Month 27- shamelessly stolen from Dooce

Inspired by the lovely lady at www.dooce.com I have decided to write a monthly update on the life of Joseph, who shares a birthday with Leta (Dooce's little girly).
Forgive the gushing sentimentality.


Dear Joseph,
This morning you woke me with your trademark smile and a delightful aroma from your nappy which did not sit well with my headache. Twenty-seven-months ago I would have been horrified at such a rude awakening, but now, despite the smell, I can't help but grin.
There is something about you that makes me smile each time I see your face and my smile becomes a grin when you give me a trademark 'big squishy'. (Copyright Joseph: 2006)
I love how affectionate you have become. I love your little kisses- now with a proper closed mouth and the added sound effect of 'Mwah'.
Talking is your strong point. God knows keeping clean and tidy isn't, so we love to hear you talk and tell us all about your life. The running commentary in the car each morning, where you scream hello at the fire engines and tell me all the colours of the buses and vans never ceases to me amaze me. I'm glad I'm not arrogant enough to be blazé about the fact I helped make something as intelligent as you. It takes my breath away.
It's a weird time for me and your daddy, because part of us wants to keep you wee and babyish- but part of us is just so disgustingly proud with every new word or sentence you come out with that we relish each new day. We have become full time baby bores. Anyone who knows us, knows about you- and those who meet you agree you really are one pretty cool dude.
Daddy took you swimming today and you came running out of the leisure centre straight into my arms to give me a huge cuddle and tell me all about your adventures down the slide and in the big water. Your conversation was more a series of random words, pasted together between giggles and screams. "Splish, swimming, slide, wheeee! Water, Daddy, splash." Well that just about sums it up better than I ever could.

The Lovely Lady at Dooce (LL@D) said this month her daughter is the most beautiful creature alive. I think you and Leta could fight it out for that title. Wonder if we could arrange a celebrity grudge match?

As this moves on, I'll tell you more about how you were born (you might want to mentally block out the bits about the stitches and the bleeding) and how much you have changed my life, but for now, just believe I love you baby boy.
Mammy
xxx

Home Sweet Home

IT'S FUNNY how we take certain things for granted- simple little things like turning out the light in the evening, climbing into bed, resting our heads on our pillows and drifting off to sleep under a comfy duvet.

We all too often take for granted the ability to walk through our own front doors, take residence on our own sofas or shower in our very own bathrooms.
That said, I do love my house- it is my retreat and my sanctuary. When it is clean and tidy it is my favourite place on earth- when it is messy I spend my time generally cursing the very foundations it stands on. With a two year old son and 34 year old husband (also a man therefore also a mess magnet) you can imagine I spend more time cursing than relaxing these days. It's hard to sometimes see the good point beneath the clutter and dust.
Recently we gave the old homestead an overhaul. With a freshly decorated master bedroom, some new wooden blinds, a proper big boy single bed and laminate flooring in the wee man's room and new coat of paint on our crumbling exterior I am, I have to admit, happier with Chez Allan than I have been in a long time. (Now if I could transform my pokey back yard into a luxurious bijoux city garden I would be in seventh heaven).
But it hasn't been this overhaul that has made me start to look on my little house with new eyes. Surfing through the internet on Tuesday, looking for inspiration for this very column (Joseph not having done anything remarkably hilarious this week) I came across a BBC News Report on the Wandering Scribe.
The Wandering Scribe is an anonymous woman who writes a Blog (an internet based diary for those not au fait with nerdy media technology like me). She lives in her car in a laneway somewhere in London. She writes her Blog at a local library. She showers and washes her clothes in the laundries of a local hospital, she sleeps, night in and night out, in the front seat of her car.
She has lived this way since losing her job and suffering a mental breakdown in August of last year and she writes about her experiences with the searing honesty that only anonymity can allow.
The thing that strikes me most about her story is not her guile in managing to get staff discounts in the hospital canteen, or her ability to store all her life's possessions in the back of her car (my clutter would need the fancy new double decker bus that runs on the Slievemore route these days)- more it is her desire to lie down.

Stretch out
It sounds so simple doesn't it? I mean we all do it. We all climb into bed and lie down at least once a day. We all like to stretch out and I'm pretty sure that I'm not the only person in world who often sighs with pleasure as I snuggle down and let the soft duvet envelop me.
But this woman has not had a lie down in eight months. She sleeps sitting in her car, wrapped in a damp sleeping bag, struggling to get comfortable.
She longs to be able to lie down, on a bench, on the grass, on the floor- but doesn't want to draw attention to herself because while the Wandering Scribe is homeless, anyone meeting her would not realise. She is an expert at keeping up appearances- right down to washing her hair every day and finding ingenious ways to iron her jeans.
Being a self-confessed bed-aholic, who likes nothing more than a Tuesday night amid my copious pillows and cushions reading a good book or watching Desperate Housewives on RTE 2, I cannot imagine how it would feel not to have that most basic of luxuries.
It was that one notion that made me look at Chez Allan in a whole new light. I mean, yes I would kill for an electric shower and a bath which did not have a habit of leaking so that we get delightful water stains on the kitchen ceiling. I would love our back living room to look organised- not a crazy mixture of a living room/ study/ branch of Smyths and yes, it would make my heart glad to get some new flooring for our bedroom too- but those are all window dressings.
They are the things we are expected to have now, whereby in years gone by a house was a home first and a stylish place to live second. Thinking about the house I grew up in, in Leenan Gardens, I realised how far we have come in a few short years.
We didn't have central heating- no one did. I remember being stupidly excited at the thought of spending a month in a mobile home at the top of the street while they did the work, not realising in my childish innocence that grown ups saw this as pure hell. (In the end, we moved before they did the work and I never got my sojourn in the Wanderly Wagon).
We had carpets my mother now tells me were threadbare and our furniture was an eclectic mix of new and very, very old.
It didn't matter though, because it was home. It was a place that felt safe and when I climbed into bed (to lie down) at the end of the day I felt happy. (Even if, for a short time, I had to share my room with a boy).
I'm sure the Wandering Scribe wouldn't be bothered with water stains on the ceiling or threadbare carpets. I'm sure she wouldn't spend an inordinate amount of time coveting a power shower, when a bog standard one is available to her in the privacy of her own home.
Her bravery and honesty has taught me a powerful lesson about being happy with what I have and I hope that, sooner rather than later, she finds a comfortable bed to lie down on.
(You can visit the Wandering Scribe at http://wanderingscribe.blogspot.com )

It's been a long, cold, lonely winter

I"M SURE I'm not the only person in Derry who has started to think that Spring is actually a mythical season which exists only in the mind of chocolate companies desperate to sell copious amounts of eggs for Easter.

As the rain has battered down around my ears with ridiculous frequency last weekend I was starting to worry that my funky black mules and T-shirts were destined to remain in the cupboard forever more and that my trusty winter coat may in fact just have become a regular all year round coat instead.
Living in Northern Ireland I'm wasn't expecting a tropical heatwave. I'm not deluded enough to live in hope of a long hot summer, but I was of the opinion that by the latter stages of April, I could at least have managed to get through an entire night without having to switch on the oil heating to stop the icicles forming on the end of our noses.
In a desperate attempt not to put our lives on hold in the hope of a sunny day, myself, himself and the short, curly haired one have tried to encourage the changing of the seasons by setting out in the car, like a proper family, with proper packed lunches and everything- in the vain hope God would smile down on our good intentions and let the sun shine through.
Despite the ominous grey clouds that filled the sky on Easter Sunday, I strapped the wee man into his car seat and ordered himself into the passenger seat (oh, the power of having my 'R' plates!). Setting out on the highways and by-ways of the North West at the requisite 45 miles an hour (himself is so not impressed with this wee rule) we determinedly headed for the most scenic sites in the hope of having a proper family day out.
Our first stop was the Roe Valley Country Park. Like any typical toddler Joseph has a fascination with the ducks and luckily the country park has a quaint little duck pond with about 20 of the blighters. I proudly looked on as my son starting playing with them (okay, harassing them) with squeals of "Quack Quack" at the top of his lungs.
Sadly, much as I tried to ignore the gloomy weather, the rain meant the heels of my fancy boots sank into the mud and even the wee man's designer wellie boots could not handle the mud pools and mahoosive puddles.

Things proceeded to take a dramatic turn for the worse when he managed to kick one of his froggy boots off in the vague direction of the ducks- nearly braining one and leading my unimpressed hubby with the unenviable task of having to have to climb into the pond to retrieve the errant boot. (They were an expensive present and match his coat, scarf and hat- I was not letting them float off into the sunset).
We then did the rain and sunshine hokey cokey for an hour (jumping in and out of the car in time with the frequent bursts of rain) until even I was convinced to admit defeat and head back home.

