And it goes a little something like this...

• 2am: Baby wakes. I get up, replace dummy, stumble back to bed.
• 4am: Baby wakes. I nudge the husband. He gets up, replaces dummy, stumbles back to bed.
• 6am: Am paralysed by notion that this is my last hour of sleep. Therefore cannot sleep. Every snuffle from the baby makes me more awake. Lift pillows, leave room and crawl in beside the boy while trying to make sure I wake up before the alarm so that it doesn't wake the baby.
• 7ish: Get up as I'm physically, if not mentally, now wide awake.
• 7.30ish: Get the boy up and start the morning "Please, please, please just get ready for school routine" while hubby feeds the baby and does early morning nappy duty (which usually saves me from the first poop of the day).
• 8.30: Leave house for school run. Takes too long. Get wet in inevitable 9am downpour. You could set your watch by it.
• 9.15: Get home, clean - bottles, washing, hoovering (baby is napping at this stage... I envy her).
• 10.15: Sit down to write.
• 10.20am: Baby wakes up. Needs fed. And changed. And entertained. And encouraged to sit upright and learn new skills.
• 12noon: Baby becomes tired and cranky but it's too close to lunchtime for her to give into sleep without being fed so I dole out some home cooked mush and heat it, hoping she won't turn her little cute nose up at it or move her head in such a manner that her nose is blocked with all the mush.
• 12.45pm Clean mush out of screaming baby's nose.
• 1pm: Try to convince over tired baby to GO TO SLEEP!
• 1.15pm: Sit down to write.
• 1.20pm: Start fielding calls from family members wanting to order a taxi from Claire's Taxis/
• 2.30pm: Baby wakes, taxi gets loaded, messages are done.
• 5pm: Load baby with more mush - and toast, which I then have to pick up in soggy lumps from around her high chair. Then go and collect the boy and do his homework and make sure he is fed - not mush, thankfully.
• 7pm: Try to encourage the husband to take break from work to help with the tag-team bed/ bath routine. Start to feel twitchy and crave some wine.
• 8pm. The Girl sleeps!
• 8.30pm: Read 'The Wobbly Jelly Hunt' for the 25000 time... and then the boy sleeps.
• 8.55pm: Dishes, washing, hoovering, packing lunches, ironing school uniform.
• 9.45pm: Sit down to write. Remember have not actually eaten anything since lunch time. Too tired to cook so eat unhealthy chocolatey thingummy. Write 6 words. Pat self on back. Collapse in coma.

Random Conversations with the Boy - continued

Let it be a lesson to you all - never point out your grey hairs to a five year old with a death obsession.

"Mammy, is this is the start of you getting to be a very old woman? Are you just an ordinary old woman now? I don't like that. Your face will start to look scary and I'll have to move out."

Oh how I love this moment

There comes a time in the writing of each book when the last line pops into my head.
I always kind of know what I want my characters to achieve but I don't always know how I'm going to get them there. I've been crucified with writers' block (which sounds like a bad dose of constipation) for the last few days and my usual tactic of going for a wee lie down and a think hasn't been working - mostly because I keep falling asleep as soon as my head hits a pillow.
But this morning as I wrote, it became clear and it's going to be fab. And the last line is just waiting to be written (in approximately 44,000 words time... eep!)  but now at least I know exactly where Annie is going and there are going to be more than a few laughs along the way.
I don't think I have enjoyed writing a book as much as this one!

And on another note - many thanks and a big hello to all the new readers of this blog! Nice to see you!

So the clinic...

... is a very strange place indeed. I arrived just before 10 and was led to a small room mostly filled with men, which worried me a little as it very definitely the breast clinic.
Shortly thereafter I was invited through to another room where I was given a very fetching hideous blue gown to wear. I had strip to my waist, let the puppies hang free and put the gown on backwards for easy access.
I was then directed to yet another waiting room - this time with no other men but loads, and I mean loads, of women all wearing the same blue gown. This made me feel incredibly sad. Playing the simple statistics someone in that room was going to get bad news - it was like a really dodgy version of Deal or No Deal, except with boobs... and no money.
I looked around at each woman and wondered what her story was. There were women of every age, every boob size and each had a vaguely terrified look on their face though we tried to cover it all up by laughing along with the Jeremy Kyle show on the telly.
I watched as each woman was called one after the other and led away into smaller rooms before coming back, or leaving. It seemed the more times you came back to the room, the more tests you were likely to have.
I was called out, and led to a small room where a kind doctor with thankfully warm hands was waiting to examine me. He asked a few questions, had a quick feel and said that while it was probably hormonal I would maybe want to have a mammogram.
And while I didn't really want to have my breasts squashed in a vice like X-ray machine, I did want to leave the clinic with a definitive answer.
So I went back to the waiting room, and waited and then was called to a side room where a very lovely little nurse squished my boobs into all sorts of weird shapes until they hurt and took X-rays.
And it was back to the waiting room.
Of course being the drama drawers that I am, I then convinced myself that even if the lump I had felt was nothing to be concerned about that there might be something more sinister lurking out of my immediate reach. (I read far too much Tik a Brik, you see... where people always fine something more sinister lurking out of their immediate reach).
Ten minutes, which felt a little like ten hours, passed before I was called in and told I was all clear. Yes, there is thickening of the breast tissue. No, it isn't anything serious. No, it doesn't require treatment and yes, I could go home with my mind at rest.
I degowned, dressed, cast one last look at the women still waiting and offered a wee prayer for them and then I walked outside and burst into tears.
I'm okay and I am beyond grateful for that.

A day early but.... Happy Half Birthday Baby Girl!

Dear gorgeous precious baby girl,
You have turned my life around. From the moment I first touched the top of your head as you were being born you had me entirely.
From the second you were placed in my arms I knew that I would do anything and everything to protect you, care for you, love you and raise you to be a strong, confident and happy young woman.
You were born into a family filled with love - a mammy and daddy who adore you, a brother who worships you and a host of aunties, uncles, grandparents and cousins who see you only as the gorgeous angel that you are.

I have never known a baby to be so happy - to smile so constantly. I have also never known one so young to talk so much - you have been babbling from just a few weeks old and it's constant (and loud) stream of chatter from morning to night.

One look at you brings on a smile that would light up the world - I hope you never forget that my darling, how your smile can change things for the better.

And when you sleep, your wee hands pressed together as if you are saying your prayers, you make my heart swell with love and pride.

It has been a joy to get to know you these last six months - and I can't wait for happens next - to see your personality grow, your chatter turn into proper little words, your smile grow more beautiful.

Thank you for being my most precious little princess.
Love always,

Mammy

x

There's a reason I love this fugly photo

First of all there is a thumb in the corner.

And I have at least three chins.

And a very, very, VERY fat face.

It is not a flattering photo - even though it was taken on the one day this year when I was full on glammed up for my sister's wedding.

It is, in fact, on first glance an ugly picture.

But I'm smiling the person who took the photo and I can see the love and joy in my eyes and the warmth of my smile for the photographer.

And the photographer, whose thumb you see at the corner of the picture, is my boy. And I hope he sees that smile (but not the chins) every time he looks at me.

Well, the appointment is on Friday

I'm to bring a friend, and allow two hours for various procedures and tests.
I do not like the word "procedure". I have a sinking feeling it will involve my right boob, a squishy mammogram machine, perhaps a needle and maybe some gentle prodding.
Now I'm all for gentle prodding in the right circumstances... but not by a stranger wearing latex gloves and staring at me intently. (And yes, I am fully aware that there are people out there who would pay for that.)

I have a calmness around me now. I know that things will most likely be just fine.
And I will be drinking the largest bottle of wine on Friday night to get over it all.

The saga of the boob lumpage continues...

It's still there - the wiley wee fecker.
Still waiting on an appointment from the breast clinic.
Still spending an inordinate amount of time groping myself.
Having occasional panic attacks in a 'Who Will Love My Children?' stylee.
Still being dramatic to the husband ('Enjoy it before they chop it off' etc etc)
Still hopeful it will be okay.
Still thinking women have a rough deal of it.
Avoiding reading Tik a Brik or similar doom and gloom magazines about real life traumas including breast cancers.
Still trying not to think about cancer.
Still failing.
Still hopeful.

Sometimes

I realise (like the big eejit that I am) that I have two perfect, wonderful, precious babies and I can't quite believe I ever did anything in my life to deserve such joy.

The last of the summer whine

So summer is sweeping to an end. There are only a few days left until the wains go back to school and we have to accept that the weeks of running to the beach, playing in the park and getting out the barbecue we were promised are not going to materialise.


