And I'll be in Scotland afore ye....

EVEN WHEN I feel low and sad, I know this much to be true. I have been blessed by some very special friendships and when I've felt like giving up (as depression can make you feel) there is always someone there to pick me up, dust me off and make me realise that there are people out there who literally would save your life if you needed them too.

Things have been tough at home lately. My poor wee granny has Alzheimer's. It's a living death- the cruellest of diseases- and while she recognises my face she no longer is aware that I'm her grand-daughter. My son- named after her husband- is to her just a beautiful baby. The connection of great-grandson and the ever to be remembered and loved Granda Davidson is a thing of the past.

She is a woman who is scared, lonely and confused most of the time and her family, in particular my father and his siblings bear the brunt of the grieving process. I know my own mother means so much to me that imagining life without her, even for one second, can reduce me to hysterical crying- so to have someone, and yet be unable to reach their heart, must be truly devastating.

So our family is caught in a state of limbo. This woman, we love so deeply, is not the person we remember and yet her physical presence is the same so we can't just sit back and hope God is kind and takes her because our hearts are desperate to hold on to her and all she means.

On top of this, we have had problems in our own home- with changes in working practices making the balance between home and our professional lives harder to tolerate. My other half is job seeking and getting increasingly disillusioned with the market out there and we have to use all our strength to keep our frustrations under wraps.

Top all this off, with a move towards the longer nights and my fear about what this will mean for my depression and it's just one big happy house of fun here at the moment.

BUT, as I've said there are friends out there who know me well enough to take no for an answer and kick my rear end into touch when necessary.

Last week my dearest friend Vicki (some weirdo I met on t'internet!), sensing my depression, booked (AND PAID) for me to visit her in Glasgow for an overnighter. So on Tuesday off I toddled, sans baby, to Derry airport to board my flight.

On arrival at Glasgow airport, Vicki was waiting, smiling and ready with a hug and I felt immediately better. We had said we would use the night for a good blether, a few tears and putting the world to rights and while I know we talked a lot- mostly we just laughed and acted as teenagers would.

I returned home the following day just so slightly hungover but much more ready to face the world. And with the added support of my mad mums support network, Ruth, Vanessa, Cerise and Sarah I feel much more ready to take the world on board.

You can't keep a mad mammy down.

A very Derry holiday

FOR THE last two weeks I have been taking a break from the hectic pace of life at work and enjoying the annual fortnight of rest and recuperation which I treat myself to every year as the summer draws to a close.


Of course, finances and a cranky toddler marring any grand plans I may have had for a fortnight in some sun kissed secluded beach with nothing but the latest Cathy Kelly novel and a bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc for company- I have had to settle for a holiday at home.

It’s hard to get excited about staying at home for your two week break. As I switched off my computer and set my voicemail to inform all callers that I wouldn’t be available to retell their stories for a fortnight, I felt really rather disgusted that the next two weeks would be spent in Costa Del Northern Ireland.

I took comfort in the fact that I would, at least, be able to batter my rather grungy looking abode into something more habitable and that I would get to play the full time mum role for a while again (Though, I’ll admit that is more daunting than it sounds when you are used to escaping to work for some peace and quiet!).

So with two weeks stretching ahead of me (well, us- grumpy pants Allan the 18-month-old equivalent of Victor Meldrew accompanying me every step of the way) I had to set about forging a plan of action that would A) Make sure my house was still standing at the end of it, B) Allow for much quality time with the entire Lola family and C) Make sure I wasn’t fit for Gransha by the time I returned to work.

Luckily my beloved mammy is also on her holidays so we decided to tag team it with Joseph and my niece Abby to allow them to enjoy some of what Derry has to offer.

For a long time we had been promising Abby a go on the “big bus” (the double deckers doing a tour of the city)- so we figured now was time to bite the bullet and climb those steep steps to the top deck of the tour bus to learn more about our home town.

Of course being a born and bred Derry wan, I thought I knew all there was to know about this fine city. But the bus trip was an education in itself. From our high vantage point we were able to get a good gleek into the Ebrington Barracks and we enjoyed the craic as our guide filled us in on the history of the Craigavon Bridge.

Abby- being all of three and a half- managed to look interested most of the way round and has mimicked our guide ever since now referring to her home town as “Derry City” and nothing else.