High on chocolate
Later that day, however, the clouds had cleared and my sense of adventure returned. With a child off his head on chocolate and sugar following his Easter feasting, we decided a walk on the beach might be a good idea.
Again taking the wheel (after much discussion on the merits of female drivers compared with our male counterparts) we headed to Faughan (or is it called Lisfannon these days? The names are all changed since I was a wain).
As we pulled up on the sodden golden shores of Inishowen the rain came again- followed by a healthy gust of gale strength wind. Ever the explorers we ventured out anyway and wrapped up in our winter woolies (in April! For the love of God! Why?) and played a game of chase the tide for half an hour before I realised I could no longer feel my ears, nose of fingers.
With the danger of frostbite increasingly imminent we retired to the car, complete with screaming toddler who "wanted the beeeeeacccchhh!". There was no chance for soggy tomato sandwiches or a cool drink to bring down our temperatures- instead it was heating on full blast in the car all the way down the road and as soon as we got home it was hot drinks and a quick dive under the duvet to stop hypothermia kicking in.
I'll admit I'm not the most outdoorsy of people, but my inclination to be at one with nature just fades to nothing in the face of adverse weather. When the sun is shining I love getting out and about- it makes me feel happy, healthy and full of life. Usually that feeling comes around the middle of March, but this year I'm still waiting.
As I write this, I'm staring out of our office window and the sun is shining brightly. Dare I say, there is even an air of warmth about the place- and this morning, for the first time, I left my coat in the car and enjoyed a brief bask in the sun.
I'm trying not to get my hopes up that this means spring has finally sprung, because I know there is a fair chance that with the weekend rapidly approaching and Sod's Law being exceptionally evident in my life right now that come tomorrow it will be raining, sleeting or snowing.
It's about time though that we got to shake off the shackles of a miserable winter and enjoy letting some sun shine into our lives.

As time goes by

IT HAS begun. Try as I might to ignore the fact- now that it has started, there is no stopping it. There is no turning back the clock and starting again- no appreciating what we had when we had it- because, dear friends, welcome to our 30s.

Today, (Friday for those who got a sneaky preview of this paper on Thursday due to the Holy Week thing) one of my VBFs (very best friends) is celebrating her 30th birthday.
Next week another friend relinquishes her 20s title and eight weeks after that it is my own turn to give in to destiny and admit I'm no longer a spring chicken.
It seems like a mere blink of an eye ago that we were sat in Henry J's on Magazine Street toasting today's birthday girl's 21st - dancing stupidly to the Macarena and drinking cocktails. Indeed I was young, free and single and eying up the handsome young devil her boyfriend had invited along.
Now I would be hard pushed to remember the Macarena (and could quite possibly break a hip doing it), would be drunk on a wine gum never mind a cocktail and am about to celebrate my fifth wedding anniversary to the handsome, but not so young, devil her boyfriend invited along.
Yes, things have moved on considerably and there is no denying that we are collectively entering a whole new phase in our lives.
For those of you who have already hit the big 3-0 and beyond, I wonder how you felt as it approached. I've heard of some people becoming virtual hermits and hiding away until the day passed . Others have taken to doing something major to the mark the occasion (my sister got a tattoo AND got engaged- how's that for making an impact?). One friend took a hissy fit and locked her husband out of the house, others have just let it wash over them like any other ordinary day.
I'm not sure how I feel about it. The logical side of my brain tells me it is, of course, just another day and age is more about your state of mind that what your birth certificate says. But on the other hand, there has to be a stage in your life when you finally accept you are an adult- doesn't there?
The thing is, 30 feels grown up. It feels like a proper grown up age where you should have proper grown up responsibilities and perhaps think about wearing proper, grown up, sensible shoes and perhaps using a scarf to keep the cold out instead of just as a pretty fashion accessory.
My 20s were, I guess, a time of experimenting with my life, building towards my future and laying the foundations of my very own family unit.
There was plenty of drinking, laughing, going out and having fun (especially in the first half of the decade) and things changed quickly- more quickly perhaps than ever before or they are ever likely to again.

Settled down
I started dating, got engaged and then married to himself. We bought a house, settled down and started a family. We built up our stock of furniture from two bedside tables and an bookcase to a proper home with our very own sofas and beds. I finished studying for my Masters Degree and secured a proper full time job where I had my own desk to sit and an phone extension all of my own. Of course, and to labour the point for those who haven't yet realise just what an achievement this is for me, I learned to drive and became a bona fide legal driver.
Your 30s are, in turn, supposed to be a time when the insecurities disappear and you can, in theory at least, sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labours through those hectic years of yours 20s.
They are supposed to be an era when you grow fond of wrinkle creams and find yourself longing for an ISA or comparing the merits of different pension schemes. It's all supposed to be less complicated in your 30s and you are supposed to feel in control. I guess that is where the feeling like a proper adult comes into it.
But do I feel in control? Well- not really. I'm still not entirely sure of what I want to be when I'm older. Don't get me wrong. I love my job and the opportunities it affords me, but I can't see myself sitting here day and in day out until I'm 65 (or older if the government have their way).
I have no inclination for an ISA and I frequently forget to slap on the eye cream before I go to bed.
There are things which, by their very nature, make me feel older-most notably, when I hear a walking, talking toddler shout 'Maaaaameeeee' and I know he is looking for me- or when I go out to a bar or club (ha! Me at a club! I can't remember the last time!) and see the young ones around me and realise that in all likelihood a decent proportion of them are 12 years younger than I am.
But feeling older and feeling like a proper grown up are two entirely different things, in my opinion.
According to my ever wise Mammy, who celebrates a big birthday herself this year, you never really feel grown up. There will forever be a part of you that feels like that 21 year old dancing the Macarena- I suppose I will cling on to that hope as the next few weeks pass.

All because the lady loves...

I REMEMBER my first chocolate craving very well. I was off school sick one day, laying on the sofa with a blue blanket wrapped around my person when 'This Morning' (in the days with Richard and Judy presented) had a feature on some fancy Belgian chocolatier.

The screen was filled with images of little eeny sweeties rolling along a conveyor belt as sweet, gooey, delicious, melted chocolate was drizzled over them.
I may have been suffering from some weird stomach bug at the time but the effect was powerful. I swear I could smell the chocolate, I craved it, needed it and so when my mother enquired after my health I assured her some of the good stuff would make me all better.
I have not looked back- my love affair with chocolate has flourished and grown ever since and now we are like an old married couple. We get along nicely most of the time. It serves my needs and I help it fulfil its life purpose of making someone happy. Occasionally we have a falling out- when I go on a diet, or try a new variety of Chunky Kit Kat- but we pull together again in the end and I cannot, no matter how I try, ever imagine my life without it.
I am the chocolate makers' dream, the stereotypical woman who puts chocolate on a golden pedestal and can spend many a joyous 15 minutes enjoying that sweetest of treats.
This, of course, may go a lot of the way to explaining my ongoing battle with my weight, but as someone who rarely has the chance to enjoy a drink and who has never smoked, it is my one vice in life. And, in an ironic twist of fate, just like the the demon drink and the evil weed for most people, the only time in my life I found myself capable of giving it up was when I was pregnant. (There was one successful Lenten episode too, circa 1992).
For the final four months of my pregnancy I could not eat chocolate. I could look at it, desire it, smell it even- but eating it was simply out of the question as it brought on the most horrendous heartburn imaginable.
Sadly, growing another human being meant this temporary moratorium on chocolate did not have a positive effect on my waist line and I still ended up with a belly that wobbled like a bowl full of jelly at the end of it all.
As I celebrated the arrival of my son, I also celebrated my ability to once again eat slabs of Galaxy and my post box over flowed with king-size bars sent by well meaning friends. Of course, it would have been rude to shun their kind offers. I had to eat the chocolate, I owed it to them and to myself at a time when I was too tired to cook or prepare proper food.

Resist temptation
I often wonder now if I had only been able to resist that temptation would I, like many a reformed smoker, have turned my back on chocolate for life and would my body now be thanking me for it as I bought clothes in an all together more acceptable size?
You see, the thing is, no one has a recovery programme for chocaholics. You can't walk into a support group and ask for help, nor can you walk into your average chemist shop and buy Cocoa Replacement Patches to help you through that tricky withdrawal period.
Nowhere employs a Chocolate Cessation Counsellor to help you over that bumpy period where you would gladly steal the Magic Stars from the paws of your excited two year old, or who helps you over the 4pm jitters when the sweetie machine comes a calling.
Being a chocaholic is actually deemed to be quite cool- but for some, dare I say it, it is an affliction. Yes, I enjoy chocolate but I do not enjoy the effects it has on my body. Aside from the obvious weight issues it gives me a stupid and false sugar rush followed by periods of lethargy. It does my skin no favours and it lacks nutritional value.
I would love to kiss it goodbye forever- to be one of those disciplined souls who can enjoy a square of Green and Blacks (posh chocolate which is scientifically good for you) and put the rest in a cupboard for another day, as opposed to the girl who wolfs a Snickers (not posh chocolate which isn't awfully good for you) and craves another one 20 minutes later.
I would love to crave the contents of my fruit bowl as opposed to the sweetie shelves but alas, I fear my addiction is for life. I have of course tried the alternatives- the low fat, low sugar varieties but in my opinion when it comes to chocolate you might as well be hung for a Mars as a Milky Way Crispy Roll.
If anyone has a sure fire way to beat the addiction, then I'm open to all offers- but can you just wait until after Easter? There is a Buttons Egg with my name on it.

