that this superstar doesn’t get what she wants just because she makes a big enough fuss and throws around enough money.
Children are not commodities to be bought and sold. They are precious gifts – whether you give birth to them yourself or adopt them. Madonna would do well to remember that.

It's a sunny day

The baby is wearing a vay cute romper with a frilly bottom. Better still she is asleep.
My house is clean and smelling of vanilla candles. Washing is drying on the line while the new washing machine spins exceptionally quietly in the background. (Should have realised our other one was fecked by the fact it sounded like it was taking off on every spin cycle... funny how you get used to something...)
I'm planning to go for a walk later. I might even write a little.
And tomorrow is supposed to be even nicer! I may just take to sitting out in the garden and soaking up some sunshine while I can.

It worries me

that I'm stupidly excited about the fact I got a new washing machine.
Mine died on Saturday which sent me into a spin because, ya know, obviously babies create a lot of washing. (I think my washing machine killed itself due to the workload. I heard a faint cry of 'What did your last slave die of?' as it fizzled and died... honest)
We ordered a new one yesterday and it arrived today and now it is running a prewash in the kitchen. It has lots of new buttons and a timer facility so I can set it to work when we are out of the house without fear of it burning us down.

I think this means I'm officially a grown up.

1000 words

Written tonight - of book 4.
I feel all buzzy and excited. Only wish the baby had slept on so I could write more.

Is the mad mammy back?

I think she is trying to come back - or I could just be very tired.
It was a given that once this baby was here I would go on PND watch big time. It didn't help that I had a rubbishly stressful pregnancy due to external circumstances and boking my anatomy on a regular basis. Part of me feels a little traumatised by it all - not to mention the trauma of having your nethers shredded by a super fast baby.
So far I've been doing okay. I have a few times each week where I snottery cry everywhere (generally over my husband, who looks on befuddled). Some times this is because I'm vay tired. Some times this is because the baby is too darn cute. Some times it is because Joseph still needs me and I can't be there 100% for him. Some times it is because I long to write, but can't find the time. Some times it is because there is a y in a day.
I'm a big believer in "better out than in" so when I wanted to cry, I had a big old sob. I don't see the point in letting it all fester.
But what worries me now is that "Robomum" seems to be wanting a look in again. She's the name I gave to the uber efficient mammy who surfaced after J was born. She was deft at getting the bottles organised. She always had milk in the fridge and her laundry basket was always empty (my washing machine has packed up on the pressure of the excess washing, for the record). She did it all - brilliantly - but she didn't appreciate her baby enough.
Up til now I've luxuriated in spending hours hugging my little girl, breathing her in, cradling her in my arms and on my chest. But the last two days I've been handing her over while I clean, or organise or do whatever needs doing and when I hear that cry I cringe a little. (She is colicky and her cry would cut through you).
I'll go to her, of course I will. And I'll soothe her. And I do adore her so very much, but I need to keep Robomum at bay. She's a bit of an uncaring cow and she doesn't deserve her lovely children.
Then again, maybe I just need a sleep and to keep taking the prozac.

My babies

I'm so very lucky...

The new cover...

For Jumping in Puddles - due out on September.

Don't you once again just love the "bestseller" tag???

I will post a synopsis of the book soon, but it was a big challenge to write - taking on a domestic violence storyline, betrayal, a teenage mother and a male main character for the first time.

All the characters are tied together through being lone parents in a village in Donegal which makes Stepford look like Manhattan.

Things that you know you shouldn't say

So I went to the doctors today because I've not been well (read as that being my usual hypochrondiac self) and figured I should get my bloods checked just in case having the little lady has tipped the balance for me being borderline anaemic to full on pale as a ghost anaemic.
The lovely doctor agreed I should be pin cushioned and I made my way to the treatment room where the lovely nurse asked me if I was okay with getting blood taken.

"Oh aye," I chirped, "I've just had a baby. I'm perfectly fine and dandy with getting blood taken. And there's never usually a problem with my veins.."