Next on the agenda was swimming. Now anyone who knows me will know that hither to now, me and swimsuits don’t really go. I never wanted to be accused of scaring small children with my ginormous butt and orange peeled thighs but now having a small child of my own I decided some sacrifices were in order.

I squeezed my lumps and bumps in my swim suit and headed to a place where I had whiled away many an afternoon as a child- Lisnagelvin Leisure Centre.

Long gone is the scary twirly slide which always seemed to shake a bit as you climbed the stairs (maybe that was just me?). It has been replaced by a new, state-of-the-art climbing frame with multiple slides to suit all ages, abilities and (thankfully) arse widths.

My son is a real water baby, but if there is something he loves more than throwing himself around the swimming pool like a man possessed, it is cars. Find anything remotely rounded in shape (bowls, dummies, sweets, volume controls on his grandad’s precious stereo) and Joseph will make like Michael Schumacher and mimic driving like a man (albeit a very short man) on a mission.

The fact that the climbing frame at Lisnagelvin has many such spherical wheel type objects on them means that after a relatively short time of me hiding in the relative safety of the water, I found myself stood, exposing my swim-suited body for all and sundry to see while Joseph played “Car” for 20 minutes.

It was around that time that two things dawned on me- first that I needed some time away from the 2ft maniac my child has become and secondly that if standing on the climbing frame is to become a regular occurrence then I really need to do something about body image.

Hence me breaking one my own golden rules and joining a gym. I have always been the sort of person who rolls my eyes when someone mentions a gym membership knowing full well that three weeks down the line their gym bag will be lying untouched in their front hall as they sprawl on the sofa with a pizza for company.

So there was no one more shocked than I to find myself at the City Hotel on a cool Friday night signing my name on a dotted line and receiving a membership number.

And, to be fair to me, I’ve only missed one day since (and that was when the Apprentice Boys had made escaping from the Waterside too arduous a task even for me). It has given me an hour away from the wee man each day- a time to think, plan and get thin and if we happen to stop off for a bite of lunch after our swim- sure that’s no harm- we are on our holidays.

The swimming, combined with haring around after a manic little man has meant this holiday hasn’t exactly been relaxing- but it has been fun, non-stop and for the first time ever I’ve actually lost weight while on a break from work!

Of course we have only had a taster of what Derry has to offer. Today, weather permitting, we might brave the Toucan One or I might go for the ultimate work out by pushing a buggy around the City Walls.

Then again, I might just do what every good Derry person should do and head out to the shops; buy a couple of floury baps, a copy of the Journal and catch up on the gossip. Isn’t that what all the tourists do?

I need a hero!

I need a hero!
I WAS a bit shocked and saddened to hear yesterday that former Secretary of State Mo Mowlam (she of the groovy wig and Good Friday Agreement fame) is critically ill in hospital.

The BBC didn't report what was wrong with her, only that she had been admitted over the weekend and was, in those famous hospital words, "critical but stable"- whatever that means.
Mo Mowlam is a woman I've admired for many years. She was Secretary of State when I first started out as a journalist and I had the privilege to meet her on one of my first outings as a reporter. I'm pleased to say she was genuinely as lovely in real life as she appeared on the TV. (Which was a good thing because back then I still got totally star struck to see any of the big name politicians of the day.)
I remember her taking me by the hand and introducing me to the people who I really needed to talk to for my story. It was as if she sensed I was new to the job and a wee bit shy and rather clueless and I'll always remember her for that.
The news that she was seriously ill got me thinking about all my heroes- all the people out there I would love to meet and it also reminded me a conversation I'd had with a local law lecturer about people I admired.
The lecturer had asked me which female journalists I really looked up to. I muttered a quick answer about Kate Adie because hers was the first name that came into my head. I didn't want to sound ignorant (though looking back, I probably did), but the fact is I'm not all that wooed by fame and fortune, more by the actions of people.
Kate Adie, fair play to the woman, has had a remarkable career, but for all I know she might be a narky old baggage to work with. When it comes to news presenters, allow me to look at Dermot Murnaghan any day of the week- who is the most handsome newsreader on the box, but I can't say I really hero worship any of them.
When it comes to talking of female journalists that I admire, I look a wee bit closer to home- to the people who, like Mo Mowlam did, offered a hand of friendship and support when I was new to the job and starting out. People like Siobhan McEleney and Suzanne Rodgers (both of whom will be raging I've even mentioned them here) who pointed me in the right direction and made sure I didn't seriously mess up my career before it had even started.
They are not going to find themselves opening the BBC News from Niger or the Middle East- but that doesn't make them any less of a reporter than Kate Adie and her sort. Their acts of kindness make them more memorable in my book than any big shot, headline grabbing hack.