I am woman- hear me snore!

To read my contribution to the Damsels website, please visit
www.damsels.org/snore.htm

Updated columns will be published tomorrow!

Silence isn't always golden

IT IS one of the most natural instincts in the world to soothe a crying child- Lord only knows I have spent a considerable amount of time over the last two years hushing, cuddling and drying tears.


When my child, or indeed any child, is crying and in pain I get an almost irresistible urge to scoop said child up in my arms, kiss their wee heads and try my very best to make it all better.
I imagine that urge does not make me a freak of nature and that I'm not the only person in the world that feels that way. That is, I guess, the primary reason I won't be swapping my Catholic guilt for a healthy bout of Scientology any time soon.
For the uninitiated, Scientology is the increasingly popular religion favoured by Hollywood hunks and starlets- most notably Tom Cruise and his soon-to-give-birth missus Katie Holmes.
Now generally I'm very much of the opinion that when it comes to religion we are all under the care of the one God anyway and how you choose to believe in his (or her) representation on earth is your own business. I'm a live and let live kind of gal- but not when it comes to the teachings of Scientology.
You see Scientologists believe that if a child is sick or injured you should, of course, tend to their physical needs, but you should not, under any circumstances say anything to them while they are distressed.
Scientologists believe that soothing an injured children- with a hug, a kiss or a simple "I'm here baby"- will leave a negative imprint in their brains- something they call an engram.
This 'negative impact' philosophy is also used to support their policy of maintaining silence during childbirth and, indeed, making sure the newborn baby hears not one sounds in the first hours and days of their lives.
As a woman who has given birth largely without the aid of pain relief (not through choice- I'm just one of the 15% of women who the epidural doesn't work for), I cannot for the life of understand how it can be helpful, productive or even possible to stay silent throughout the experience.
My labour, along with being quite sore, was a time when every emotion possible bubbled up to the surface. I laughed, I cried, I grunted, I moaned, I told my husband I loved him, I chatted with the midwife- I even sang along to a song on the radio. The one thing that I did not do was shut up.

Kiss and hug
Similarly when all 6lb 9oz of babyness was placed in my arms it would have been the most painful and unnatural thing in the world for me not to have acknowledged him with a kiss, an hello, a hug and promises of great things to come.
Apparently over the last week giant billboards have been arriving at the house of Mr. Cruise and Ms. Holmes proclaiming, basically, she is to keep hush while birthing their baby.
Then ickle baby Cruise will reportedly be wrapped in swaddling cloths and taken away to be left in peace for a day without any of that old intrusion from his/her doting parents. There won't be any cuddles, proud pictures or early bonding. Katie will not have the chance to lie awake all night staring at the newborn creature in the cot beside her marvelling to herself that she is now a mother and that wee miracle of life is her own.
God love the poor woman if she then goes on to develop Post Natal Depression because, just like the children who won't be comforted if they fall or get ill, she won't find soothing words from her Scientology friends.
They don't believe in psychology, you see. They don't believe in taking anti-depressants to help make it all better. Apparently if you get really bad, however, you will get a 'Introspection Rundown' which, as far as I can see, involves intensive therapy where, you've guessed it, no one talks to you until you can admit you have a problem and suss out what that problem is.
Now if you use that little Google tool on your internet, and type in the words 'Introspection Rundown'- the name Lisa McPherson will jump out at you. You see Lisa McPherson was a member of the Church of Scientology and had a nervous breakdown. Her 'friends' took her aside and arranged a wee introspection rundown and a mere three weeks later Lisa was dead. It is believed by many her treatment by the compassionate souls in the Church may have directly contributed to her death.
Now I can't help but wonder that if Lisa had been talked to, and listened to, would she still be here today? There are times in all our lives, when we are scared, in pain and vulnerable when the thing we need most of all is simply for someone to listen to us and tell us it will be okay.
If you can't get that kind of comfort from the source of all love- your God- then where can you get it?

Getting my 'R's into gear

THERE ARE a few achievements in my life I am particularly proud of. The first is getting my Masters Degree which was achieved under sufferance and put me off studying for life.

The second is surviving child birth and the first three months of my son's life without becoming a hardened street drinker and third, and most recent, is finally- after four attempts- passing my driving test.
Regular readers of this column will be aware I have a love/ hate relationship with driving. Seven years ago, as a fresh faced cub reporter I first got behind the wheel of a car and drove for a year before failing two tests and giving up.
Earlier this month I faced my demons and sat my third test on a cold and wintry Tuesday morning.
I had been beating the Rescue Remedy and Stressless tablets into me for a week beforehand and had also, I kid ye not, persuaded a hypnotherapist to talk me through relaxation techniques over the phone. In my pocket I had a prescription for Diazepam in case the nerves became unbearable and the Big Man upstairs had taken to avoiding my calls as he was sickened hearing the sound of my novenas.
I woke that morning and it was persisting down with rain (that's the polite way to put it). Venturing out with my long suffering driving instructor (Michael Harkin, if you want to know- he's in the book!) we also encountered reams of road works.
He assured me they would work in my favour and we drove to the Test Centre and I took my seat in the waiting room (aka the Green Mile) and waited to be called- swigging from the Rescue Remedy all the time. (That stuff is stinking by the way).
As it happened I kept my cool. I drove across the Foyle Bridge like a true professional, did my three point turn in record time and my emergency stop was one they should really have filmed to show people how it is done.
And then, it went wrong. I realised I had done it all right. I realised all I had to do was get back to the test centre and that elusive slip of paper would be mine. I relaxed, too much, and crashed ("with a fair whack"-according to the examiner) into the pavement at Myra's shop. (I still give said pavement dirty looks now when we pass).
I knew then I had failed. I think I swore. I know I had to fight back tears and then, of course, I had to continue the drive back to the test centre knowing that I had messed up and it would take at least another one attempt at this test (and another £100 of my hard earned moulah- money I had set aside for my sojourn to Glasgee) before I could get my coveted 'R's on display (no giggles at the back please).
The most disappointing thing about failing a driving test is the notion that you have to do it again. I'm sure somewhere we could make an argument for the abolition of said test using the same argument that has been used against the retention of the 11 Plus. Branding anyone a failure is not conducive to good mental health- even if they have hit a kerbstone a "fair whack" and risked killing a stray pensioner.
Luckily I was able to secure a cancellation, thanks to the persuasive powers of my driving instructor (who also does wedding cars, if you are interested). While I welcomed the chance to get through the test again I dreaded the green mile, the not knowing if I would be tested in the cityside or Waterside, the worry over whether it would be a parallel park or a reversing around a corner that would catch me out.
As it turned out, Lady Luck had another cunning plan up her sleeve which involved some weird gastric flu type bug, a sick child and sleep deprivation. You see, when you are trying not to throw up, or indeed to stop your child from throwing up, you don't have time to work yourself into an absolute frenzy.
Not one Stressless tablet passed my lips (I have an unopened box if you want them). Only two doses of Rescue Remedy were consumed and the Diazepam prescription can now go in the bin.
You see I had come to peace with the fact that I had been so sick there was no way I was passing this test. And when the examiner took me on an unfamiliar route, I was doubly convinced I was on the highway to hell. I was so busy mentally working out how to pay for test number five, I was so convinced that I would fail, that I no longer feared failing- and when you have no fear you don't tend to make stupid mistakes like hitting kerbs a "fair whack".
Weirdly the nerves only started to jangle on my way back to the test centre when it dawned on me I hadn't messed up- yet. The elusive slip of paper was but a few moments away, I prayed that I could hold it together long enough to get into that parking bay in a straight line.
When the examiner told me he was "pleased to say" I had passed I promptly had a little happy cry and had to restrain myself from hugging him. (He looked vaguely terrified at this stage to be honest)
Within a couple of hours I had arranged my insurance, bought some 'R' Plates and gone for a drive down alone in the sunshine singing along to 'Hollaback Girl' in my uniquely squeaky voice.
It may have taken seven years. It may have cost me hundreds of pounds in lessons and Rescue Remedy but now, as the self-proclaimed Queen of the Road I really can say this shit is bananas.

And finally
It is Mother's Day on Sunday, so can I offer a special mention to my lovely Mammy who kindly agreed to get in the car with me just after my test despite her post traumatic stress at accompanying me on the bumper cars when I was a wain.
Much love to you from me. x

If you're Irish, get out of the country

If you're Irish, get out of the country!
I HAVE a confession to make. (And no, before you all start going and making assumptions, I am not pregnant nor do I have intention of being so any time in the immediate future).