I’m quite fond of Autumn but I can’t help but feel a certain sadness at the end of summer – and of this summer in particular. This is the one summer I’ve had the chance to stay at home and be with my son instead of dropping him off each morning to my auntie while me and his daddy go out to work.

It has been an all together lovely – if at times exasperating – experience and I’ve felt like a proper mammy and enjoyed relishing our time as a family.

I have spent my days hoping the boy (and the girl, of course) will sleep in past 6.30am. I have watched an inordinate amount DVDS from Ben 10 to Star Wars and Hotel for Dogs. I have struggled with the cries of “I’m bored” (from him and me) and had to become creative with what we do to pass our time.

I have been, as the summer has progressed, a plethora of characters from Princess Peach, to Janine from Ghostbusters and Queen Amidalla. I have become quite adept in talking in a faux American accent when necessary.

I have also become adept at calming a tantrum without necessarily resorting to bribery and corruption – although at times a bar of chocolate has worked wonders. Sometimes I have even let the boy have share.

I have congratulated myself on getting creative with painting sessions or cooking sessions. I felt particularly smug when I managed, for perhaps the first time ever, not to mess up one of those wee ready packs of bun mix. I was even more smug when I made my own cupcake icing and decorated said buns like a true pro. There hasn’t been a Rice Krispie bun in sight.

And when I cooked a spinach lasagne from scratch – with not a jar in sight – I was so lured that I even took pictures. (Yes, I know this makes me either sad or slightly insane, but seriously, given that my usual cuisine is basic pasta and Dolmio this was an achievement.)

My son and I have sat up at night, chatting and singing and having discos in the living room. The boy has cut some moves to 70s classics while I’ve done my best to not entirely shame myself with some mad leaping about to ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ by D:Ream.

We have cuddled, and chatted and read a jillion books. He has learned to send emails and ride his scooter. He has been brave enough top jump into the swimming pool and allow his head to go all the way under the water. He has grown about a foot, or at least it seems, and grown into an even more caring and lovely wee boy who makes me roar laughing at least once a day.

But I think I have learned more from my summer at home with him – and I’m not just talking about learning a whole new appreciation for a glass of wine at the end of a long day.

I’ve learned a whole new appreciation for him – and for being a mammy. I’ve been forced to slow down and do things at his pace. I’ve been privileged to learn more of his quirks and habits. The last time we spent this much time together was when I was maternity leave when he was tiny - and in many ways he was much easier as a newborn. I could put him a cot and he would sleep. I could take him to town in his pram and he wouldn’t demand to go to the toy shop or get bored after fifteen minutes.

Now, I admit, he sets the agenda and I tag along doing my best to keep him in check and make sure he doesn’t turn into a spoiled article.

When there have been times I would have been happy to sit down and relax in front of the TV or with a good book (or, indeed writing a good book) he has encouraged me to head out to the park and whiz down the slides with him or push him higher on the swings.

My summer has definitely been richer for it and I know that when I return to work the memories of the last two months will be even more important to me. Sure I might have donned my rose tinted glasses already and be pushing the memories of the hour long whining sessions to the back of my head – but isn’t that what motherhood is ultimately all about? Take the rough with the smooth – remember the good times and congratulate yourself on surviving another day.

And when all is said and done, the good times are well worth remembering.

A meme - Call yourself a writer?

Lovely Keris tagged me for this one.


Which words do you use too much in your writing?
I'm told I use the word "wee" too much. In fact one reviewer said it marred her enjoyment of RD&T - only on reflection did I realise it really was quite prolific in the book.But that's us Derry ones for you - we say "wee" a helluva lot to describe absolutely everything on the eeny side.
I was also told in Jumping in Puddles there is a fair smatterng of chided.
It is arguable whether or not I overuse the word feck.

Which words do you consider overused in stuff you read?
Ooooh, toughie. I can't say anything springs to mind but I cannot read RD&T any more without cringing at every single "wee". I think also melee is a word which is overused as I've yet to hear anyone say that outside of a news report.

What's your favourite piece of writing by you?
Probably either this from RD&T

When I was in labour, when I thought I was literally going to be torn apart, when I was begging for death or, at least, an epidural that worked, my midwife told me it was time to get angry.

She told me I was to get angry with the pain and use that anger to get through this trial and succeed in having my baby. By Christ, did I get angry – only problem is, for a long time after, I forgot to get un-angry again.

And when that anger did subside, when it faded to nothingness, it was replaced by an overwhelming sadness. I felt, and I don’t know why, a grief – the loss of me, Grace. The loss of what motherhood should be like, the loss of that dream that I’d always had that being a mammy would be perfect and wonderful and I would never have to question my feelings for that little bundle of love I called my child.

I felt empty, like I could do what I needed to do but I couldn’t feel any of that love and joy it was my right to feel. Surely my months of pregnancy, my hours of labour, my bringing this gorgeous boy into this world entitled me to be happy?

I couldn’t look myself in the face. I couldn’t say I felt like a mother. I couldn’t accept the compliments heaped on my child because I was a fraud. I was a failure. I didn’t swan through my pregnancy enjoying this most natural of states. I didn’t even bloom. Well, I did for three hours one day before the heartburn hit again and I threw up.

And when I was giving birth to my much-wanted, much-needed child, I begged for someone else to take care of that birthing process for me – to cut my child from me, to suck him out; to beam him up – whatever the fuck it took to make the pain stop.

But the pain is still here. I can feel it now, pushing through, and maybe, just maybe, it is time for me to angry again. To get angry with that pain, to push it aside, to tell it to piss off and leave me alone and let me be me. Let me be a mammy.

And I’m angry now. Angry for all the times I’ve cried when I should be laughing. Angry for all the times I felt lonely in a crowded room. Angry for the size 20 trousers in the wardrobe when I used to be a 14. Angry for not standing up for myself when I knew I was right. Angry for all the chocolate bars I ate to try and make me happy again. Angry for not demanding to be listened to. Angry for pushing Aidan and Jack away when the thing I wanted most in this entire world was to pull them as close as humanly possible and never let go.

And I’m throwing things. I can hear my shouting and grunting and I can see plates smash on the floor – those fecking ugly plates I’ve kept using just to keep my mother-in-law happy. And I’m tearing up those stupid books the so-called parenting experts sent me. I’m going through the photo albums and tearing out any picture where I’m with Jack and I don’t look happy because how dare I not smile in the presence of such innocence?

And then the tears come. I run upstairs, spurred on by some force I’m not quite sure of and I throw some clothes in an overnight bag. I leave my mobile sitting on the hall table. Scribble a note saying that I love Jack and I’ll be back tomorrow and I jump in the car – my body heaving with sobs, my ribs sore from the exertion of all the squealing I’m doing – and I start to drive.

Or this from Feels Like Maybe

“It will be alright,” he said, “and if it isn’t all right then we have options. This isn’t the end of the world for us.”

I nodded, grateful for his tenderness. Who knew what was ahead. I certainly didn’t. Maybe we would be fine and we would just have to continue our monthly dance. Maybe we would need IVF or some other intervention. And maybe, although I’m not sure I wanted to contemplate it just yet, if all that failed we could adopt. We would make great parents. There were children out there who needed a happy home and we could be the people to provide it. But for now, I didn’t really want to think about that. I wanted to think about my baby. Our baby. I wanted to feel the nauseous waves of morning sickness. I wanted my trousers to tighten and my bra to get uncomfortable. I wanted to buy trousers with elasticated waistbands or those funny tummy panels which go up under your boobs. I wanted to curse heartburn and drink Gaviscon by the bucketload. I wanted to feel those first magical bubbles Aoife had spoken off. And I wanted them to get stronger and stronger and turn into thumping great kicks. I wanted to gasp, hold my tummy and say with a smile “That was a big kick”. I wanted to sit on the Tube and rub my bump and when I got home I wanted Dan to rub Cocoa Butter cream into my stretching tummy and laugh as it jumped about. I wanted my waters to break in Tesco and I wanted to make a frantic call to Dan telling him “It’s time”. I wanted to suck on gas and air and cringe as a doctor did an internal. I wanted to watch the contractions ebb and flow on the monitor by my bed. I wanted to swear at Dan and tell him he was never, ever getting near me again before pushing with all my might. I wanted to hear a moment’s silence, a pause for an intake of breath and then a shrill cry. I wanted the midwife to tell us we had a son or a daughter and then hand him or her to me and for me to cuddle my baby – our baby – close and look at my husband and see love in his eyes like nothing I had ever seen before.