Not a stalker, honest!
I do, of course, like all of us have heroes I've not yet met. Any regular reader of this column will know I have a rather unhealthy obsession with the author Marian Keyes. It's akin to the obsession I had with Princess Leia from Star Wars when I was wee where I used to sit and pray and hope she would come to Derry and be my bestest friend.
Now, I'm not as crazy to offer prayers up for a meeting with Queen Marian (All Hail), but the woman does come across as the kind of lady I'd love to sit down for a natter with. She has been painfully honest, but utterly hilarious about her own life in her books and I just think we could have bucketloads of craic and say "feck" a lot and decide to be the bestest friends ever if we met. (I know that sounds supremely stalker-ish so rest assured I've not harassed the woman- just read her books!)
All that said, I'm not sure I could actually go ahead with meeting her, or any of my heroes, if the chance actually did arise. I would be afraid of two things; first of all that they would be really boring, arrogant or just generally horrible and second of all that I would lose the ability to form a coherent sentence in the face of such fame.
As a rather sad and spotty teenager I was obsessed with Bros and would while away many a weekend entering ridiculous competitions to see if I could get the chance to meet my idols. While I would sit watching "Going Live" to see if my name was picked out of the hat I would secretly hoped it wouldn't be, because I knew I would turn into a screaming, blethering eejit if I ever came face to face with Matt Goss.
While I worshipped the very ground his Grolsch topped brogues walked on, and knew every lyric of every song he ever sang, the fact is we had very little in common. I was a wee teenager from Derry, he was a famous singer from London who would have been meeting with us mere plebs because his PR people told him it was a good idea.
I doubt he would have, as I dreamed, fallen in love with my sparkling wit and begged me to move to London and marry him. Any meeting may have shattered my illusions of what he was really like and destroyed my teenage notions of love and romance forever.
Perhaps then a meeting with Queen Marian would shatter my illusions that she is one of the funniest, most down to earth women on the face of God's green earth.
But then again, my meeting with Mo Mowlam exceeded my expectations. Perhaps I was lucky, or perhaps there are just some genuine heroes out there.

Wibbly wobbly wonder...

I'm allegedly going swimming tonight, so if you hear of any freak tidal waves in the general Derry area do not be alarmed- it will simply be the result of ample body displacing ample quantities of a water from a hopefully quiet swimming pool.

You see, I'm trying to get fit again. I need to lose weight because, as you may have realised from my rambling here in I'm broody- but I'm not being fat mamma jamma next time round.

I crave a neat bump, some stylish maternity clothes and not being greeted with gasps of disbelief when I tell people I'm expecting. (They all just thought I was eating too many turnovers of a morning!).

I also want to be fit for my son. We went a walk yesterday morning and by the end of it I was praying for a merciful release.

I am unfortunate enough you see to live at the top of a very steep hill. It makes life wonderful walking anywhere as its downhill all the way- but coming home is another matter. I'm a puffing wreck by the time I'm home. I'm sweaty, my legs are aching and I'm feeling like a lump.

I certainly don't feel, or look, like the lithe and lovely mammy I hoped to be. I don't want my son to be the one with the chubby mum at the school gates and I want to be able to take him swimming without feeling embarrassed as me and my thunder thighs wobble out of the changing room.

The last time I went for a proper swim (not a paddle with the wee man), I was 3 stone lighter and a helluva lot fitter. Wish me luck.

If I only had a brain...

If I only had a brain...
BELIEVE IT or not I am quite an intelligent woman. I have a plethora (see I even know how you use the word plethora) of letters after my name and somewhere in my house there is a nice little bundle of certificates proclaiming to all and sundry that I am a smart cookie.