My confession is of a more shameful nature because today, while a nation of my peers will be drinking the green beer and singing about those lovely fields just outside of Athenry, I will be taking to the skies and leaving this fair land for the weekend.
I won't be heading into any pub at lunch time nor shall I be wearing a curly wig bedecked in our national colours. I doubt I shall even attach a bunch of withered shamrocks to my lapel or sing a resounding chorus of 'Hail Glorious St. Patrick'.
It's not that I don't have a great love for the land of my birth, or that I'm not terribly grateful to St. Patrick for chasing all those snakes out of the country and introducing a little religion- but I can just think of better things to do with my day that sit in an overcrowded and smokey bar drinking myself into a state of maudlin stupidity.
St. Patrick's Day has never really been much of a big deal for me. As a child I remember getting rather stupidly excited when my mammy would knit me a white cardigan with a shamrock motif, and I would get to show off my new 'style' at Mass.
Beyond that and making coloured cards at school, I can't say it really stood out in my memory all that much. (Although I seem to remember some really godawful film called 'Flight of the Doves' being shown or 'Darby O'Gill' scaring the holy bejaysus out of me with that freaky Banshee).
Moving into adulthood it somehow became nothing more than an opportunity to go to the pub and get that silly kind of drunk you can only get when you drink in the afternoon.
I remember with particular fondness going to the Student's Union after lectures with a few classmates and enjoying my first proper St. Pat's session in 1996. In all honesty though, the bonding with my classmates was much more enjoyable that the inevitable flinging of ourselves round the dancefloor to the 'The Last of the Irish Rovers' in the name of national pride.
The last time I think I even acknowledged the day was three years ago (pre-baby) when myself, my friend and our two husbands met in the pub after work for a quick drink. We joined in half heartedly with the traditional Irish art of Karaoke and stopped off on the way home for that traditional Irish supper of curry chips.
Latterly I've just fallen into the brigade of old farts who go up the town on the day to tut at all the "young ones" off their heads on drink and God knows what else.
You see, I think we should celebrate St. Patrick's Day, but I don't see why we have to use it as an opportunity to make a holy show of ourselves.
Yes, we all love a drink- but do we have to drink to such an extent that we throw up in the street? Or start a fight with each other at the taxi rank?
So, when the opportunity came up to jet off to foreign shores for the weekend (foreign being Scotland), I felt no qualms at leaving behind my native Ireland for the day. Instead I'm looking forward to a day or two with my best Scottish pal, her family, a nice hotel to stay in and a couple of drinks- none of which will be dyed green.
Instead of getting caught up in whatever melee may erupt in town, I will swan around the lobby of my hotel speaking in an exagerated accent, saying "bejaysus" and "begorrah" a lot, and waiting for the offers of drinks from kindly strangers wanting to drown the shamrock with me.
I will gather my friend's children around my feet and tell them magical tales of Leprechauns, the Blarney stone, and Finn McCool (and leave out all references to Banshees- no child need ever fear the howl of the wind in my opinion).
I will tell them of the magical pathway between Ireland and Scotland and promise to take them to the Giant's Causeway some day to see it for themselves (should I ever manage to pass my driving test).
If I'm feeling really adventurous (or slightly drunk) I might even sing a wee chorus of 'Cead Mile Failte' or 'Paddy McGinty's Goat' (In fairness I would have to learn the words to the latter first).
I'm sure, if pushed, I'll even tell them the story of St. Patrick and how he came to Ireland and chased the snakes out. (I find young children more intrigued by snakes than religion these days).
So I won't be here to join in the hijinks and hoolies, but I'll be having a perfectly fine and lovely time all to myself, feeling distinctly Irish without the associated hangover.
No doubt, however, as my plane takes off over Derry and flies across Northern Ireland towards the Irish sea I'll get a little misty eyed at thoughts of home- but what better way to see your home country on its national day than from the skies? On Erin's green valleys, I'll look down with my love.

That's My Goal

That's my goal
REALITY TV is not something which really floats my boat but in a fit of boredom I caught up in 'finals fever' last weekend as 'Dancing on Ice', 'Just the Two of Us' and 'You're a Star' came to their dramatic conclusions.

In my opinion Gaynor Faye was very deserving of the 'Dancing on Ice' accolade, your man from Holby City was robbed on 'Just the Two of Us' and Lucia Evans was, well, the best of a bad bunch on 'You're A Star' (Probably the most embarrassing example of Irish 'talent' ever).
There was something about 'You're a Star' that dragged me in though. A few weeks ago I started watching and sat, jaw slack with disbelief, at what passes for talent in this country. After that I was hooked- waiting for RTE to announce it had all been a big practical joke on the gullible voters of Ireland.
Simon Cowell would have had the 'You're A Star' finalists for breakfast- in fact I'm pretty sure some of them would have shown up in the worst auditions montage should they have appeared on 'The X Factor'.
But regardless of my opinion on their talent, or lack thereof, I have to say I did admire the unfortunate souls who made eejits of themselves at the Helix week in and week out- and that is because at least they were following their personal rainbows and looking to find a pot of gold at the end of them.
In fact, I even shed a sneaky tear when Jeannette Cronin got booted out in the semi final. Even though she always looked like she need a good wash, she genuinely had her heart set on winning the title. When she sang her reprise of the Shane Ward song 'That's My Goal', just after the proverbial goal posts were moved so far from her they were no longer in her sites, she broke down a wee bit and I realised how crushing it must me to have your dreams taken from you.
I'm not a huge one for following my ambitions- not these days anyway. I just get on with life and make plans on an ad hoc basis- so I admire anyone who has the guts to put themselves out there for public scrutiny.
The nearest I have come to finding some get up and go of late is the ongoing trauma I face while endeavouring to get on the road legally. (My hopes of "third time lucky" in my test being cruelly dashed this week thanks to some very poor judgement on my part outside of Myra's Shop).
But as driving is more an acquired skill than a talent, I'm not sure it counts in the life ambition stakes- I mean the only thing stopping me achieving that goal is my own inability to keep my nerve for a silly 40 minute slot (and the fact there are no available dates in the next two months for a retest!).
If I'm pushed to find an ambition for myself- to reveal that secret goal, it is my hope to one day walk into Eason (or any other reputable book shop) and see my name on the cover of a book alongside tomes by the likes of Queen Marian of Keyes, Cathy Kelly and Jane Green.
That would, of course, require a certain amount of sustained commitment and discipline which, believe it or not, I am trying to find for myself.

'The Novel'
I have managed to cobble together 47,000 words of waffle, now known to all in my family as 'The Novel'- with a mere 50,000 words to go, I figure I can expect to finish it circa 2034.
Each evening, after the fruit of my loins has been battered over the head with a rubber hammer and sent to sleep, I sit down at my old and battered keyboard and set up about trying to be creative.
I have to resist the urge to surf t'interweb, phone a friend or do some housework (funnily enough, I find avoiding the housework relatively easy). I now understand that a writer's worst enemy is the blank screen and I've come to hate the blinking of the cursor as my brain goes into melt down as I try to imagine life through the eyes of my protagonist.
Often I'll pour a wee glass of wine, write like my life depended on it and then, when not under the influence of said glass of wine, realise my work is nonsense and hit the delete button.
Having (almost) reached the half way mark- having plotted out every scene, every eventuality and the ending of my masterpiece I'm now getting cold feet (or should that be cold fingers? After all they are doing the typing).
You see I know that if and when I finish 'The Novel', the obvious next step would be to show to it people- to allow them to read it, dissect it and pull it to pieces. In an ideal world they would all sign me up for mega-bucks publishing deals and herald me as the latest Queen of Chick Lit but chances are there will be a fair deal of rejection.
I imagine some witty editor at a publishing company will laugh at what I consider to be my 'talent'- or lack there of. Although they won't put my efforts up for the public vote but they will judge me nonetheless- and I'm not one who likes being judged. I prefer to live in my little bubble of anonymity, eating Galaxy chocolate and bitching about 'You're a Star'.
So to all those who follow their dreams, who put themselves out there and face the wrath of the likes of me- I salute you! What you may lack in talent you more than make up for in bravery.

On my holiberries

I will resume posting later this week and catch up on two weeks of columns!

Just the three of us

A DEBATE is raging in among women the length and breadth of the country at the moment about whether or not a man really has a place in the labour ward supporting his partner through the 'joys' of childbirth.