It was the most natural thing in the world to want, wasn’t it? And if I had to switch that off, I would switch it off – but I didn’t want to yet. Just please, God, not yet.

What blog post do you wish you'd written?

I'll steal this answer from Keris who said anything by Catherine Newman, whose book 'Waiting for Birdy' helped me survive pregnancy - either that or any of the stories at Slightly South of Sanity

Regrets, do you have a few? Is there anything you wish you hadn't written?

I sometimes read certain sections of my past work and have a little cringe - but they are all part of a learning curve I suppose. Just as a writer, I do a lot of my learning in the public eye.

How has your writing made a difference? What do you consider your most important piece of writing?

I hope that by speaking openly and honestly about Post Natal Depression in RD&T I helped break down some of the taboos surrounding that awful illness. I wrote with humour too - to make it accessible. I know I received so many emails from women who had read the book and said it prompted them to get counselling. Indeed I received a couple of emails from men who said it had helped them understand their partners.

Most of all though I hope my work entertains. I write about tough subjects, PND, infertility, unplanned pregnancy, bereavement, domestic violence etc but I hope I do it such a way that people never feel preached at.

Name three favourite words

Feck. Streaming. Dusk.

...And three words you're not so keen on

No thank you.

Do you have a writing mentor, role model or inspiration?

Marian Keyes inspired me to be a writer. Her books convinced me that people would read the kind of things I so loved to write. And her personal story is so very impressive also. I am also in deep awe of Melissa Hill, who is incredibly prolific and incredibly talented - and a nice person to boot.

But when it comes to mentors or role models, my writer friends keep me going - Sharon Owens, Anne Dunlop, Fionnuala Kearney, Keris Stainton - they are the folks who keep writing and pick me up when I need it.

What's your writing ambition?

In the short term my ambition to be published outside of Ireland and to have some degree of recognition away from this lovely island. But I'd also like to be a "household name" here - and my publishers seem to have faith that I could just get there.

Beyond that I want to be recognised as a writer - not a chick lit author, or "yer wan who writes books" but as Claire Allan and have people rush out to buy my latest releases with the same urgency I rush out to buy the new MK with.

Plug alert! List any work you would like to tell your readers about:

Jumping in Puddles is OUT on September 24. It's a fabulous read about love, loss, longing, friendship and Donegal villages and I'm exceptionally very proud of it.

Do the tagging thing:

Sharon

Anne

Fionnuala

Stickhead

Erm... would pick Keris but she's done...

The rules:

If you have time to do this meme, then please link to my original, then link to three to five other bloggers and pass it on, asking them to answer your questions and link to you. You can add, remove or change one question as you go. You absolutely do not have to be what you may think of as a "published" or "successful" writer to respond to this meme, I hope people can take the time to reflect on what their blogging has brought them and how it has been useful to others.

Some people may class the following as child abuse

I on the other hand prefer to think of it as exceptionally cute. This is my gorgeous girly at just under six months with a ridiculously cute hairband planked on her head (and it is not a fascinator, regardless of what Keris might think ;)).

Of course she doesn't need it, but that doesn't take away from my right to make her look like an eejit as cute as possible and take photographic evidence of same.

A women's world?

I get asked about feminism a lot. As an author of women’s fiction, and especially the brand known as Chick Lit, it’s one of the topics that people expect me to have strong opinions on.
And I do. But it seems a lot of people feel, well, a bit ‘meh’ about the whole issue of feminism.
The movement has had a bad press. People often will associate feminism with Germaine Greer, hairy legs, dungarees and bra burning. Some think that feminism is about proving that women are not only equal to men, but better.
The mo
Some people just simply can’t be bothered with it. In the modern world so many of us don’t even think about it on a regular basis, mostly because we have no need to.
We get up and go to our jobs, drive our cars, take money out of our bank accounts and make our own choices as to how we dress, how we control our fertility and whether or not we marry or take a partner.
We vote, we get an education, we have a plethora of employment laws which – when they work properly – protect our rights to be gainfully employed and not discriminated against because of our gender.
While things are not perfect and there is always room for improvement – the truth is that many of us live a life where we are independent and valued and have a degree of freedom perhaps not experienced by our grandmothers or great-grandmothers and so on.
It’s hard for us to believe that these most basic and fundamental of rights would not be protected and promoted throughout the rest of the world in this day and age. I certainly was shocked to read this week of a new Shia law introduced in Afghanistan which allows husbands to withhold food from their wives if their wives refuse to have sex with them.
The same law removes the need for consent when it comes to sex between a husband and wife.
This law – in the simplest of terms – legalises rape and takes away the most absolute and basic right of any woman – the right to say no.
It reduces a woman to nothing more than a possession – a sexual object for her husband to use as and when he wants. She can be raped. She can be starved. She can have her children taken from her. She can become a complete non-entity in a society and this is the 21st century.
And this is only one example of abuses against women in these modern times. It’s not isolated. We probably shouldn’t even really be shocked. Outside of the relative safety of the modern Western world women and female children are all too often treated as commodities or second class citizens.
A report by Amnesty International revealed that in North Africa, 6,000 women are genitally mutilated each day. An estimated 135million girls (yes, children) have been subjected to female castration with often dire consequences.
In 2001 more than 15,000 women were sold into sexual slavery in China. 200 women in Bangladesh were horribly disfigured when their spurned husbands or suitors burned them with acid. More than 7,000 women in India were murdered by their families and in-laws in disputes over dowries.
Honour killings, rape of female prisoners, the legalisation of sexual assault within marriage… It is happening each and every day throughout the world and it isn’t going away.
It is thought that the Shia Law was passed n Afghanistan to help the country's president, Hamid Karzai, seal his victory in the country’s elections – which were due to take place yesterday.
Karzai sold out the women of Afghanistan and he did so because he places less value on them than he does on his own desire for power. They are commodities to be traded for another term in office.
So if anyone asks me if I have strong views on feminism my answer is simple. How can I not? How can I, or any one of us, sit back and say we are not feminists while such things are happening?
How can we say feminism is a thing of the past when there are women out there in dire need, who are being raped, murdered, mutilated and disfigured because of their gender?
If anything now is the time for feminism to come back stronger and bigger than ever. And it’s not about taking the pill, or glass ceilings, or burning our bras. It is about saying we are equal – each and every woman in this country and the next - and we will no longer tolerate such blatant abuses of our human rights.
Until we can say we have tackled these issues head on – until we have stopped such abuses – then feminism is most definitely not over and done with.

I'm playing with ideas for book 5

Which is what always happens once a book reaches a certain stage.
I'm loving (and I mean LOVING) writing my book 4. It is a funny, sexy romp about friendship, the search for love, confidence and acceptance.
But that doesn't the characters for book 5 aren't starting to shout "My turn, my turn!" from the sidelines and look for their shout in my brain.
There are times when it completely freaks me out that I've written nearly four books - had four sets of characters live in my brain for a year at a time and become as real to me as the people I talk with every day. And that I'm already in the process of creating some new folks to live there once Annie, Fionn and Darcy have had their happy ending.

Some times, it is just amazing to be a writer.

I was reminded of this poem today

... so I'm off to rock my babies...


Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.
Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,Lullaby, rockabye, lullaby loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peek-a-boo
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullaby, rockaby lullaby loo.
The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

A little musical interlude

I luff this song, very, very much at the moment.

Friday night

Glass of wine.
Candles lit.
Children asleep.
1500 words written.
Feeling sleepy.
Ignoring the worries.

Nite nite all x

So the doctor thinks it is probably okay

I went today - really dreading the experience if truth be told.
I'm not accustomed to getting my boobs out in public and I'm certainly not accustomed to letting people I barely know have a feel of them.
But needs must. I kept thinking that if something is up, I'd rather know that spend my life worrying about it.
I went and the doctor did an examination while I tried not to cringe with embarrassment (which was easier than it sounded because my GP is lovely and put me at ease).
Anyway, the upshot is that yes, she felt a lump. No, she doesn't think it is anything serious. But it needs checking anyway - so I just have to wait for a referral to the local breast clinic and see what happens.

Things that go bump in the night...

Okay, so I'm off to the doctor tomorrow.
And I may have to expose a breast.
I am very nervous about that but I can't ignore the fact that I think I may have found a lump.
Of course I did just have a baby (well, 5.5 months ago) and it most likely will be nothing. After all 95% (or something) of breast lumps are nothing - apart from lumps, obviously.
But I feel a little jittery.
And being me I feel a little catastrohphy-y (NB: I'm allowed to make up words. I am on "me nerves").