I have always been academically minded. I was determined from a young age that I go to university and, after realising my degree qualified me to do absolutely nothing bar sign on the dole, I made it back to university to study for a Masters which would qualify me to sit here at this desk and write about all the goings on in this fair city.
I even got a First with my dissertation on the ethics of genetic research and my thesis on the portrayal of women in the modern media graces the library shelves of the University of Ulster to this day.
I'm not telling you all this to show off- merely to illustrate that once upon a time I had a brain. For now, it would appear that it has shrunken to a mere shadow of its former self.
I know they say pregnancy decreases your brain capacity- but I had expected some 18 months down the line to have rid myself of my baby brain tendencies and for normal service to have resumed.
Sadly, that is far from the case. My life is one perpetual gaff of forgetting important dates, misplacing important phone numbers and letting time run away with me so that invariably, I only remember that important appointment an hour after it was due to start.
This week has been exceptional. I found myself yesterday morning rushing to the shop beside the "Journal" to pour through their selection of birthday cards having forgotten it was my brother's birthday.
This may not seem like the worst crime in the world; but for me it was huge because I had always been the kind of person who bought birthday cards at the start of each month and had them all signed, sealed and ready to be delivered long before the big day arrived.
Now, however, you will generally find me staring at the last dog-eared card in shop (complete with dodgy picture of an old man fishing) in desperation as the clock edges closer towards party time.
Making a holy show of myself seems to have become my favourite past time. This week, in the course of being a professional journalist, I managed to delete an important email. Luckily with the help of some Internet research and a couple of quick prayers to St. Anthony I was able to track down the relevant information again.
There I was, armed with the relevant phone numbers, ready for a big interview and for some reason, I got caught up in another story and missed my time slot.
I'm only glad my unlucky interviewee couldn't see my face blazing as I mumbled my apologies down the phone.

Mad for post-its
Of course, most of the time I can handle my new found stupidity quite well. My desk often resembles an explosion in a Post-It factory with reminders stuck to every surface, and my daily diary is book-marked to within an inch of its life.
Birthdays, generally speaking (obviously there are exceptions), can be brought to my attention with the aid of a reminder programmed into my mobile phone and our fridge at home is a magnet-crazy bulletin board of appointment letters, rotas and self penned reminders.
But once upon a time I didn't need such things. I was the Queen of multi-tasking and my brain was veritable filo-fax of useful information- now it spends a good half hour trying to remember that the Bay City Rollers sang "Bye Bye Baby".
I can, of course, take extreme comfort in the fact that where the intellectual ramblings of Marx and DeBeauvoir once lived, now the words (and actions- they are very important don't you know!) of at least 100 nursery rhymes reside.
In fairness, I don't really do too much to help myself. My younger sister is what you would call a brainiac. She would, in fact, label herself a science geek (she even knows how to swear in Latin).
She permanently has her nose stuck in some heavy tome about the future genetics of the human race or some high brow novel about feminism or world politics.
She reads for pleasure the kind of books I only read under duress as part of my university course and instead of kicking her heels up in front of "Wife Swap" or "Holiday Showdown", she'll happily watch Panorama until worrying thoughts about old people are coming out of her ears.
She can still hold a rational conversation AND she too is a mammy which, I guess, kind of dismisses my theory that my own new found stupidity is related my child-bearing experience. She never seems to have those blips where her brain goes into melt-down and she spends 10 minutes trying to think of the word she wanted to say.
But I'm not a fan of highly intellectual reading and documentaries. I get enough of the news each day at work to want to bring it into my relaxation time as well. I'm happy as Larry with the latest chick lit adventure or a nice Romantic Comedy on DVD.
That is taxing enough for my wee brain to handle. All I can do is thank God they don't do a 10 yearly review to see if you are still worthy of the letters after your name. In years to come, when I'm in my dotage, the evidence will still be there for all to see that I was once actually quite not the dumbest girl on the block.

Ooooh Matron!

FIVE YEARS ago I developed a dangerous and overdraft-threatening obsession with wedding magazines. As I planned my big day our spare room literally overflowed with every magazine on the market as I struggled to decide on dresses, flowers, cars, favours and all those little details which make your big day one to remember.