It's all been kicked off by the announcement by cricket player Andrew Flintoff that he is going to stick it out at some wee poncy cricket game or other rather than fly home to support his long suffering wife through the imminent delivery of their baby.
There are a couple of schools of thought on this one. The first is that a woman will generally be more comfortable giving birth surrounded by other women- given that they will generally have some level of understanding of the hell on earth she is going through.
Certainly this was my initial view point when I was with child. You see my husband, love him and all as I do, is a bit useless when it comes to dealing with people in pain. He either a) goes into a litany of his own ills or b)tries to jolly the situation along with some ill timed humour more often seen as an insult when you are going through the agonies.
So when I was expecting I wanted what every self respecting woman in her late 20s wants when faced with a challenge- I wanted my mammy.
I figured my mother still held certain magical properties last seen during my childhood- most notably the power to reduce all aches and pains with a spoonful of pink medicine and a bottle of Lucozade.
Once, after talking to the sister my mother did accompany into the labour ward, I ascertained this wasn't the case I moved my sights to himself.
Which brings me the second school of thought on the whole men in the labour ward debate; and that is that any man who does not wish to see his child- the fruit of his loins- delivered into this world in the great big miracle of life is a big fat wuss and deserving of nothing but scorn from the fairer sex.
Himself was understandably nervous about the whole thing. He wasn't well versed in the biological process of birthing but he knew it would involve a fair amount of blood, gore and screaming. He also knew it would involve a visit to the hospital and himself holds hospitals in much the same disregard as I hold dark chocolate. (Chocolate shouldn't taste bitter- it should taste sweet, it is a SWEETIE. Point made).

Guilt
So now we move onto the third school of thought on the whole issue which is that if a woman has to actually experience the physical and emotional trauma of child birth, the very least a man can do is be there so that his partner can make him feel horrendously guilty about it all.
You see I had spoken to my friends who had children and each had regaled me with stories of how they had fallen in love with their ickle tiny babies the moment they set eyes on them.
Digging deeper into the whole experience however I found a much darker undercurrent of swearing, biting and general abuse. One friend calmly told her husband, in a voice which made the midwife believe she was possessed, that he was never, and I repeat never going to touch her ever again.
Another left an impressive set of dental imprints on her husband's hand and a third starting plotting her divorce while sucking on the gas an air.
In all cases the husbands forgave the outrageous behaviour and, get this, even bought their wives flowers and/ or jewellery afterwards to thank them for their efforts.
It all seemed like a pretty good deal to me- I mean a get out of jail free card for marital abuse and the promise of presents at the end of it all!
Joking aside though, I did actually want my husband to be there when our son was born. I didn't necessarily want him down the business end, but I wanted the first sight our little man saw to be his mammy and daddy. I wanted to be the first to hold him (I figured it was my right as the one with the torn perineum), but I wanted the second person to hold him to be his daddy.
I had a stupid mental image of himself doing the whole "This time next year we'll be millionaires" speech with the wee man while I had my post-natal needs tended to.
And when I was in labour, I wanted someone there who would stand up for what I wanted. I wanted someone there who had the same interest in this child being born that I did and in my books the only people who truly get how important the birth of any baby is are that baby's parents.
For me the birth experience was the start of our life together as a family. While I'd had nine months to get very closely acquainted with my son, himself only felt the occasional kick and saw me turn into a larger than life emotional timebomb.
i was very conscious of the fact that from the first time we heard our son squeak (he squeaked rather than cried- an occurrence he has more than made up for since), we would be the Allans- a family unit- just the three of us.
So when asked if I think Andrew Flintoff was right to put cricket and country before his family, my answer is no- because no victory on the field can ever be as rewarding as meeting your child for the first time.

Keep young and beautiful

THEY SAY time waits for no man but as I have found in the last week that is also arguably true for the female of the species.

It’s no secret that in just under four months time I celebrate a very special birthday. I mention it often not because I am, unlike most of my friends of a similar age, having heart staggers at the very thought- but more because I figure if I keep mentioning himself might remember to start saving up for that present now.

You see, turning 30 doesn’t really bother me. Yes there are ambitions I still have for my life which I’d kind of hoped would have been achieved by now, but this isn’t really a time of regret for me- in fact it is a time of celebration.

If the glossy women’s magazines are to be believed (you know, the dear ones that cost a couple of quid), your 30s are destined to be your most enjoyable decade to date. Apparently women in their 30s develop a certain devil may care attitude to life, finding themselves more comfortable and confident in their own skins. This all sounds pretty damned appealing to me, as I have never experienced a moment of confidence in my skin in that last 29 years.

But in the last week I’ve noticed a certain ageing process setting in, which makes me wonder if the glossy magazines are either a) telling us a big bunch of fibs, or b) in league with some big Retinol/ Vitamin A/ Botox wielding conglomerate in the hope of selling us enough lotions and potions to keep the beauty industry going for the next 50 years.

First of all on close inspection of the “delicate eye area” I discovered the very distinct and un-ignorable arrival of my first fine lines. You may scoff at my vanity- fine lines are inevitable- but I was horrified because for the first time in my not so tender years I was looking in the mirror and seeing a proper, grown up adult face staring back at me.
I’m not a vain person as such, I certainly don’t have a reputation for wearing the finest make up or slathering myself in expensive creams (as previously stated my skincare regime generally involves a baby wipe and a splash of water)- but the fine lines bothered me.

They bothered me even more when I noticed that about three inches or so above them a smattering of grey hair had started to permeate my chestnut locks. The ageing process, it seems, has well and truly taken hold.

The upshot of these discoveries in that I found myself in Boots last Saturday morning looking for the solution to my problems. Handing over a significant amount of my hard earned cash to the sales assistant in return for the eeniest pot of eye cream in the world ever and a box of Clairol Essences Hair Dye which promises excellent coverage of grey, I felt strangely elated- as if I was tricking old Mother Nature. (As a rather embarrassing side note, when I was a child I was convinced I would become a world famous purveyor of perfumes and other such smelly stuff (you know the kind you make in the bathroom sink with half a bottle of baby powder and some roses from the garden?)- and my company would be called Clairol (geddit?) Imagine my disgust when I realised the name was already taken!).

With my purchases in hand (along with a free gift with purchase make up bag from No.7 which I am very delighted with) I visited my mother and it was then that I realised that creams and potions may delay the signs of the inevitable but there is more to getting older than noticing a few straggly grey hairs.

You see the Kleeneze catalogue was there and whereas I used to look through it and laugh at the ridiculous products (you know, the hair cutting bib and the ear protectors for when you are washing your hair…that kind of thing), on Saturday I found myself thinking “My, my, that looks like a handy wee number. Order me one of those bad boys please”.

A shocking £25 later and I have, winging their way to me, a special squeedgy for cleaning the inside of the windows, a brush which promises to reach all those nooks and crannies and a drain cover that doubles as a planter (I kid you not). I haven’t received my goodies yet, but I’m stupidly excited at the prospect (especially as the outside of my house is being painted and my new planter will look just fabulous in my newly decorated rear terrace (aka the back yard)!

It dawned on me then that not only was my skin ageing that wee bit- but my mind was too. I am getting, drum roll please, sensible. Now I’ve never been particularly wild but there is being responsible and being overly sensible and, dare I say it, a tad boring. I’m wondering if my Kleeneze purchases, even though I already love them more than life, have forced me into the latter category? Could it be that I am now hurtling at break-hip speed towards sensible shoes and a blue rinse?

To counter the balance I bought myself some impossibly uncomfortable but very pretty shoes, some funky costume jewellery and a funky pair of pinstripe trousers for work.

Now I’m perfectly willing to accept that my panic of the last week or so is quite possibly a late 20s crisis of sorts, so let’s hope that those magazines are right and by the time June rolls around I’ve found a degree of comfort in being who I am- dodgy drain covers and all.

You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore...

VALENTINE'S DAY was a bit of a non-event this year in the Allan household.

While previously we have celebrated with a nice home-cooked meal or a delivered bunch of flowers, this year we somehow managed to forget the whole thing- despite the plethora of red hearts and roses in every shop window.
As the most romantic day of the year dawned, we sat side by in the side in the car on the way to work and laughed when we realised we were both as bad as each other in the romance stakes.
In a show of extreme non-bitterness I serenaded himself with a dazzling rendition of "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" and went about my way, only occasionally staring at the office door longing for a special delivery.
When work ended I went home to my wee man (himself being up the country working) and the closest I got to mad romance was a snuggle with a two year old who offered me one of his mad open mouthed slabbery kisses.
Himself came home a few hours later, bearing a shiny new Tesco bag which contained, or so I hoped, a box of expensive chocolates, some champagne and a perhaps a single red rose. Sadly my hopes were shattered when I found it merely to contain a Pot Noodle for his tea- not the most obvious gesture of love and affection.
Having officially moved out of the newlywed category (we married five years ago in May), I wondered if the magic is simply slipping from our relationship?
After all a survey this week said, rather gloomily I hasten to add, that married bliss lasts a mere 12 months. After that the embers cool, the magic fades and all that awaits is a lifetime of drudgery and complaining about her or him indoors.
Even more worrying is that, according to the authors, somewhere between year three and five (so slap bang where me and the Mr. are right now) we are supposed to experience a final resurgence of love before it all heads downhill again- this time for keeps.
I dread to think what's ahead of me next year then if this year was to be our final flurry at love- Perhaps some supernoodles or a cup-a-soup?
Then again I'm not quite sure those responsible for the report are right. After all, if marriage is a big old disappointment after year one then how do you explain those millions of couples who make it to their Silver weddings anniversaries and beyond?