I shall report back... hopefully with a "and guess what, the darn lump went away before I even had a chance to get me baps out" story...

Random Conversations with the Boy... Jacko

Okay, I'm in a narky mood.
And Joseph is all in my face and being five (as five year olds are want to do).
I kind of lose it. Just a little.

"Please," I plead. "Just give me peace. Just for two minutes. Please."
J: (on a death wish) "Why do you need peace mammy? Why? Why do you need peace?"
Me: (Rather than tell him he is doing my fecking head in) "Because I'm in a bad mood and just need to calm down a little. Just give me two minutes."
J: "Who are you in a bad mood with mammy? Is it everyone in the world? Is it (pause for dramatic effect) Michael Jackson?"

You have to laugh.

Wee snippet from my new book....

We all know someone like this, right?

She was physical perfection, with her long legs, glossy hair, flat stomach and amazing sense of style. She had boobs that could make grown men weep and grown women want to gouge her eyes out. She had skin that never seen a spot or blemish – not even when she was 14 and pumped full of hormones. She was one of those jammy bitches who could get away with not wearing make up and not only did she not look any worse for it – her skin was so damn peaches and cream perfect that no one really noticed. I swear she produced her own lipgloss naturally, secreting it from her Angelina Jolie- like pout effortlessly. Simply put, she was gorgeous. But she couldn’t dance. Not even a little bit.
As she flailed and flounced to her own beat while Gloria Gaynor got into full disco queen mood, I smiled to myself. And then, I got funky.

Well it made me laugh

I put the girl's hair into a mohican today.
Pictures will follow.
No, this does not mean I'm losing it.

And the word count is now 52,000... on the nose.

The great lasagne adventure

Let it be known, I am a rubbish cook. I mean, I burn smilie faces. Annabel Karmel has nothing to worry about when it comes to me.

In fact my renowned crappiness in the kitchen means that when I actually cook something that does not poison the whole house or ming like you wouldn't believe then I feel ridiculously proud of myself.

Well, it began last week with the lovely lunch at Anne Dunlop's house where she made a yummy vegetarian lasagne.

I thought to myself that I could give it a go - there was no tricky white sauce to deal with, just a concoction made of ricotta - and so when I went to do my weekly shop I stocked up on the ingredients I was faily sure Anne had used. I bought tinned tomatoes, fresh basil, broccoli and ricotta.

I was sorted.

But I couldn't find a recipe (and Anne, I believe is on the other side of the world just now and too busy to worry about such matters as sending recipes to me).

I googled - but nothing seemed to fit.

So I posted on Facebook and my friends came to the rescue - except now the lasagne had morphed into some kind of spinach cannelloni hybrid and there was more cheese to be bought.

So I went back to Tesco and bought yet more ricotta, and some spinach (the broccoli has been pureed for the baby...) and some mozarella.

And I went home and prepared to cook - but no, I didn't have any oregano, or parmesan or creme fraiche. So I went back to Tesco - the cost of this dinner now adding up to about £3000* due to all the other things I remembered I had to buy in the supermarket each visit.

And I still wasn't convinced the whole thing wasn't going to go to hell when I - with my burn water cooking skills - got my hands on it.

Meanwhile hubby has announced he hates ricotta and isn't a big fan of spinach while the boy says he doesn't want lasagne, he wants pepperoni pizza....

I opened the wine.

And I started cooking - chopping garlic (my hands still pong...) and shredding basil leaves an wilting spinach like a good un. I even put on my apron and felt all "uber mammy" about it.

Here I was preparing food for my family (who wouldn't eat it... but still) and there wasn't a hint of a fish finger or a jar of pre-prepared sauce anywhere.

I grated, I chopped, I sprinkled, I added pinches of things - herbs and seasoning and I drank more wine.

I cooked it all and it worked out okay. In fact it was bloody lovely. And even the "I hate ricotta" husband ate some and declared it delicious. The boy tasted it - but opted for the pizza anyway (he's fussy like that) and there is a tonne of it left. We'll be eating it for a week, no doubt.

And yes, I am so proud of the fact that I have to blog about it. And Yes, I know that is sad.

Random Conversations with the Boy - continued

The boy is in that delightful "all bum jokes are hilarious" stage.
So today he said the word "ass" and fell about laughing. Of course I should have adopted my best serious mummy face and told him off but the context was very very funny.
My niece was commenting to my sister that she loved her handbag as it was really cool and trendy.
I mocked offence and asked my niece "Are you trying to say you don't just love my huge big red..."
(I was going to finish this sentence with "changing bag")
Which is exactly when J butted in ('scuse the pun) with "ass"?"
We did of course tell him that was not acceptable language and he asked why.
My sister replied: "Because it just isn't J. It's bad enough when you say bum or butt, never mind ass."
The boy looked at us, a wicked glint in his eye and proceded to sing
"Bums and Butts and asses, oh my..."

I didn't know whether to ground him or sign him for the Edinburgh Fringe.

Big Girls Do Cry...

A report released this week has revealed that women over the age of 26 (that would be be then) cry for an average of two hours and 14 minutes a week.
Apparantly we cry babies are most likely to get blubbing over a soppy film, a falling out with a partner, a bereavement, feeling tired or hearing someone else’s bad news.
Interestingly the survey found that the only age group which cries more than us grown ups are babies under the age of two.
Yes, on average, women over the age of 26 shed more tears than the average pre-schooler having their requisite 94 tantrums a day and bursting into tears over everything from Peppa Pig ending to the lack of a decent supply of Smarties when they have a sugar craving.
We grown women also cry more than teenagers going through all the hormone overload and teenage angsty stuff. I’m pretty sure I spent most of my teenage years weeping about one thing or another in an overly dramatic fashion from the state of the environment to the demise of my favourite pop group. I almost had to be signed into Gransha when Bros split up and went into an official period of mourning for at least a week.
I think as many of us get older we find that we become more emotional. I’m certainly more prone to letting down my defences and having a good oul cry from time to time.
That blasted ad for SMA, for example, can have me weeping into my cup of tea while I don’t even try watching sad films any more after a very unfortunate incident following my viewing of ‘What Dreams May Come’ with my husband. I think I used up a few weeks worth of crying in that night alone and had a headache for two days afterwards.
Needless to say falling out with my partner (which nearly happened when I couldn’t pull myself together after watching ‘What Dreams May Come’) is upsetting – and it’s hardly surprising that the survey found people tend to cry over a bereavement. It’s hardly rocket science that either falling out with the person or people who mean most to you, or losing someone you love will have you reaching for the hankies. There are few people who can experience such things without letting their emotions out in a damn good cry.
I’m not surprised that ‘feeling tired’ ranks up there in the top five too. We all seem to be busier than ever before – even with the invention of labour saving devices – and there is a culture out there at the moment of keeping going even when you are sleep deprived, ill and feeling as if you are running on empty. I’m sure there isn’t a person reading this who hasn’t, at least one, had a ‘stop the world I want to get off’ moment and yes, I admit some of my most spectacular crying fits have been when I’ve been over tired. Those will generally be the times when I lose it all together and do one of those horrendous ugly cries where anything I try to say comes out as inaudible snorts and squeals and I’ll phone my mammy and cry on her shoulder. (The husband is still too traumatised by my previous big crying fit to cope with me on emotion over load any more).
What does surprise me, however, is how hearing other people’s bad news really can affect me in a way that it never used to. It isn’t a case that I used to be hard hearted but recently I find that it takes very little to have me sobbing. If I hear of someone losing their job, of someone trying to cope with a sick child or ailing parent, or if I just hear that someone else is finding life a little tough I do find myself more affected than ever before.
Bizarrely I can also find myself welling up at things which really, actually aren’t that sad at all. I remember vividly visiting the boy’s school for an induction meeting and looking around the big assembly hall, imagining my wee man there, and having to fight back the tears. He wasn’t with me and the headmaster was wittering on about the uniform code but something in my brain found this overly emotional and I had to take a few deep breaths to steady myself.
Thankfully I’m also more likely to shed happy tears this weather. There is nothing better than laughing til you cry or being so overwhelmed with love or admiration for someone that you get misty eyed. I’ve cried when friends have married, when they have had babies, when they have achieved their goals and dreams and some times just when I am sitting in a room with them having the craic and I realise that I’m very lucky to have those people in my life.
Crying is a healthy way to release our emotions and while I think no one other than women really get the concept of a “good cry” I’m glad that I don’t have to feel I should bottle up my emotions, be they positive or negative.
If that makes me a cry-baby, then I’ll happily wear my title with pride.