There was nothing I liked more than to sink into a luxurious bubble bath, candles everywhere and look at all the pictures of stunning dresses, amazing floral arrangements and glitzy accessories. It was sheer bliss.
As my wedding day passed, however, I had to reluctantly resign myself to the fact that I no longer had a legitimate reason to bulk buy all those glossy magazines in Eason and, after a painful grieving period, I finally declared myself cured of of my addiction.
My husband breathed a sigh of relief, as did the bank manager and the creaking floorboards of our spare room when I donated my tomes to a friend who was getting married and life returned to a semi-normality.
Four years on from my wedding, I thought I was totally cured but I have to admit I'm on the slippery slope again. You see my sister (known in our house has Yaya) announced her engagement to the lovely Paul last weekend.
She also made the somewhat questionable decision to ask me to play the role of Matron of Honour (though being young, hip and happening I prefer the term Chief Bridesmaid) on their big day- planned for the summer of 2007. Suddenly my wedding radar has been switched back on and my husband is afraid, very afraid. He has caught me flicking through wedding websites and is aware that the magazines are calling me to pick them up again. (Purely in the interest of research, of course).
I've never been a bridesmaid before, let alone a chief one. I've never even been a flowergirl! (I must have been a boot ugly wain!) My experience of walking up the aisle is limited to being the nervous bride- and certainly not the person who is is supposed to stay cool calm and collected.
I'm told the duties of a Chief Bridesmaid include helping the bride organise her big day- and keeping her calm in the run up to the festivities, and as anyone planning a wedding in Derry will know you have to book these things at least two years in advance so my duties have already started.
Fortunately planning my wedding turned me into the organised person I had always hoped to be. I researched every angle of the big day, designed the bridesmaid's frocks myself, chose every piece of music for the service and went to great lengths to order the perfect personalised bubbles for the end of the ceremony (this was back when wedding bubbles were not available in every card shop and market stall in Derry).
If Yaya wants a low down on cars to suit meringue style frocks, or corkage charges in hotels then I'm your gal. I can tell you anything you want to know about balloons, favours and disposable cameras.
Unfortunately planning the big day also turned me into a certified loony tune. I remember with a great sense of shame the hysterical crying I did when a problem occurred with my wedding cake and the hyperventilation which surrounded the revelation that men's suits had been double booked.
Of course the wedding cake turned out fabulous in the end (chocolate, hmmmm!) and the suits were fine but that did not stop my temporary insanity.

Bridezilla
I was, I now admit in the fruition of time, a Bridezilla, the definition of which being a woman who has lost the power of rational thought and becomes more of a screaming banshee day by day as her wedding approaches.
I don't know if the above credentials actually make me the most suitable person for the role of keeping the bride calm; but in all fairness to Yaya she did stop me from losing it totally as my own day approached. (Even though she made the cardinal sin of forgetting to straighten the train of my dress just before I walked down the aisle).
I remember at the time trying to remind myself time and time again that the wedding was not as important as the marriage which would follow it. Those are indeed wise and prophetic words; but when you think that the average woman plans her big day from the minute she can walk around the living room in her mammy's high heels with a net curtain on her head preparing to marry Action Man- they tend to fall on deaf ears during the planning process.
The marriage is, of course, more important- but the day should be the best day of your life and it's the one day you get what you want. On what other day can you prance about wearing a tiara and a ballgown showing off your new jewellery? Or ride is a Rolls Royce with a gaggle of servants (bridesmaids) tending to your every need? On what other day can you get the average Derry man to stand up in front of a crowded room and tell the world why he thinks you are wonderful and just how much he loves you?
Is it any wonder we all go a bit doolally when our time comes?
As Chief Bridesmaid (or Matron of Dishonour!) it's hard not to get caught up in that sense of excitement too. Let's just hope I don't bankrupt myself in the process.

Our day at the beach

Been feeling stupidly sorry for myself today for some reason.

But we went out to view a hotel for the upcoming wedding of my sister YaYa (as she is known to the babies) and then went on to the beach.

I had a fab mammy day. It all knitted together perfectly. We laughed, joked, cuddled and I put suncream on Joseph and said things like : "Don't eat the sand, it will make your poo scratchy" a lot.

I felt like a proper grown up. (Why it still surprises me to feel like a proper grown up at 29 is a mystery- but nonetheless it's a rare occurance.)