Friendship
Being the old romantic that I am, I believe that love- and marriage in particular- is best founded on friendship- one that can wax and wane but which will ultimately have moments of love and passion no matter if you have been together a week or a half century.
I'm very lucky in the that my parents have always shown me an example of how a marriage should work. Sometimes, admittedly, that has involved shouting at each other and a certain degree of door slamming, but mostly the message I've learned from their relationship is marriage can be the most amazing thing on the planet- if only you bother your hump to work at it.
You see I'm not naive enough to think that over the last 31 years of marriage they have not contemplated, on several occasions, putting some arsenic in each other's cuppa, but I know they are still quite firmly in that "happily married" bracket.
They have learned, over the passage of time, to ignore those little things that niggle, to enjoy the things that make them happy and to remember that marriage really is for better or worse and anyone who tells you there should never be any worse is talking through their rear.
I think our society has just become so disposable these days that so many people think it's okay to bin something if it isn't quite in perfect working order anymore.
I'm shocked at just how disposable marriage has become. That doesn't mean I'm enamoured with the way himself leaves his stinking socks on the bedroom floor expecting them to magically fly to the laundry hamper. I hate the way he leaves coffee rings from his cups on the desk, worktops and tables. His inability to look after Joseph and do anything remotely resembling housework rankles- as indeed does the Pot Noodle for Valentine's Day incident- but my marriage isn't disposable in that way.
It struck me, as I waited for my card and my flowers, as I joked all day with himself about the lack of passion in our relationship, as we sang that Neil Diamond song to each other, that the real love is not in the giving of gifts (although I'll never turn one down) but in the fact we are comfortable sometimes just to be together and we know what to say or do to raise a smile or a laugh from each other.
And we aren't doing too badly if every day, after nine years together and five years of marriage, we still say "I love you" and still get that urge to talk to each other sometimes just to hear that familiar voice on the end of the line.
Sure, Emily Bronte may never write a novel about our all encompassing passion- and they'll never rename St. Valentine's Day as The Allan's Day in honour of our great love but I'm sure when all is said and done, five years from now and for longer there will still be some magic in our marriage.

On the Road Again

I AM a woman of many talents, but sadly, I have to admit driving is not one of them.

They say that God loves a trier and if that is true then I'm glad to announce that even though my driving is deeply questionable, I'm up there with the best of the them in the Big Man's most loved people ever list.
I have held a provisional driving licence for a shocking 10 years now and while I've managed to pass two theory tests and fail an equal number of practicals, I'm no further forward in my quest to head out on my own and start cruising the fine streets of Derry in my own wheels.
It all started when I was 19. It was then I decided I would love to learn to drive and duly sent off my application for a licence. I even bought some sunglasses (to cope with the glare on sunny days) and some tapes (yes, tapes- it was in the era before CDs) to listen to as I cruised the highways and byways of the North.
Sadly I didn't get much further than that. I listened to the tapes and wore the glasses, but didn't so much as get behind the wheel of a car until two years later when, at 21, I realised that a licence would greatly improve my chances of securing gainful employment.
My driving instructor, God love him, tried so very hard to make me a safe and competent driver- and I was, honestly- as long as there were no other vehicles within a two mile radius.
When he caved in and allowed me to sit a test (one month after I secured this job on the understanding I was a learner!) I surprised no one by failing horrendously. (People often ask what I failed on, the easier question would be to ask what didn't I fail on?) I remember the day well, returning to the office having made the mistake of telling everyone I had been out of my test.
My colleagues had the good grace not to laugh. They sympathised, shared their own driving horror stories and advised me to book for a cancellation straight away. I did, subsequently failed again (on a dodgy emergency stop that time), and they were equally supportive- warning me not to wait five years before getting behind the wheel of a car again- and I kept my promise. Instead of waiting five years, I waited six and a half.

Glaring truth
In fairness I've had a few sessions behind the wheel between now and then. Most of them have confirmed to me the two most glaring truths of my young existence. The first is that A) I can't drive for toffee and B) Although I'm terrified of other traffic, driving would make my life 100 times easier.
So it was with heavy heart, and a certain sense of trepidation, I set myself the goal of finally getting through my test before the age of 30 (which is looming ever closer).
I booked some lessons with the man who drove me to the chapel on my wedding day- figuring if he could deal with the gibbering wreck I was that day he would be well matched to deal with me and my terminal fear of roundabouts.
So we started again, just before Christmas, and I shocked myself with my ability to remain relatively cool and collected behind the wheel. Want a three point turn? (sorry- turn your car in the opposite direction using forward and reverse gears), I'm your gal. I can reverse a car around a corner in a second and am pretty comfortable with the whole reverse parking malarkey.
I was starting to feel good. I bought new sun-glasses. I downloaded some music for the CD player. I started to warn himself that I would soon be taking over all driving responsibilities and had started to gaze lovingly at pictures of shiny new Micras.
Mr. Driving Instructor conceded I was doing well. He told me to book my theory test. I did, and I passed. (Full marks, I thank you) and I started to visualise tearing up the 'L' Plates and tossing them in the air with a celebratory cheer.
And then, you see, it all started to go horribly wrong, culminating in me saying a few bad words and fighting back tears on my last lesson. Mr. Driving Instructor seems to think that it is because I'm now thinking too much about the test and starting to panic.
My lovely friend Vicki has assured me that when her test was around the corner her driving went to pot too and she was convinced she would fail, but I'm not really believing either of them. I just think I'm destined to be one of life's passengers.
The temptation is now exceptionally great to pack it all in and resign myself to a life of buses, taxis and lifts from the very lovely Erin Hutcheon (who demands only £2 for a trip to the Waterside, more than half the going rate of most taxi firms).
But then I've promised myself I won't be a quitter this time. By hook or by crook, should I fail 100 tests and become a talking point in the local test centre, and should Mr. Driving Instructor start to factor me into his pension plans- I will drive some day.
I will get in my car, switch on the engine, listen to that Bon Jovi tape (I know, I know, I was young and impressionable) and cruise into the 'Journal' office (well the car park, not the actual office building) like the cat who got the cream- 'R' plates raised aloft in a uniquely choreographed victory dance.

Bye Bye Baby

BECOMING A mother has much the same impact on your emotions as an induction to the gym has on your body.

You leave the delivery room feeling things you have never felt before and experience a strange mixture of excitement and absolute terror about what you have signed up for.
Only, unlike a gym membership, you can't just cancel the Direct Debit after six months and go back to your slovenly ways. A child is for life, not just for maternity leave.
There are no dress rehearsals with parenthood- no try before you buy, no guarantee that if you are not happy with the results Lever Brothers will give you your money back. Once you are there, feeling as if, both physically and emotionally, a ten tonne truck has run over you, you are there for keeps.
Yesterday was my son's second birthday and as well as celebrating the limitless joy he has brought to our lives, I will be raising a glass of wine to myself in honour of the achievement that is surviving the baby years with my sanity relatively intact.
The thing is, you see, being a mammy to a baby is damn hard work- Anyone who tells you otherwise is either lying or supping vodka out of a secret hipflask in work to cope with the strain.
That's not to say it isn't wonderful. I would not for the life of me change my child. I love the bones of him- from his oddly dimpled shoulders to his pudgy hands- his curly topped head to his squidgy be-nappied bum.
I love how he can spot the trail of an aeroplane in the sky from any distance, how he pulls his highchair out to the middle of the room and shouts for "passtttaaaa" in the evenings and how he can sing any theme tune in the world and somehow end up in a 'Bob the Builder' medley.
But life has changed irrevocably from what it was before. I only ever thought I was tired before I became a parent- just as I only ever thought I was fat before pregnancy ravaged my body, and I only ever thought what it was like to be scared until I saw my own child lying in a hospital bed being nebulised.
Himself and I planned our foray into parenthood with meticulous precision. We made a decision to wait until we were married, with a mortgage and established in our careers before we decided to start our family.
When I found out I was pregnant- on the fifth anniversary of my first date with himself- we were overjoyed and set about preparing ourselves and our home for our new arrival.
The walls of the spare room were painted a creamy yellow and accessorized with borders proclaiming our new child would be "My Little Star". We went pram shopping, crib shopping, clothes shopping, nappy shopping- the works- and turned our house in a mini version of Mothercare.
We read enough to know what to expect- or so we thought- because, you see, no amount of nappy buying, or reading, or surfing t'internet can prepare you for what it is really like.