You just know I shouldn't have said that, don't you.
Because there she was trying to get a vein in my arm and then doing a stabby jabbing movement while I "eeped" in mild pain and no blood started to flow into the wee tubey thing they collect the blood in. (And she had three of the feckers to fill... here's me thinking if I am anaemic that's blood I really kind of need... but I digress...)
So she withdrew the needle and there was a whoosh of air which I think was my vein screaming in protest and then a delighted shot of blood came whooshing out of my arm.
This was not a good time for her to ask me if she could try again on the other arm. But of course being the polite person I am I assured her the guiser of blood from my right arm was just fine and sure, it was no problem at all for her to stab me again in the left arm. I quite fancied a matching pair.

As it happened my left arm was much more agreeable and there wasn't so much as a scratch and her three bottles were filled and ready to go. And I do have two lovely bruises to show for the experience. Purple is sooooo this season, don't you know.

A mother's place

So Sunday is Mother's Day. I have in my mind an idea of how I would like the day to go.
First of all I'd like my other half to whisk me (and the kids) off to a fancy hotel on Saturday night – somewhere with a huge big bed we can all sleep in and with a night nanny on call to do the night feeds while I sleep soundly in said big bed.
I'd like to wake up – naturally and not to the cry of a newborn or the over excited multiple questions of a five year old – and be presented with a selection of fine pastries and a glass of champagne while my husband gives me that speech from the baby formula ad on TV which always makes me cry. (You know the one – where the hubby promises to tell his wife how she has made him the happiest and proudest daddy in the world, etc)My children will then be presented to me – fed, clean and smiling beatifically (even the baby who only smiles through wind at the moment) and I shall be presented with a huge bouquet of flowers, some tasty chocolates and yet more champagne.
The night nanny will stay on duty so that I can get mildly scuttered on the champagne without having to worry about dropping the baby on her head or falling asleep mid role play with Joseph – who speaks with a permanent American accent these days.
And the hotel will let us stay there as long as we want so that I don't have to worry about dragging my tired and saggy post baby butt out of bed any sooner than I feel ready to – which is fairness could mean I stay there for a year or two.
I might, just, be tempted out of my pit for a bit of lunch with my own mammy – with of course more champagne, or just ordinary wine.
After nine months of walking in the desert I'm quite enjoying the odd glass of vino now and again.I'm fully aware things will most likely be different however. My daughter has not yet mastered the art of recognising what is night and what is day so Mothering Sunday is likely to start almost as soon as the clock strikes midnight.
The husband and I will look pityingly at each other when she is still awake at 4am and only one of us will get the "get out of jail free" card which allows us to clear into the next room and snuggle beside a sleeping bigger boy while the other settles an over-tired baby. Generally the husband is the more miserable looking of the pair of us by the time 4am rolls around so he will get the chance for a few blissful uninterrupted hours' sleep.
Bleary eyed and scare-crowed of hair I will be up early and washing bottles, loading the washing machine and nursing a little lady while trying to role play again with the Americanised Joseph. If I am lucky my husband will remember – at about 8pm – that it is Mother's Day and he might make me some scrambled egg on toast or other culinary delight (my appetite still not having recovered from nine months of hyperemesis).He won't have gone in for the over commercialisation of Mother's Day – arguing that I should know my children love me every day of the year and not just because a card company say they should let me know. In fairness again the boy does tell me every day – the girl is much too young to show any affection apart from snuggling in with her gorgeous new baby smell.
There won't be a hotel for me, or a box of over priced chocolates or even a pair of Yummy Mummy socks. Thankfully, that also means I will escape some of the dodgier Mother's Day gifts out there. For example I spotted a special CD just for the occasion called 'Housework Songs' – I'd rather have nothing than have my other half present me with a soundtrack to domestic drudgery.And believe me, he would rather deal with my sour face at receiving little in return for producing a son and daughter for him than receive the clout around the head he would get with said CD should it land on my lap on Sunday morning.
Of course, my other half has a point. Appreciating your mother should not be about buying a card just because it is that certain time of year. I try to make an effort to tell my own mammy often just how important she is to me (and not just when I'm looking for a favour). We shouldn't need a date in the diary to say thanks to our mothers and tell them we love them.There is no greater bond than a mother's love for a child – and in turn a child's love for a mother – no matter how old the child is.
On Sunday, therefore, I'll try and keep my sour face in check and I'll try and appreciate just what I do have. A cuddle from either of my children will mean more than any bottle of champagne could. A smile from the boy will mean more than a full night's sleep in a very big bed and a the softness of my daughter's hair will feel nicer than chocolate ever could.
But I'll try to remember to do something nice for my own, lovely, mammy anyway – because regardless of the day of the year she deserves it

If you read one book this year...