But I felt sad too- because I don't get to do things like this every day with Joseph. Usually I'm sat a desk- not being a mammy. While my job serves the purpose of keeping me sane (ish) and paying the bills, its not quite as fulfilling as eating chips out of the paper with an 18 month old on the beach.

On the way home in the car we sang our usual medley of songs: including the Goodbye Song from Bear in the Big Blue House.

Perhaps when I go to work tomorrow I'll remind myself of the line: "Oh when we have to go away, it's kind of sad but then...it's nice to know that it won't be long, til we get see each other again.."

Oh what a lovely family!

It is with great shame that I have to admit that myself, Himself and the wee man have very rarely sat down for a meal together that has been prepared by my own fair hands.

We have eaten out quite a bit but, to be honest, dinner usually involves Himself getting a snack at work (usually works evenings), me shovelling something into Joseph at 6 and the sitting down to enjoy my own meal in peace after Joseph is tucked up in bed.

Taking advantage of the fact that himself is off work with a neck injury however I came home early from my mums today and started cooking for my family enmasse.

It's bizarre how something so seemingly silly gave me joy. I had myself locked in the kitchen singing along to the Lyrics Board (dodgy Irish TV) while himself bathed Joseph and then brought him down for a play before dinner.

We all sat at the table- I even insisted the TV be switched off!- and enjoyed my lovely Cottage Pie, with loads of fresh veg.

After we played with the wee man in the living room for an hour before bed and I felt so content I wondered if my heart might just bust.

A year ago the thought of being with my son for three hours without the distraction of his granny, his cousin and all the rest of the extended family would have had me out in a cold sweat.

But today we were our family- our unique wee unit and it was amazing.

Oh dear- one may be broody...

Oh, I'm just so confused at the moment. Basically I had a wee pregnancy scare on this month which admittedly was probably just me being over dramatic and silly but I had a lot of symptoms (boobs on fire, bloating, sickness, exhaustion) and my cycle is all weird- so I just wondered..
Anyway, the old hag arrived last night and the thing is I was no way ready physically, financially etc to have a baby but if it happened we would have coped- we would have struggled- but I think secretly I would have been delighted. (My doctor probably would have run screaming for the hills but that's another story.)
Now tho, I know its not happened and I'm gutted, even though it is so for the best.
I know that I'll not really be in a position to ttc til summer 2007 (after my sister's wedding) and that just seems like so long to go. (Means J would be 4.5 by the time a new baby came along by which stage I would have my life back and would I really be ready for the nappies/ bottles/ baby boke madness again?)
So I guess I sort of hoped for a happy accident.
Anyway, I'm all confused now about what I want. Part of me wants to through caution to the wind and TTC now- even tho we are financially in a shit position and I stil want to lose weight before embarking on another pregnancy. (Still 1.5 stone heavier than my pre preg weight with J).
Oh, I'm so hormonal I just want to cry or snap at people and I've surprised myself with my reaction to all this.

I may need to eat chocolate today...

Let me entertain you!

IT'S NO secret that when it comes to singing, dancing or acting I fall short of the mark, but what I lack in talent I make up for in enthusiasm.


I've come to realise that while a couple of years ago I could hide in a corner and refuse to sing or act the eejit, spending a considerable amount of time in the company of children means that crushing shyness and embarrassment is no longer an excuse I'm allowed to use.
I've taken to singing, a lot, in every possible situation- be it walking round Tesco to do the weekly shop or leading a rousing chorus of "The Wheels on the Bus" on the Altnagelvin bus.
That's not to say I'm suddenly busting with a burning desire to get up and stage and sing along with the Karaoke. My one shameful experience singing backing for "Mustang Sally" in the Strand Tavern on my 20th birthday was enough to put me off that notion (Having seen The Commitments it is impossible not to get the urge to sign "ride Sally ride" in a heavy Dublin accent- singing in a Derry tone sounds like you have sucked the air out of one too many helium balloons).
Both my niece and my son love singing and anything musical. It's impossible to get in the car with the wee man these days without hearing shouts of "Ah want jingles", meaning he wants to listen to his Jo Jingles CD- which necessitates mammy singing, and doing all the gestures along with the songs. I'm pretty sure the people in the cars travelling behind us think I'm mental as I dance along to "Wind the Bobbin Up" at half eight in the morning.
And for Miss Abby and her acting antics, well you can't enter her house without being forced into playing a part in her productions of either Cinderella, Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat or, more bizarrely, Chicago.
Generally I get lumbered with the part of Ugly Sister Archie (Abby preferring to re-enact the Balamory version of the Brothers Grimm classic) and it's my task to destroy Cinderella's (played by Abby) invitation to the ball before she gets to meet the handsome prince (played by either my mum or occasionally Joseph who acts as an oblivious understudy to all the main roles).
Alternatively we have Abby playing the part of Maria in Joseph (Maria being the name of the woman who plays the Narrator in the Donny Osmond film version of the Andrew Lloyd Webber classic). While she sings with a deep sincerity in her voice that "a man who can intergrit (Abby for interpret) could go far", her cousin bounces around the floor dizzy with the excitement of just hearing the classic "Go Go Joe".
The innocence of their play and their fun is infectious and I can't help but join in. Admittedly it gets a little tired after the 50th time of laughing evilly and telling Cinders she can't go to the ball, but more times than not you can't help but get a glimpse of the joy of childhood through their actions and before you know it you are acting a looney with them.