Hysteria
I still remember with a certain degree of hysteria the night we brought our little one home from the hospital. My friend came to visit and helped me prepare the mountain of bottles i would need to get me through the night ahead and when she left I went to bed. I put my 6lb 90z baby in a cotbed which was ridiculously huge for his tiny frame and then I stayed awake most of the night listening for his breathing, waiting for his hungry whimpers, checking he was really there and it wasn't all a surreal dream.
By the next morning the eyes were standing out of my head with exhaustion and it dawned me this was a bigger commitment than we had ever really contemplated.
In the months that followed we found our feet but the thing with babies is that the wee monsters are always growing and changing and throwing a spanner in the works. First we had the trauma of returning to full time work and leaving my child with my aunt (who is wonderful, I hasten to add), then we had to cope with weaning, bum-shuffling, cruising, crawling, walking, talking and at the moment the latest test of our spirit comes with the introduction of the Naughty Step and a now very active toddler insisting on clambering in and out of his big boy bed at 4 in the morning.
But probably the hardest thing I have to deal with as a mammy, is realising that my baby is not a baby anymore. He is now a toddler- an independent minded little person who knows exactly what he wants, when he wants it and how he is going to get it.
As a mammy it's both rewarding and heart-breaking to see your child grow up. It's rewarding because the sense of pride is immense at seeing the person that little baby becomes, but heart-breaking because you feel in some ways you are losing that special bond that started the minute you got the positive result on a pregnancy test.
Of course, I know he will need me for some time. There are bums to be wiped, shoes to be tied, bruises to be kissed better and stories to be read.
And I sincerely hope the happiness continues to outweigh the stress- because I really don't think my editor would take too kindly to me drinking on the job.

Sisters are doing it for themselves?

YOU WILL perhaps forgive me if the first few lines of this week's column are dedicated to giving a sound telling off to the not-so-lovely lady who gave me the filthiest look imaginable last Sunday in Tesco.

Life, you see, is hard enough for us women. We work hard, run our homes, raise our children and endure waxing of sensitive areas on a frequent basis. So when one of our own, one of the sisterhood bound together by these uniquely female life experiences, lets the side down by being an unsupportive harridan, it upsets me greatly.
Last Sunday, shortly before 1pm, my child decided he wanted to throw a tantrum- but not just any tantrum- this was the mother of all tantrums. There was screaming, crying, desperate attempts to clamber out of the trolley and a few incidents involving my shopping being used as missiles with which to assault other Sunday shoppers.
There were two reasons for said tantrum- the first being that he has an obsession with the "Nanas in Jamas" (Bananas in Pyjamas) ride-along-thingy in the Lisnagelvin Mall and would happily live there given the choice. My decision that three goes was more than enough was clearly to his displeasure.
The second, and most important reason, is that he is nearly two. He is a child, learning, experiencing, pushing the boundaries and yes, admittedly at times, being a wee brat (and that is the polite way of putting it).
As a fairly modern mammy, I pride myself on being fairly up on the parenting advice of the day which includes giving a stroppy child as little attention as humanly possible so that he gets the message quick smart that I'm not impressed with hysterics (despite being slightly prone to them myself).
To try and keep your cool when your child is 'breaking you to the bone' as we would say in Derry, is not easy. I prayed the ground would open up and swallow me, I hoped my child would be distracted by all the shiny things they sell in Tesco- but alas neither happened and instead I was faced with the disparaging looks of a woman who I swear followed us around each aisle with the sole purpose of looking down her nose at me and my squealing child.
Now I for one am the first to admit that screaming children aren't pleasant. When you are stressed, shopping and trying to beat the queues on a Sunday lunch-time the last thing you want to be 'entertained' with are the squeals of a child shouting: "No! No! No! Ah wan Nanas in Jammmmaaaaassss!"
I understand this can be annoying. I understand that it have a negative effect on your shopping experience, but what niggles at me most about the whole experience is that said woman was there with a child herself (Admittedly a much older child).
You see from what I can tell from talking to any of my friends or colleagues with children, all little darlings go through phases when they will take a tantrum at the drop of a hat.
All mothers will at some stage be faced with crowds of people shaking their head, looking embarrassed and hurrying past the scene of the impending nuclear meltdown. So you would think women, especially those who have children themselves, would be a little bit more understanding, a little bit more sympathetic and a little less judgmental.

More equal than others?
I feel at the heart of the matter is the fact that we women, as much as proclaim our membership to the sisterhood, as much as we burned our bras and fought for equality, still somehow believe that some are more equal than others.
If you can manage to get out the door on a Sunday with your make up perfect and hair brushed you are more equal than the stressed out mammy in the tracksuit bottoms with her hair scraped back (guess which one I was). If your child clings to your side with perfect manners and social skills usually only achieved after a year in a finishing school then you are more equal than the lady struggling to gain control of an unruly toddler who wants to play instead of shop.
This is something evident not only in Tesco on a Sunday afternoon but in almost every aspect of our lives. I would like to be a super-organised person, a mother who falls into the 'yummy mummy' category who bakes organic breads, has a designer buggy and clothes her child in clothes spun by blind monks in some fair trade factory in Outer Mongolia.
I would like to be the uber efficient employee who never skirts too close to deadline or forgets to make a phone-call at the appropriate time- but I'm not like that I'm afraid.
Like so many of us out there I am simply human. I'm doing my best and trying to do better. I am, as my (fallen) idol Marian Keyes would say "too busy doing it all to have it all" and I very much doubt I'm alone in feeling like that.
We women live in a fast-paced society whereby we are constantly battling to keep on top of all our responsibilities. We would love to be glamorous and cool-headed like Gabrielle in Desperate Housewives, but the truth is the majority of us are more like Lynette.
So next time you see a mother struggling with a screaming child, take a deep breath, avoid the urge to roll your eyes to heaven and remind yourself that there but for the grace of God go you.

Oh for a good lie in!

ONE OF the great joys of trying to keep an over-excited toddler's head from exploding over the Christmas period is spending hours in a bedroom with him so that he doesn't completely destroy his auntie's house.

I say it is a joy because once the wee man was sleeping soundly and recharging his over-used batteries I got to curl up on the bed beside him and watch some tacky TV while he snored.
You see, my sister-in-law has Sky TV in her guest bedroom. I know this might be a relatively common occurrence in some areas of the world, but to me it reeked of pure decadence.
Myself and himself have tried to get Sky installed in our bijou Derry residence but due to there being a tree the size of a small African country directly across the road we have been told we can't get a signal. I have never really recovered from the upset of not having the digital world at my fingertips and therefore given the chance to surf the myriad of channels that can be on offer, I'm doofer happy (doofer being code word for remote in Chez Allan). Therefore to have the opportunity to watch all those dreadfully tacky and American reality shows one Boxing Day afternoon was sheer bliss.
I had long heard talk of "Extreme Makeover- Home Edition" but I'd never had the chance to watch it. On Boxing Day however, huge and complicated Sky remote control resting comfortably in my hand, I got to watch it for two hours.
For those who haven't seen it, basically it entails a team of over-emotional American eejits knocking someone's house down and rebuilding into a palatial dream house complete with a home cinema and one of those gorgeous island thingies for the kitchen which I have coveted for many years.
Generally the lucky recipients of the dream home have something horribly wrong with them (I guess that kind of makes them unlucky- but I'm unable to see that through my insane jealously at their new kitchen island thingy), so the big reveal at the end is always an emotional affair.
Everyone cries and, being Americans, there is always a great deal of squealing which, in fact, gets on my nerves- but nonetheless this is a programme which is the perfect anecdote to the winter blues.
I almost wished that afternoon that Joseph would stay asleep for a while longer just so that I could watch the next instalment, but alas, all too soon he was awake and raring for action.

Perfect afternoon
'Extreme Makeover- Home Edition'- Even though we only shared one perfect cold and grey afternoon together, I already miss you.
Having now developed an obsession with Sky TV I decided to make the most of the facility the following day while repacking our cases and getting ready for the journey home.
The other "must see" channel I had heard tell of from those lucky enough not to have big trees blocking their signal was Discovery Health, which shows an inordinate amount of documentaries about women having babies.
Hoping that seeing a woman in full labour would kill the broodiness in me, I switched over and found myself watching a very interesting programme about a Chinese woman giving birth to her second child.
Now perhaps it could be argued that Sky TV is not the most educational of tools, but what I saw that day set my brain to thinking. Apparently in China, new mothers are expected to fulfil a 30 day "lying in" period after the birth of their babies.
Basically this means that for 30 days after the birth experience, the new mum gets to lie in her pit and recuperate while her mother and husband fuss around her making sure she eats the right things, has loads of sleep and is generally pampered.
It is a far cry from life in Derry where within hours of your labour, no matter how long and painful, you are feeding, changing and bathing your child and trying to stomach a rather vile and suspect hospital dinner.
Then of course, after two days (if you are lucky) you get out of hospital, go home and throw yourself straight into the routine of mammyhood- with not so much as a cup of tea and chocolate digestive offered to you, never mind 30 days of nutritious goodies cooked by your very own mammy.
It registered in me that we may be the Western world, modernised in almost every way, but somewhere along the line we women have got the rotten end of the stick. Why no one in the West accepts that pregnancy and birth is demanding and exhausting is beyond me, but I for one would be all for having that 30 day lie in- with nothing to worry about but cuddling my new-born and relaxing into motherhood.
Of course upon sharing my new found belief that we need to move to China before we produce number two, himself has vowed that even if, by some miracle, they knock down the big tree across the road we are never allowed to contemplate Sky TV again as it gives me too many notions.
I guess I will just have to settle for the island thingy for the kitchen instead. Now if only I had the phone number for the 'Extreme Makeover' team....