...which isn't by me ( of course) then please let it be this one 'The Disengagement Ring' by the disgustingly talented Clodagh Murphy.
I 'met' Clodagh through Write Words - a site which supports writers and she immediately impressed me with her wit and, well, general loveliness.
I've read 'The Disengagement Ring' and it's wonderful. In fact it made me seethe with jealousy. Clodagh deserves every success and this book is well, well, WELL worth a read.
It's currently published by Hachette in Ireland with a UK release (me? jealous???) penned in for November-ish.

Finally been brave enough to get on the scales

And I'm lighter than I was before I got pregnant - to the tune of 4lbs.
And that's 9lbs lighter than my booking in weight (when I was about 12 weeks gone).

Of course I'm still fat as a fat thing but at least I'm not fatter than I was. I had visions of ending this pregnancy mega huge as one of those ladies who can only wear large floral frocks and flip flops which my ankles would still manage to spill over the soles of. Oh and I imagined I would go on the Jeremy Kyle/ Trisha/ other dodgy chat show and need two chairs or a sofa all to myself and I would weep as I told the audience how I put on 200lbs with my second baby and couldn't shift it.

When I had the boy I put on about 2.5 stone (35lbs ish?) - and that was where I was left post baby, you know after he was well and truly gone and could no longer be blamed for my girth.
This time, of course, I had a certain amount of sickness so didn't. And Jeremy Kyle will have to find someone else.

I'm trying not to be smug - especially since I know that it wasn't anything to do with me controlling my own will power or anything of that nature - but I am pleased. I now have less work to do than I thought although I'm not sure I'm ready for a full on diet assault just yet.

A further post will follow later...

But for now, just look at the gorgeousness - 13 days old today and perfect.

Four generations - times you wish you had a camera

I took the wee woman to meet her great granny today. She is very blessed to have two great grannies and one great grandad still with us and it was a big occasion to take her to meet Granny Mary and Granda Phil.
Havcing reared 10 children of her own, and helped in the rearing of about 20 billion grand children and great grandchildren, my granny is just one of those naturals at looking after babies.
And better than that she gets that childbirth is a big deal, and that it hurts and that new mums need pampering. Sure she gave birth 10 times (eight times at home with feck all pain relief) but she isn't one of the older generation of tell us young ones we don't know we are born and that things are so much easier these days.
Her kindness and warmth blows me away.
Anyway, I was sat beside her, and she was holding my baby girl. And there across the room from us was my mother and I thought here we are, four generations of a family - all brought together by this precious wee bundle. And I wished I'd brought my camera - even though I looked awful and haggard. Some things are beyond precious.

So I'm a lightweight

... of course not physically a lightweight. I'm quite hefty in those stakes (but no bigger feet Mimi, yet...) but tonight I had a glass of wine.
After not drinking for nine months it has gone right to my head.
In fairness I had a celebratory glass when the wee woman was born but I so flipping high on adrenalin it couldn't touch me. Tonight though is different. Half a glass and I'm doolally.
This does not bode well.
I'm Irish and it's almost St. Patrick's Day. I should be fit to drown the Shamrock like a good 'un. Instead I'm craving a nice cup of tea. It all feels very civilised. And old.

Tonight I was talking with my sisters about my youngest sister's forthcoming wedding in July. My "baby" sister will be 28 when she marries her beloved and both myself and my older sister told her she was much too young to get married.
"I'll be 28," she replied defiantly.
"Yes," we responded, almost in unison, "but you are our baby sister... you'll always be five."
"You marriedat 24," she countered.
And it made me stop in my tracks.

I'm 32. I'll be celebrating my 8th wedding anniversary soon. We've two kids, a mortgage and all sorts of grown up responsibilities. And I can no longer tolerate wine.
Is this is the start of the decline into middle-agedness or is it a post-baby lull? Will I, as Grace did in 'Rainy Days and Tuesdays' get my bling back or is this as good as it gets?
Then again - this is pretty good right now. Stretch marks, grey roots and annoying mortgage. I'm happy, relatively healthy and have two amazing children who I look at each day and think "oooh, I did good".

Yes, this is wine enhanced brain dump... but what else would I be doing on a Friday night?