Pick up your order at Collection Point A

I've decided I'm going to give Cosmic Ordering a shout.
I figure if it worked for Noel Edmunds, it might just work for me.
So, according to my wee daily messages from the Universe all I have to do it ask for it, go and get and think like I already have it. In other words, fake it til I make it.

So here - if I could pick my future from the catalogue of life - is my list

• A book deal outside of Ireland. I love Poolbeg and all who sail in her and I hope to be a part of the Poolers family for many a year to come - but someone else will publish me and I'll be proud as punch to find out how Rainy Days and Tuesday translates into Polish.
• A resurgance in house prices so that my wee house stops veering towards negative equity and back in the right direction. Not massively - just enough. I will be paying a decent interest on our remortgage and thinking "Phew, I worried about that?" for years to come.
• I will be self confident and sure of my own worth - as a friend, a mother, a sister, a wife, a daughter an employee and as a writer.
• I will no longer sweat the small stuff.
• Happiness for my children - they will be confident, happy, likeable children.
• And a cordless phone. (Wait! This isn't Argos???)

The quest to get the damn book finished continues

It seems the more I write, the more there is to write.
Maybe it is because the book has taken off and reached that very exciting big story arch bit, or maybe it is because deadline is looming but I just want to get it done now.
It's the best thing I've written. It's gonna be huge (I'm cosmic ordering, okay?) and I'm so excited about it I just want it done and out there.

48,200 words down... 61,800 to go....

Seriously, sweat and fish... who thought that was a good idea?

I'm traumatised by that Lynx ad on the telly at the moment where the man keeps two fish alive in his arm-pits due to his excessive sweat.
Seriously, who thought of that?
The very thought of carrying wriggling fish on your body and under your arms is just wrong, wrong, wrong.
The sweat bit is gross but not as gross as the damn fish.

The surreal side to this writing game

Seventeen (or so) years ago a very lovely author lady called Anne Dunlop walked into a classroom at Thornhill College and spoke to a group of 15 and 16 year olds about writing.
She led our writers' workshop for weeks and sat through a lot of very painful teenage prose - most of it from me.
I read her books (The Pineapple Tart trilogy) and thought she was perhaps the coolest person on the planet on account of her mad red curly hair and fantastic gold shoes. And she wrote about grown up things and teenage love affairs and all the sorts of things 15 and 16 year old girls aspire too.
When she finished the course she signed my copies of her book and wished me more confidence with my writing.
And when I did my first ever work experience at the local rag she was the first person I did a proper interview with. I still remember the headline "Anne has the Write Stuff" (inspired or what?).

So all those years passed and I became a writer myself and struck up a friendship with fellow Poolbeg author Sharon Owens who had in turn struck up a friendship with Anne - who had just recently returned to writing after a 10 year sojourn to Bahrain and Africa and all sorts of exciting places where she married a very lovely man called Nick and had four gorgeous children.

Anne and I shared a few emails and yesterday I found myself, along with Sharon and her lovely family, at Anne's house in Co. Derry enjoying vegetarian lasagne and chatting about everything from books to birth.

And all I could think was this is the lady who had the nice gold shoes who wrote about shifting and f**k me knickers and who didn't run from the room when I wrote the most godawful shite about Bob Monkhouse (Seriously... I cringe at the very memory) and I'm in her house, with her family and the lovely bestselling author Sharon Owens having the craic.

And then she asked me to sign a copy of Rainy Days and Tuesdays... which was too weird, and too wonderful for words.

Friday night ponderings...

Okay, so I'm a little hungover today. Last night I went to my friend's house to celebrate her engagement. It was a girls only night - just me, my friend, my sister and her sister and a couple (okay 5ish) bottles of fizzy wine.
The craic was great - I laughed more than I have done in a long time - til my sides ached and my eyes filled with happy tears - and this meant a lot to me because this particular friend and I have gone through a very tough patch the last few years.
It's strange to think that 5 years ago I would not have contemplated so much as cutting my hair without discussing it in great detail with this friend. She knew everything about me and we kept each other company through the best of times and worst of times.
I saw her blossom into a loving and caring mother, a beautiful woman, a talented dancer but somehow - be it through my depression, my own journey into motherhood or just life, we drifted apart until things were said, wounds were opened and such nights of sitting, yapping, enjoying the craic were all gone.
But last night it was how it had been. We laughed - ridiculously. We screamed at her very bling-tastic engagement ring and I got all emotional listening to her tale of falling in love with her very own Tom Austin.
I did impressions of being in labour with Cara. We discussed butt plugs (for my book, in fairness, not from personal experience). There were references to dominant Germans in the bedroom, there were memories of when her little girls were very tiny and from when we used to dance the night away.
Today, hungover, I can't decide if the experience made me very, very happy or very, very sad. Am I more happy that the friendship is being rebuilt? Or more gutted for what has passed and cannot be undone?

I'm being unduly deep for a Friday night and no doubt doing a typical Claire and thinking too much about it all. I should just embrace the journey. What has passed has made me who I am - be it this friendship going to hell and back, be it depression, be it shouting "Pressure, pressure, pressure, pressure" in a kind of Janice from Friends voice when in labour...

We are all the sum of our experiences and yet it is hard to look back on the sad times and appreciate them for the learning curve they are. Sometimes they just feel like sad times.

The universe likes me

Keris recently brought the whole Notes from the Universe thing to my attention.
Okay, so it's a bit geeky. You sign up and you get sent a message every day - basically saying very positive, life affirming things.
But ya know what, it helps. It's put a wee smile on my face from time to time and makes me think that yup, I can do this. I can get through this day. I can get through this week and what happens or doesn't happen to me.
When my mood is dipping - as it is at the moment a little - it gives me a little glimmer of hope.
It will be okay.
Things will work out.
Life throws all sorts of things at us and we just have to realise it part of a journey.
(That was me, by the way, and not the universe).

But the universe did tell me this much...

If you can just remember where this is all going, Claire, no road will be too bumpy, no night will be too lonely, and no price will seem too great.
Plus, with just a wink your confidence will bring peace to nations.

ETA for those who asked the link to sign up for the notes is here
http://www.tut.com/

I read this quote tonight

And I loved it.

So true...

No person is your friend who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow - Alice Walker

That's one for us all to remember!

I can't believe she is five months old today

I can't believe how fast the time is going - how quickly she is growing. How she is developing this amazingly funny and cute personality. How her cheeky smile can light up a room. How she can let us know - through screaming very loudly - that sleep is for wimps. That she is placid and docile the rest of the time. That she is everything I dreamed of. That she has the fluffiest, softest hair I have ever kissed.
That the way her little chin juts out when she is chatting makes my heart melt. That I get to dress her in pink things. That she smiles with her eyes. That she chats nineteen to the dozen already. That she has made me love her brother even more. That one person really can complete another. That she is perfection.
I don't know what I did to deserve her.... but I'm glad I did.

You take the High Road

Just in case any readers of this blog happen to be heading to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival over the coming month I thought it would be nice to point out that my brother - the very talented Peter E Davidson - will be performing with his comedy ensemble 'Love the Concept' at the Gilded Balloon (which is apparantly a vay vay big deal) throughout the entire month.
See them, have a laugh and never look at pound shops the same way again....

Note the progress

in the wee widget-y doodah which marks what progress I'm making on my next novel 'Finding Annie'.
I've set myself a 1000 words a day challenge - with the hope of reaching 50,000 words by this day week.
I'm in the writing zone so my writing efforts are going into fiction and not blogging at the moment - but please note some of the changes to this blog.
If you look at the sidebar you can now read extracts from all three of my books.
This week I'll add a diary which shows what I'm doing and when - and will hopefully highlight some press coverage also.

It's not really in my nature to push myself in this way - I'm really quite reserved (no laughing at the back) but needs must. It's a competitive industry out there!

It has been a week of day-trips

We've been to Belfast Zoo - where all the animals apart from the wasps seemed to be in hiding.
We've been to the Riverwatch Aquarium at Prehen - where I didn't freak out at the fish despite my pathological fear of the feckers.
We've been to Redcastle - where the best thing I can say is that the children were happy. (Me? Not so impressed. The baby changing facilities constituted a work top.... is this really the best we have to offer visitors?)
We've been to the Ulster American Folk Park in Omagh which was lovely and tres chic and made me hanker for life in a log cabin with a porch to set a swing on.
And we went for lunch in a snazzy restaurant.
It has been a fab family week - made perfect by reading and writing in the evenings and even a night out pass for me where I went to my parents house, got a little blotto on a bottle of wine and slept over in their spare room.
Wouldn't it be great if it was like this all the time?