Out with the old

WELCOME TO 2006- the year of killing dead things. Yes, I'm going to lose weight, sort out my house, learn to drive (again) and generally finish the year on a high of perfection and general gorgeouseness.

Or maybe not. You see I don't hold court with resolutions- they just aren't my thing. Admittedly this is mostly because I'm absolutely useless at keeping them, but also it's because I just don't understand why one wee tick of a clock should force us to examine our lives and decide, invariably, that they are pants and we need to change.
It is my honest opinion that January is depressing enough without forcing ourselves into a purgatory of our own making by making sweeping changes to the status quo.
Generally I like new starts, but January doesn't feel like one to me- no matter what the calendar might tell us. You see it's the end of winter- the winding down of the festive season, the long wait for the credit card bills to plop (or thud in some cases) through the letterbox. And all this while we are dealing with the seemingly unending dark evenings and depressingly glum mornings- it's enough to make me weep into my leftover selection boxes.
Let's face it, life is tough enough in January. Getting up in the mornings is a feat in itself for me these days. My alarm clock may screech at me that it's about time I crawled out of my pit, but my head and heart are begging me to lie back down and snooze just another five minutes away.
Allowing myself the occasional (okay, daily) Kit Kat Chunky is the only way to get through the month without totally giving in to depression and melancholy.
All that said, I've not been a total slattern. Returning from our festive sojourn to sunny Cheshire (we had a lovely time, by the way), I looked around Chez Allan and realised we do in fact live in a house that would make Kim and Aggie walk away in disgust.
The in-laws all have houses which wouldn't look out of place in the Next catalogue. Despite having animals (pets and children included in that description) their cream carpets remain cream and their oatmeal sofas are still their natural oatmeal colour and not the strange mix of Digestive biscuit and slabbers our has become.
Unpacking in the 'comfort' (and I use the word loosely) of home I announced to a rather worried husband it was time to "declutter".
I'm not really a hoarder as such- I just have my own very unique method of tidying up. I prefer to refer to it as the "Shove everything in a cupboard and hope no one sees it" method- much to himself's eternal annoyance.

Minimalist Retreat
You see, at first glance my house is a virtual minimalist retreat. Open any cupboard or drawer, or look behind any chair and it's another story.
There are handbags, nappies (clean, thankfully), letters, magazines, even a swimming suit or two hiding in every corner. I have told myself what the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve over but, occasionally, when it all threatens to spill its ugly contents over my cheap laminate flooring, I have to take action.
The wee man's room is the prime example. With his second birthday looming in the all too near future, we decided it was time to update his nursery and make it more suitable for the proper little boy our wee one is turning into.
Until now I have had a huge shelving unit in the side of his nursery wherein I have stored nappies, clothes, toys and assorted nonsense for the past two and half years since the day I found out I was expecting.
If we were going to update the wee man's room, this shelving unit needing tackling- but it was no task for the faint hearted.
Binbags, and a degree of courage, in hand I entered the nursery and started work. I was literally amazed at what I found.
There were nappies two sizes too small, nipple shields even though I didn't breastfeed (apologies for the use of the word nipple in the Derry Journal), a trial sized packet of Fairy Washing Powder, 6 packets of tissues, some moist toilet tissue (you know the stuff that is moist when you buy it...we aren't that disgusting in my house), approximately 2,673 bibs of various sizes, colours and conditions, three half used bags of cotton wool, an empty bottle of Tixilix, a selection of napkins (baffled at that one) and enough clothes to open my own branch of Dunnes- all along with the eeniest, teeniest, cutsiest pair of trainers you ever did see.
After filling two bin-bags, reorganising the shelves and crying broodily over the teeny trainers, I actually felt more in control and I vowed to start working my way through all the rooms in my house until the guys and gals from the Next catalogue would be virtually battering down my door to snap my stylish living habits to steal ideas for next season.
But this is not, and I stress NOT, a New Year's Resolution, because I know the moment I put that label on it I'm damning myself to failure. Sure as eggs is eggs, announcing I'm taking control of my home and my life for 2006 will automatically mean it will all implode in spectacular fashion around me.
So I'm not resolving to do anything. If my house gets tidied this month, it gets tidied. If it doesn't, I'll try again in February when the nights are bit shorter, the weather a little milder and my post Christmas slump has eased.
And if I have to make a resolution, and I mean really, really have to, it's simply that I will start a one woman campaign to have this silly tradition banned once and for all.

For auld lang syne...

I'VE THOUGHT about this a lot and I simply cannot find a way to start this week's column without using that age old cliché- the years are really flying in.

I can't believe we are at the tail end of 2005- a year which has flown by so quickly that I can still remember clearly sitting here this time last year struggling to find something to write about without sounding like old mother time.
I don't know if it is because I'm getting older (yes, I turn 30 in 2006, but I refuse to reveal the date!), or simply because we all seem to be getting busier but I'm struggling to come to terms with just how fast things are moving.
I've become one of those sad old women who spends too much time saying "Ooooh, you're making me feel old. I remember when you were just two," to teenagers and regaling stories of changing their nappies to their highly amused friends.
I now put my house slippers on immediately when I when come in the evening because they so much more comfier than my heels and when I sit in front of the TV I grumble to himself that it's not as good as it used to be when we were younger You don't even want to get me started on how much people swear on TV at the moment either. In my darkest moments I have even thought about sending an email off to Points of View.
It genuinely feels like just a few months ago I would sit with my friends and watch the programme of the same name while we shared a bottle of Peach Schnapps (I wasn't a very trendy drinker in my youth) and some maltesers.
It hardly feels like 10 years ago that I was at university, having the time of my life- but now I'm nearly 30- its 2006 (almost) and life is busier than ever.
This year has been the most hectic to date and if I'm honest I'll be glad to see the back of 2005.
Yes, there have been some amazing highs this year. To see my child grow into a bubbly, loving toddler- to hear him say 'mammy' for the first time and see those first wobbly steps- has almost taken my breath away with pride.
I've also been lucky to forge new friendships and tend to those with more established bonds. There is something about getting that wee bit older which allows you to, excuse the language, cut through the crap and get on with things.
I'm glad to say my friends know me well enough now to boost my confidence when I need it, but also to tell me to catch myself on when I need a good kick up the rear end.
We don't need to pussy-foot around each other, wary of hurting feelings- some of my friends know me better than i know myself and I'm old and wise enough now to know when they are acting in my best interests.
But this year has been hard too. Another aspect of growing up is realising that the world isn't all sunshine and roses- and as an adult you sometimes have to deal with some pretty harsh realities.
As this year has progressed, my granny has fallen increasingly under the evil spell of Alzheimers. This cruel disease means I can no longer call her "granny"- she knows my face, but that bond of granny and granddaughter which was built up over the past 30 years is all but gone.

Coming to terms
And in seeing granny worsen, I've seen my aunts, uncle and father have to come to terms with this loss- and that truly is heartbreaking.
Of course, herself still hasn't lost her biting wit- having recently told me I'm not as a fat as I used to be! (I'm trying to take that as the compliment it was intended to be). She also still manages to torture me about when I'm having another baby- so perhaps all is not lost.
And of course this year saw me lose a dear colleague and friend. The reality that she is gone is still hard to come to terms with, but as time progresses I'm trying, as indeed are all my colleagues, to be thankful for the chances we had to say our goodbyes, to pay our tributes and to know Siobhan in the first instance.
It still doesn't seem right however to end the year without remembering her, raising a glass to her memory and hoping that 2006 brings comfort and peace to her family.
So, I'm glad to say goodbye to 2005 and move on to 2006 (even if it does mean I'll turn 30). I'll look forward to what the coming year will bring. You never know, it might just be the year I write that novel and become the new Marian Keyes- or maybe I'll finally find my weight loss motivation and shift some of this bulk (one chin at a time, sweet Jesus).
I'm pretty confident (and so is my driving instructor for once) that I'll pass my test and get on the road properly- something Siobhan was always nagging me to do. And to top it all off I get to spend some more time with himself, the wee man and the rest of my family.
I'm not sure what adventures lie ahead, but I hope I'll be able to keep sharing them with you all.