Now I know I was smuggy smug yesterday

...about the pre-pregnancy jeans.
But honestly, if you saw me, it's not that big a deal. The pre-preggy jeans are still quite huge in themselves.
So I kind of coughed and swore at the computer this morning when I read this article in the Daily Mail about a lady who photographed herself throughout her pregnancy (Apparantly that's news now... ya know cos no one has ever done it before...)

This line in particular made me spit out my Coco pops in a fit of rage.

When I finally had to accept, at the end of month four, that I was now a whole dress size bigger, I actually cried - and went out to buy a pair of size 12 jeans.

Am I the only the one who thinks this brings smug to a new level? And yes I know it's all relative and she was a size 10 to start with but to be 16 weeks pregnant and have to buy a size 12... it's hardly a hardship now is it?

Two woohoos!

First of all today I wore my non-maternity jeans!
Considering my pre-Joseph jeans are still languishing in the back of the wardrobe this is quite an achievement.
It also means that I don't have to go shopping for big old fat(ter) clothes and can make do with what I have. Although it did feel strange to not have a tummy warming panel to rely on for comfort.

The second woohoo - and probably the biggest - is that I've seen the cover for book three 'Jumping in Puddles' and it is gorgeous! Once again the lovely people at Poolbeg have done me justice and it's going to look fab alongside RD&T and FLM.
Oh and it says "From the bestselling author of 'Feels Like Maybe' on the front which will never tire of being a buzz!

It's very hard...

... to find the ability to write coherently when all you want to do is stare at a baby.

Tried breaking my post baby writing virginity this morning with my weekly column for the Journal. I've written about 500 words - pretty much a baby fest (dear readers, forgive me...) but I'm not sure any of it makes sense.

Still - small steps, little by little.

Will attempt to work back at the book soon too - now that should be the craic!

Thanks to everyone for your kind wishes, here and elsewhere. I'm holding it together. No sign of immiment breakdown just yet although last night was pretty hormone fuelled and everything set me off crying - Dancing on Ice, yep. The boy sleeping, yep. The baby NOT sleeping, double yep. The fact that it was a Sunday, yep.

Feeling a little more human today after snoozing the morning away beside my little lady (between the writing bouts, naturally...)

Can't quite believe today was the day she was supposed to have been born. Feels like she has been here forever already.

Isn't she lovely?

*POSSIBLE TMI INFORMATION CONTAINED BELOW - NOT FOR THE FAINT HEARTED!*


Well, she's here- two days old and perfection personified from her mop of dark hair to her pink bow lips. She does have a hairy back which is hilarious given the topic of my book four and my slagging of Anton (he's bringing hairy back) Du Beke throughout my pregnancy. God has a cool sense of humour.
So anyway here are some of the details - I have omitted some of the more sensitive words like tearing, spurting blood and some of my more colourful language for the sake of more sensitive readers.


A few months ago the boy predicted his baby sister would be born on the "threed of March". Now Joseph is sometimes known as Pyschic Joe round these parts as he does have a certain ability to predict future events (he predicted a rain shower on my sister's wedding day and told us very confidently that his most recent baby cousin would be a boy). So as the threed of March approached I started to get nervous.

The thing is, the threed of March (and forever shall it be known as the threed now and not the third...) is the anniversary of the death of my beloved Granda - whom Joseph was named after. I had mixed feelings - first of all wanting to bring a happy memory to a sad day and second of all feeling nervous that a day which had devastated our family could maybe just be an unlucky day chez us.

As it happened I woke in the very early hours of that day with sharp pains which continued and mounted til about every 5 minutes until around 5am when they died off. I slept for a bit and woke in foul humour and set about a cleaning extravaganza - mopping floors, hanging washing, cleaning skirtings. I did everything short of hoover the stairs.

I went to my mum's in the afternoon and sat with a face on me like a cat's arse before needing - with every fibre of my being- to go to Matalan and buy some new scented candles. I needed them THERE and THEN and my brother accompanied me - standing nervously by as a few pains hit me right beside the St. Patrick's Day balloons.

I had been feeling increasingly nauseous all day so didn't eat at tea time and came home to put the boy to bed. We lay snuggling and chatting when I felt a pop.

It was an ominous pop.

The pop of doom.

The same pop I remembered from 5 years before just before amniotic fluid trickled down my legs and heralded the start of Joseph's arrival.