High pitched and squeaky
I've always been stupidly ashamed of my singing voice. It really is dreadful. I'm all high pitched and squeaky and while generally speaking I can get all the notes right, I just don't necessarily get them all in the right order.
I have annoyed my family, all talented in the vocal department, with not only my obvious lack of talent, but also my reluctance to share my dulcet tones with them. For a recent birthday my siblings recorded a version of John Denver's "Poems, Prayers and Promises" for my daddy, each singing a little part of the song. Even Abby, then seven months, added the contribution of a wee gurgle at the end. I did nothing. I would have happily played the Triangle as an accompaniment if they asked me, but there was not a chance in heaven they were going to hear me sing!
It would have been one humiliation too far for me. I know family are forgiving at the best of times, but some things are unforgivable and ruining their efforts to record my father's favourite song would have been pretty much at the top of that list.
But oh, how things have changed. Two weekends ago the wee man took ill with yet another chest infection so off we went to the hospital to get checked out. While we sat in the Casualty waiting room, our son sickly, wheezing and needing loads of cuddles, I was surprised to find myself bellowing out "See Saw Marjory Daw" and "Twinkle Twinkle" while rocking the wee man back and forth on my knee.
Some young girls across the waiting room were in fits of giggles. It could have been at me, or it could have been a private joke- but regardless it wasn't enough to stop me soothing my child. If anything it made me sing a little louder to drown them out.
Yes, I was still aware my singing voice was never going to get me to number one or win me a place on the new series of Musicality- but it was enough for Joseph and it's enough for Abby as we sing our special rendition of "Any Dream Will Do".
And I've found it quite freeing to let go of my inhibitions and belt out a tune when the notion takes me. I still have no desire to record my voice for posterity- but I'm going to keep singing- at least until Joseph is old enough to be embarrassed by his tuneless mammy.

The answer my friends...

WRITTEN 7/7/05

I DON'T think the world has ever been such a scary place. I find it funny (that's funny peculiar, not funny ha ha) that in almost 30 years of living in N. Ireland through some of the toughest days of the Troubles, I've never felt as vulnerable as I do now.