Gratuitous baby photo

Here's the girl - pretty in pink at 21 weeks old.

The greatest reminder

I had yet another sickness bug this week - and spent Thursday getting reacquainted with the bathroom floor and the basin which was my closest companion during my pregnancy with Cara.
I felt awful. I threw up so much the capillaries around my eyes burst and gave me some interesting purple freckles.
I think, over the last four months or so, I have forgotten just how awful I found my last pregnancy. How throwing up was a daily occurence - how the sickness never really went away and how I had to take several medications just to get through the day.
I have forgotten how tired I was and how run down I was (although I can only think the severity of the bugs which had knocked me for six over the last few months has to be something to do with the fact my nutrition for the last year has largely revolved around cornettos and custard creams...).
But if there is any greater contraceptive in the world than remembering - vividly- the hell that is Hyperemesis (and believe me, it is hell) I'd like to know what it is.
Never again.

Random conversations with the boy - part a jillion and one

Tonight, J asked for an apple.
Unusually he asked me to peel it.

"Mammy, can you make it baldy?" he asked....

Organised Chaos

Recently, I have come to realise that my life is lacking a certain routine and organisation.
Now, while it is perfectly acceptable to wing it for a while when you have a newborn, there comes a time when you have to pull yourself together and get some control over your days. Otherwise, it's just a long slide in a daytime telly addiction and, before you know you it, you are behind with everything – be it housework, book writing, child bathing or any such little or large things.I'm also starting to approach my return to work – something which fills me with both a mixture of joy and fear.
The joy comes with the prospect of being able to eat my lunch without a child clinging off me, the return of adult conversation to my life and the excuse to use my brain for things more taxing than remembering when the baby was last fed/changed/burped etc.The fear comes at the very thought of trying to juggle it all again.
I could juggle it with one child – just about – but with two it could all go horribly, horribly wrong.So, I decided to be very organised in advance and bought myself a diary from a company called Organised Mum which allows me to list what me and all my family members are up to and when. There is a very nifty monthly planner section, a section for shopping list and even a Christmas budget planner.
To my absolute delight there is even a section where you can write a wee "To Do" list, complete with boxes to tick when the assigned task is completed.And – as the big wain in me was delighted to discover – it comes with lots of stickers.So, on Tuesday night, delighted with my purchase and my new super-organised self – I set about filling in birthdays, marking (with stickers!) when the car tax was due and when the boy will return to school etc., I even wrote in my best, neat writing - which is not as easy as it sounds after 10 years of shorthand writing in the name of journalism.
By 10.30 pm, I was sitting, glass of wine in hand, feeling really rather smug.And yet. I could not shake the feeling that I was forgetting something. I started to run through things in my head and mentally tick things off my list. (The diary doesn't start 'til the end of August…).
All my children (and yes, I know there are only two of them and they should be easy enough to keep an eye on - but the boy in particular is a sneaky wee blighter…) were at home and in bed.
The bottles were washed . The bills that were due were paid (which made me weep a little). I had just finished the copy-edit of my third book (I refuse to miss a chance for a plug) and I was on top of reading a new book for work related purposes.My house was even vaguely tidy and the washing machine was whirring nicely in the background.This was me – super organised. Possibly the only thing I had left to do was sleep – but sleep is pretty much a foreign concept these days so it never features on any to do list – be it in paper or in my head.I congratulated myself. I allowed myself to sit back and watch some telly. (The Insiders on Channel 4 – which I can't decide if I love or hate with a passion).
In fact, it was only as the opening titles started that it dawned on me what I had forgotten and I'm sorry to say, dear reader, it was to write this column.
Since I went on maternity leave, I have dedicated Tuesday nights to column writing, so why it slipped my mind on this occasion I have no idea. Except that, perhaps, my brain has melted completely and my ordering of the Organised Mum diary was very well timed.I tried not to blush as I recalled how just earlier that evening I had tweeted (that's posted on Twitter to those who don't know) that I was now very organised and a wee bit smug.
But, when I think about it, it's no wonder. We, women, (and yes, I'm playing the battle of the sexes card once again) have so much going on, it is no wonder that, Organised Mum diary or not, sometimes things slip through the net. Between the balancing of home, work, children and other family commitments we would be superhuman if sometimes – just sometimes – things did go just a little bit wrong.
At least that is what I'm telling myself – I may not be the organised or superhuman mammy I thought I was, but I'm just like every other mammy out there and each and every one of us should sit back and pat ourselves on the back.

Sorry for the silence

I'm redesigning my blog - adding in links where you can read extracts from my books, find out what what I'm up to and just general stuff and the like.
You might find things moving about - and new things appearing - and eventually this will become my www.claireallan.com

So, forgive me for the silence - I hope it will be worth it.

Random conversations with the boy - part a jillion

This is an overheard conversation between the boy and his older cousin - who was sleeping over in our house last night.
To set the scene I had told the boy he would have to wear his PJs to bed and not do his usual "nudey rudey" routine.

A (My niece): We have to sleep in our PJs because you can't see my doobies.
J: What are doobies?
A: The big things your mammy has.
J: You have nice doobies, A.

I have a strange relationship with my books

It really is a love/hate thing. When it's going well and I'm writing without even really thinking about it, I love my books. I am immensely proud of them.
When I see them in print for the first time, all with their shiny covers I feel almost as proud as I did the first time I saw my babies.
But there are times in the process when they drive me mad.
I'm just finishing yet another edit of Jumping in Puddles, due for release at the end of September.
Let me explain, very briefly, how it works - or indeed how this book has worked. First I sent the first 44,000 words down to Poolbeg when I felt very stuck and the lovely Paula Campbell suggested a few changes - which I took on board because she knows her stuff and in fairness the book was pretty ropey at that early first draft stage.
So I finished the MS and sent it down again and Paula suggested some more (minor) changes which once again I took on board and worked into the now third draft of the piece.
Then it went to the editor, Gaye Shortland, who basically scores it all with red pen and sends it back suggesting a few more changes etc. Now this is all standard. This happens to every writer. But there is a part of me that always feels like a crappy schoolgirl when it happens to me. I don't do red pen particularly well. I feel as if I'm being graded - but I push my feelings aside and work through it again and then return it to the editor.
At this stage I feel as if I have the read book 5000 times and feel a little bored of the fecker.
So then I get emails, with minor queries (What are parish savings? Where is the phone in Liam's house... small continuity issues etc) and I work through it again and then do a final read through.
And it goes to the typesetter.
And then, oh joy, I get to read it all again in a few weeks looking for more mistakes.

Now I do love the book. And I do think it is good. But at this stage it feels like a clingy child attached to my legs shouting at me for attention when all I want to do is watch Corrie in peace.

Now come the end of September when my book is presented to me, all clean in a shiny cover and well behaved, I will remember all those things I love about it and will be like any proud mammy.
But for now - just five minutes peace, please.

A little video of my babies

I sometimes look at my children and my heart fills with pride and I think "I made this"...
Other times I want to run for the hills... thankfully the nice times outweigh the tougher ones.

My wee sister is getting married today

I'm waxed, plucked and shaved to perfection.
I'm just about to head out to the hairdressers.
I have a beautiful dress hanging in my mums with perhaps the nicest pair of shoes EVER to wear (which will probably cripple me...)
I will be wearing a pair of Trinny and Susannah magic knickers which will cut off the circulation to my legs.
I have all the nicest accessories and was up to late last night packing a bag for us (baby and boy and us + day at a hotel = lots of stuff...) and making sure the children had decent things to wear and silly little things like clean socks.
I've packed spare batteries for the camera.
I have painted my nails - feet and hands.
I had a trauma finding a suitable pair of long shorts for the boy yesterday.
I may have bought a completely unnecessary princess dress for the girl.
I'm doing a reading. Which I WILL fluff, because there is a reason I'm a writer and not a reader.


Husband will put his suit on and go to the wedding.

Thus proves it is a man's world.

The names are chosen

Thank you to everyone who responded...
There were so many great names and some have gone in a file for book 4 and subsequent books. Some are used in book 4 and indeed some were used in previous books.

Anyway - the name I chose was Robyn because it suited the character brilliantly.

Oh, and the edit is done.Merci beaucoup.