Now this was awkward. Here was I, lying in bed beside my five year old, aware of a trickle starting to flow down below - heart thumping like a good 'un, and trying to keep calm.

Eventually I said that mummy just needed to go to the loo and I stood up to a larger trickle, called for my other half and told Joseph his baby sister was coming. (I was mildly hysterical despite my plan to keep my demeanour composed).

I then did what every good Derry girl does - and phoned my mammy. She came over and hugged me while I sobbed like a loony in a "Idonwannadothis" snivelling way and we agreed to wait a wee while and see how the pains went. I had a shower and sobbed throughout and then went and hugged Joseph and assured him I was fine and sure wasn't it all just grand and lovely that we were going to meet his big sister.

Pains had kicked in at that stage and were very ouchee although anything from every 7 minutes to every 4 minutes apart and they weren't lasting terribly long. Within an hour hubby had developed an ashen faced look of panic about him while I went into a mild hysteria (this was a frequent occurence during my labour... just so you know) because I couldn't find MY hairbrush to brush my hair. And yes I knew there were other hairbrushes I wanted MY brush and grew very distressed. (In the end it was on the sofa, where I'd left it... but hey, we won't talk about that...)

So after an hour we phoned the hospital and they told us to come in. I arrived, heaving and holding onto my hubby, and my tummy, for dear life. As I walked, at a painfully slow rate to the maternity unit I received the sympathetic glances of many and I felt like crying on them and saying "Yep, yep, I know. It's dead sore" etc. (By now you may have realised I have no pain threshold worth talking about).

So we reached the new unit - I was assessed as being in "early, non-established labour" and I cried (again) and was given Gas and Air which I sucked on as if my life depended on it. About an hour later they took pity on me and sent me to the labour ward, where - four hours in - I was only just in the established labout guidelines. (It's all about dilation and cervixes and as I said, I'm coating this as nicely as possible).

Two hours later I was assessed again - now moved on a further 2 centimetres with another five centimetres of fandango fanning to go. This was at 4.30am.
And here is where it got interesting.

The midwife stepped away from the bed and I had another pain. And felt the baby start to come - and fast. I started shouting like an eejit (Think "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, help me help me help me!" - I am still cringing when I think about it now) and the midwife ran to the bed, pressed a panic button while trying to open a birthing kit and I felt as if I might actually just die. (Or poop... or both...)
With 10 minutes our little lady was born, and lying on my chest- a complete look of "What was all that screeching about?" on her face.
Looking at her, I couldn't help but feel slightly the same.

Her birth was 10 times more painful that her brother's. I didn't have an epidural, relying on gas and air, tens and pethidine for pain relief. It was a lot less controlled at the end - with him I rested a while before pushing, with her that was never going to be an option.
But it was a million times more positive an experience. And now I'm a very, very blessed mammy with two gorgeous children who complete me body and soul.

But thank feck I never have to do that again.
I will say several things about it all though -

• I did not say any bad swear words. Although I prayed a lot. (Polite way of saying I took the Lord's name in vain.)
• Throwing up during a contraction is not fun.
• I cannot say the phrase "scintiliating conversationalist" while high on pethidine - I tried, and failed. I did mean to say "Sorry I'm not a scintilating conversationalist" to my hubby but it came out only as a random "sinfulating convosayshun" followed by a mutter of "dry wit". He didn't laugh. He should have.
• Hyperemesis does go away as soon as the baby is born.
• Natal Hypnotherapy helps up to a point - that point is generally when things started tearing (Sorry, I did promise not to mention that..) Then no amount of imagining a golden light caressing your uterus will make a shag of difference.
• The nicest cup of tea you will have in your life is the one just after you have pushed another human being into the world.
• I can sound surprisingly like a real life cow when having a contraction.
• I am very glad the new labour wards in my local hospital are sound proof.
• Paracetamol doesn't really do much for labour pains.
• It was worth it.
  
  
  

Musical interlude part 2

For Cara..



Yours is the first face that I saw
I think I was blind before I met you
Now I don’t know where I am
I don’t know where I’ve been
But I know where I want to go

If you think I've gone quiet...

It's because I have a good excuse.
Baby Cara arrived at 4.40am this morning weighing in at 6lbs 9.5oz.
She's gorgeous. I'm smitten. And knackered.

Normal service will resume shortly...