There are moments which take your breath away

The boy and I decided to have a disco tonight.
We went into the family room (aka back room/ office/ toy dump) and put Spotify on the computer.
We found a few songs we liked. And I put on D: Ream's 'Things Can Only Get Better' and raved while he swung about my legs grinning like an eejit.
And then he asked me to find an Irish tune called 'Toss the Feathers' and we mock Irish danced our way through it, til we were both breathless with laughter and my pelvic floor was tested to the max.
And when that was done I found the song I used to sing to him when he was a baby and told him how I used to rock him to sleep on his rocking chair while singing it.
We played it. I sang it and he cuddled in and I thought yes, this is what being a mum is about. And there will always be room for him on my knee, even when he is man big and has hairy toes.
The song? A Case of You - as sung by Brian Kennedy with the immortal lines...

I remember that time that you told me,
you said love is touching souls
Surely you touched mine
Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time

Wanna be my best friend?

Or at least the best friend of one of my characters in Book 3?
I've been asked to change her name from Ellen to something completely different.
Now it's over to you. You can choose your name, your friend's name, your daughter's name or make up one (A bit like in the Neverending Story when Bastian screams his mother's name to save the Empress...)

Now, there have to be a few exclusions - so can we avoid names which begin with the letter E, or names that are any way similar to the following names which are character names in Jumping in Puddles.

Niamh
Ruth
Detta
Ciara
Laura
Poppy
Eimear
Ella
Kate
Lorraine
Amy

Character is a 30 something professional, who is lovely and compassionate.
Winner gets their name in the acknowledgements!

What worries me

.. is that it is 1.45am and I am still awake.
I am very tired, but I cannot sleep. I lie down, get comfy in bed and my brain goes into some weird hyperdrive and I feel awake. I get up - walk about a bit, start to feel tired, go back to bed knowing that the girl child will wake in approximately four hours ready to start the day with renewed vigour, lie down, brain wakes up, same thing happens etc etc.
My thought processes are simple (no smart comments at the back please)... first of all I think of the copy edit I've just started on Jumping in Puddles and which I have a week to complete - which leads me to the fact my sister is getting married in exactly one week and there is a LOT of wedding stuff to be done.
Not to mention she has two children who need looking after and I seem to be doing my fair share of the looking after while she does weddingy things which cannot easily be completed with her kids in tow.
Her daughter, who is 7, isn't a bother. She and J play together like mad thing with only occasional hysterics and falling out. Her son, who is 10 months, is a canny wee sausage. Now I'll state this here - I love him. I love the very bones of him. He is the squishiest, cuddliest, funniest baby boy in the world. But he likes to make you (by you I mean me) work for any form of positive feedback.
And he has a way of making me sing 'Wind the Bobbin Up' on a loop like a complete feckwit just to get one of his very elusive smiles.
Said smile would light up the universe so it is worth the wait... but my own baby girl (who is the most placid child in christendom) spends a lot of her time just sitting her chair looking at me with a "Sing to ME mummy" look of resignation on her face.
So, anyway, I digress.... after worrying about whether or not my ten month nephew actually likes me or merely tolerates me I am no closer to sleep.
So I decide to think about my house. And I spend ten minutes wondering what George Clarke off The Home Show would do if I gave him a cheque for 50,000. Would he be able to do anything? Feck knows, but I'd have to keep the original features in the living room and get a new bathroom. So I plan the new bathroom - and kitchen - and get ridiculously excited and wonder how on earth I could actually afford to do the work and then my brain turns to my writing once again and whether or not it is good enough to actually make me any of those lovely big cheques Marian Keyes gets...
So I resign myself to my bathroom never getting done.
And I start to think about writing - already having freaked out at the Jumping in Puddles edit I turn my attentions to book 4 - now called 'Finding Annie' and I start plotting out the next scene until I'm lost in a whirlwind of witty (I hope) dialogue and love interests and then of course I lie there thinking "I'm nowhere near sleeping, maybe I should just get up and write..." which I don't because I don't want to wake up (yes, the stupidity of that statement is obvious).
But I still can't sleep. So I give up and come down stairs and eat a Wispa (I have PMT, okay.... I needed the chocolate. Don't judge me!) and blog a little and then berate myself for not constructively using my insomniac time.
And I feel tired again.
It's 1.56am.

In summer denial

I am wearing cut offs. And mules. And refusing to acknowledge the fact is is fecking freezing out there today. The boy is in long shorts and the wee woman in a short sleeved top (although with vest and socks and a blanket round her while she sleeps)
I have my sunglasses perched on my head - like a hair band - and I am thinking that goosebumps are the accessory for summer 2009.
Last week I lay in bed, sweltering in the soaring heat with a fan permanently pointed in my direction while a fever raged and I prayed for a reprieve from the heat until I was well again.
Well, I am well again.
So nice weather, please feel free to return. I promise not to wish you away again.

Stressed just a leeeetle

I'm having every classic anxiety dream on the planet just now.
Dreamt my teeth were falling out. I needed a wee and couldn't find a clean toilet. Was on holiday and had forgotten my passport and was driving without insurance.
All I need now to is have the "remember I didn't cancel the lease on my student flat and owe them 12 years of rent" dream to complete the set.

This is brilliant for writers everywhere

A friend from another site (a secret site...oooooo eerrrrrr) shared this wonderful writing quote by Elizabeth Gilbert with me today.
Given my self pitying drone below, I felt it important to share this and to read it over and over.


As for discipline – it’s important, but sort of over-rated. The more important virtue for a writer, I believe, is self-forgiveness. Because your writing will always disappoint you. Your laziness will always disappoint you. You will make vows: “I’m going to write for an hour every day,” and then you won’t do it. You will think: “I suck, I’m such a failure. I’m washed-up.” Continuing to write after that heartache of disappointment doesn’t take only discipline, but also self-forgiveness (which comes from a place of kind and encouraging and motherly love). The other thing to realize is that all writers think they suck. When I was writing “Eat, Pray, Love”, I had just as a strong a mantra of THIS SUCKS ringing through my head as anyone does when they write anything. But I had a clarion moment of truth during the process of that book. One day, when I was agonizing over how utterly bad my writing felt, I realized: “That’s actually not my problem.” The point I realized was this – I never promised the universe that I would write brilliantly; I only promised the universe that I would write."

Good enough?

I'd love to know who defines what is good enough?
I'd love to know where my own personal perception of "good enough" has come from and why, after 33 years, two bestselling books, two amazing children and a host of other achievements I still feel simply not good enough.
I'm not sure what exactly I don't feel good enough for - except that there are days when it just all feels a bit pants and I wonder what I'm trying to achieve and whether or not I will ever achieve it.

I never found him sexy before...

...But now I'm mildly obsessed.

Yes, it's Dr. Nick Jordan from Casualty. Now, I wonder does he have a hairy back???

Not, of course that I like hairy backs but writing a love interest into book four (Now with the very working title of Finding Annie) I am starting to see a certain appeal to hairy men.

All this, of course - the Dr. Nick Jordan thing, the hairy back thing - could be a result of the high fever and general illness I'm enduring.

But there is something wonderful in creating a fictional love interest. Dr. Dishy in Rainy Days and Tuesdays was fun to work with - mixing in a little Luka from ER with a lovely bedside manner and a Northern Irish sense of humour.

Tom Austin in Feels Like Maybe was equally exciting to write. He was a babe. I'd marry him. Honest. And as for the dastardly Jake in FLM... I may not marry him, but I so would.... you know.... do stuff with him.

Jumping in Puddles has a rough and ready George Clooney alike called Liam and Finding Annie has a few men to choose from.

One of them might even look a little like Dr. Nick.... *sigh*

And yes, it's day 8 in the big flu house. The aches have gone. I just have a head full of mucus. Sexy... tres sexy.

Writing sex scenes is like eating a box of Pringles

Once you pop, you can't stop.
But you tend to over do it and feel slightly sick and a wee bit grubby afterwards.


More later...

Day Seven in the big flu house

And yes, Claire is still sick.
She gets bouts where she thinks "Erm, I feel an eetle bit better. I know what I'll do - I'll take an exhausted five year old to Tesco at 9pm (one hour past his bedtime) for the shop I couldn't do on Sunday as I was so sick..."
That sentence alone should be proof that Claire is still actually very sick and not at all better.
Tesco was not nice.
It was evil.
And Claire was that bargy mammy who shouts at her child and warns them they are in big, big trouble if they don't start behaving RIGHT NOW. (And Claire doesn't actually know if she shouted or whispered. Her ears are so congested that she can no longer judge the volume of anything...)
And then she nearly passed out.
And the child only grew more cranky.
And Claire ended up once again back in bed surrounded by at least 20jillion different medications (Fluoxetine for the madness, antihistamime for the hayfever, decongestant for the ear issue, antibiotic for the secondary sinus infection, ibufprofen for the pain, paracetamol also for the pain etc etc etc...) moaning once again.

All together now "oooooow. Oooooooh. aaaaaaaah".

Day five in the big flu house

And Claire is starting to hallucinate with boredom. She can't even spend time with her children for fear of smiting them. (Is that a word? Claire no longer knows which words are real and which she is just randomly making up).
Claire has been trying to sleep. But can't. She can't breathe through her nose and her throat is swollen like a balloon. Upshot is she has to sleep with her gob hanging open which leads to manky drool situation. And there is snoring. LOTS of snoring. Kind of even when she is awake.
And she's moaning a lot (too much according to the husband). And by moaning we mean actual moaning as in "ooooh, ooooww, aaaaah" as opposed to her bog standard "Did ye see the state of that" moaning.
She has not written.
Probably a good thing given the propensity to make up words at the moment.
She is grateful to not be at work. Her sub would be having a field day (Sorry Mary, but you would be ashamed of me. My it's and its have all gone to hell....)
She had forgotten just how crappy a flu feels.
And it's the summer. And her wee man wants to go swimming.

Oh it is officially flu. But not swine flu. Just ordinary flu. No one she knows is posh enough to have gone to Mexico.

pppffffffttttt

Paddling pools and sexy ladies

As I am languishing "in me pit" with some weird Derry version of Swine Flu (Doherty's Sausages Flu?) I am today directing your attention elsewhere for a wee giggle.

Go on, treat yourself.

http://slightlysouthofsanity.blogspot.com/2009/06/tis-season-to-be-naked.html

In the fickle world of bookselling...

colour changes sometimes happen.

I happen to love it. It has extra sparkle and oomph.

What do you think?

She put it better than I did

Heather B Armstrong, at Dooce, has recently become a mummy for the second time.
Her first child - a little girl called Leta - was born on the same day as Joseph.
Anyway, here she blogs about her new arrival and she says everything I've beent trying to say for the last four months and failing miserably at.

Can you tell what it is yet?

Here are lines from the last five songs I've listened to on Spotify --- a bit random.

Can you name the songs without the aid of Google??

• Close your eyes and rest your weary mind. I promise I will stay right here beside you...
• You spoke to me with another tongue but I understood alright, Cause I believe in feeling. But that's not all, there's something else.
• And I can't do this by myself. All of these problems, they're all in your head .
• Everybody's got opinions girl,their own versions of a good idea. But the best one I can think of now, is to make sure that I keep you near.
• You must not know 'bout me, You must not know 'bout me, I could have another you in a minute. Matter fact he'll be here in a minute, baby

Sorry for the quietness

My wee sister (the duck) gets married in three weeks. I have become a human taxi. Seriously... it's wee runs here and wee runs there and dressmakers and fabric shops and the hunt for shoes and all that carry on. It's tres exciting (even if I can't quite come to terms with the fact 'Our Duck' is getting married. She's only a wain... okay 28, with 2.5 kiddies... but a wain...)
Cara has been in hospital again (she's fine). I think she is going to be high maintenance. She is very pleasant when not scaring the bejaysus out of us but the rest of the time....
The boy has been demanding to make the most of the sunshine in the evenings with trips to the park. There is a "silver slide park" he likes to visit and he throws himself down the exceptionally slidey slides with not so much as a concern about the inevitable scrapes and bruises he will garner. It's fab and I'm kind of jealous. If I wasn't so sure I would get stuck half way down I would give it a whirl myself.
I'm also entering official edit on Jumping in Puddles with Gaye from the lovely people at Poolbeg. I am scared. Very ascared.... what if she hates it? Eep!

What I will say is this much... if you are buying a book next week please buy 'Beyond Sin' by Emma Louise Jordan - which is published by the lovely Poolbeg (and is from their Crimson range which is a bit meatier and scarier and all that oul stuff).
Emma is a CPF (close personal friend) and a disgustingly talented and prolific writer so buy it. You won't regret it.

And in other fabulous news for Norn Iron book lovers I heard yesterday that Anne Dunlop is writing a series of books carrying on from her wondering Pineapple Tart trilogy. I'm so excited I could pee - which I would if I could find the time betweenst all the wains and the like.

It's my birthday..

And I'll cry if I want to...

Yes, I'm getting old.
I have wrinkles. My wrinkles have wrinkles.
My hair is greying.
And falling out.
My hands are starting to look like proper old lady hands.
And my feet? Let's not talk about my feet.
Same goes for my stomach and its stretch marks.

And, in the words of Sally from my all time favourite movie..
"I'm gonna be 40". (Okay, it's a few years off, but still....)

The Wall...

I think there comes a time when every parent of a new infant hits "the wall".
Translation for the wall?
"I love you with every fibre of my being and I would die in an instant for you but I no longer remember who I am. I have become a winding, burping, feeding, nappy changing, laundry washing drudge. I have given up on trying to lose weight and my rubbery tummy is actually quite comforting. Sleep? I no longer remember the concept and even when I do sleep it is NEVER enough. I am always tired. ALWAYS. I hate going to sleep because I know I will wake up and when I wake up it will be the same again... the same nappy/feeding/ changing/ talking rubbish routine until bedtime. I have developed a love/hate relationship with the steriliser and while bath times are fun, I wish I could have one myself.
"I wish I could have a soak and not listen out for you. I wish that you would still be there and will always be here and don't get me wrong, I would crawl into the ground and die if anything ever happened to you... but this is hard work. Damn hard work. And I want to be again - even just a little."

And this is all worse second time around because I knew what I was getting myself in for anyway and still did it. SUCKER!

Can you tell i have hit the wall? This is the longest marathon of my life filled with worry, stress, drudgery and so much more.
But it is wonderful too. I love her. I love her so much it catches in my throat and I want to scream about her wonderfulness.
It doesn't take away the drudgery however.

Random Conversations with the Boy - continued

This one was from a few days ago, but it's so good, I have to share...

J: "Mammy, what did you call the wee boy who used to live with you before I was born?"
Me: "We didn't have a wee boy live with us. You are our first wee boy."
J: (exasperated) "Yes you did. The wee boy who ran out in front of a car and got knocked down and went to heaven."
Me: (Slightly freaked out at possible Sixth Sense moment in our house) "No, Joseph. Honest. We didn't have a wee boy before you."
J: "Yes you did and he was called Alan." (Think about it... with our surname???)

A few days later, J's grandad tells him how a little boy was knocked down close to where he works and needed to go to hospital.
J: "That happened to Alan Allan too. But he died."

I'm starting to wonder should I google Alan Allan.... just in case... Maybe Pyschic Joe is striking again and we could do a cracker line in mediumship?

Random Conversations with the Boy - continued

So today the boy was home sick. You know one of those sick days which seem to magically get better around 9.30 only to have the sickness reappear at around bedtime?
(In fairness he has a bad aul bark on him and was warm this morning and with all this swine flu hysteria it's best not to take a chance).
Anyway - because he was off I had to miss out on taking Miss Boo to our weekly baby massage class. (Which usually I go to with my sister and her 9 month old Ethan - who does not like massage. In her words "He gets one oily leg and spends the rest of the session trying to eat the other babies..." - he goes for the feet - the boy is all about the feet....)
I was lamenting this fact (missing the class - not Ethan's foot fetish) to my other sister this evening when J pipes up: "Mammy did you not go to the baby moustache class then?"

I like the idea of a baby moustache class. It made me laugh in a very undignified manner.

oooooh and another thing

Jumping in Puddles is now on pre-order at Amazon!

Linky RIGHT HERE!

Me and Tom Hanks - who'd a thunk it?

Watch for the very last frame... there's me, beside proper authors!

Aaaaaah choo!

Hayfever.

It's a fecker.

I'm sneezing and wheezing like a good 'un. I've also a really sore throat which may or may not be related to the aforementioned hayfever. Oh and my neck is fecked too - which makes reverse parking a joy (not that is is never not a joy. I was not designed for the reverse park. We are not friends...).

Anyway - quiet on here as I'm being uber productive on book 4 and writing loads. Better still I'm enjoying it.

All that, and dealing with a teething baby, writing my column for the Journal, trying to write a preface for a charity booklet and preparing for a writing class which I'm guest speaker at next week.

I'll try and write more soon, honest.