As the news broke yesterday morning I immediately set about texting friends and family in London just to make sure they were okay. I soon found out one lady I knew from an online antenatal support group was in a panic as her son- the same age as mine- was with the childminder close to the scene of one of the blasts.
She waited almost three hours before she found out they were safe and my heart was in my mouth with her for almost all of those three hours. Her sense of panic was palpable, as was her sense of confusion. Phones weren't working, the news coverage was jumbled: no one seemed to know what had happened.
London may be several hundred miles away, but yesterday it might as well just have been a wee dooter up the road because I could understand the worry or all those waiting for news of loved ones. I sat, waiting for news myself. London may well be a big city but it's all too small when your television screen is filled with images of injured people as you wait for your phone to bleep into life.
Thankfully my cousins were quick to let me know they were fine (one didn't even know about the blasts until I texted her!). It took a little longer for my cousin's girlfriend to get the message across that she is ok, but stuck in her office building in central London over night. There is simply no way to get out of the city centre at the moment.
I sat transfixed to the Internet and to the news reports as they came in. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach because this was a random attack where no one knew where it would start or end, or how many would die and it made me realise once again that life is fragile and you never know how or when it could be snatched away from you.
I felt more sickened and more scared yesterday than I did throughout the course of the Troubles, with the possible exception of the Omagh bombing which was the first big event I covered as a journalist.
I find it amazing that news of the bombs has made such an impact on me. Like all young people of my generation in Northern Ireland we grew up in an age where it was perfectly acceptable to walk out of the door to find a soldier hiding in your pathway, or pointing a gun in your direction as you walked past.
Gunfire didn't startle us, it was something were almost used to and it wasn't a shock to hear of a bomb or a riot. Violence- terrorism- was something that verged on the normal and yet I always felt safe.
My parents made sure we grew up as far removed from the politics of the day as possible. Yes, we lived in Creggan and went to Mass like all good wee Catholics. We knew about Bloody Sunday and the history of our town but we were taught respect for our neighbours- whoever they may be. Tribalism didn't exist in our house, and it still doesn't.
I remember getting a strict telling off from daddy dearest for scoring out in pencil the London from Londonderry on a map. It was a point he wanted to make to us that even though that is not what we called it, scoring names out and vandalising property was not the way to go about making my opinion heard. To this day, I don't know why I had done it in the first place, but i knew I wasn't going to do it again!
As children we were aware bad things happened, but we didn't really let that impact on enjoying our childhoods. We still played out in the street. We still walked alone to the park or the playground and the news was something mammy and daddy watched. We watched She-Ra and trust me, that was more than enough peril for my eight-year-old heart.
But life seems different now. The threat may have moved away from our doorsteps, but somehow it has become more sinister.
Then again, maybe it just becomes scarier when you are an adult and not even the kindest of mammies or daddies in the world can shield you from the reality of a world where fanatical terrorists can strike at any time of the day, without any warning.
And now, it's actually down to me to protect my child from the horrors of the modern world. I can feel fear, but I can't show it; not to a child who thinks life starts and ends with Noddy, Balamory and Fifi and the Flowertots.
It makes me sad that my faith in world politics, my faith in the ultimate goodness of people has been tested once again. It makes me wonder how we can protect our children from the fear factor that inevitably comes with events such as these? On the positive side it makes me really proud too of all those parents who raised a generation of children who still viewed their childhood as "normal" when clearly it was not.
As this column goes to print, we don't know how many people have lost their lives or the full scale of the tragedy. But we do know the world is scarier place, and I just don't know how we deal with that, but I'm willing to listen to all suggestions.

Joseph: The Musical Genius

He may be small....

He may be sweet...

But baby, he knows how to use his feet!

Breaking the final taboo

IF THERE is one piece of advice I can offer all who read this column it would be to never, under any circumstances, bring a book with you to the hairdressers which may reduce you to a sobbing wreck while some poor stylist is trying to sort out your roots.

Take something happy. Something by Queen Marian Keyes (All Hail) or Cathy Kelly is perfect. However "Down Came the Rain"- Brooke Shield's book on her experiences with Post Natal Depression- is not advisable.It's not that it isn't a good book or well written; it is just that any mother who has ever experienced something that wee bit more sinister than just your bog standard "baby blues" will find it moving to see her own experiences echoed by someone in print.

You see, I kind of understand the experience having undergone my own battle with depression both during pregnancy and after the birth of my son.I'll admit that even though I knew people who had experienced similar feelings, I never understood it until I was there myself because there is no way you expect not to feel anything but wonderful when they hand your baby to you.If I'm honest, my primary feeling was exhaustion, seconded by a need to do everything the proper way for this little human being in my care.

But my feelings were not of overwhelming love. I loved him, yes, I can't deny that- but this was not the most- amazing-feeling- in-the-world experience I had been told about since the moment I held my first Tiny Tears doll as a young child.Motherhood is tough and the induction period is a real baptism of fire. My personal experience was that I was exhausted and sore and very unsure of what to do best for my child. I didn't know if I was feeding him enough, or too little, or not winding him properly, not bathing him enough, cuddling him too much or cuddling him too little.I became obsessed with baby books offering miracle routines and spent so much time trying to be the "perfect" mammy (you know the kind that beams in an earth mother style from the pages of "Practical Parenting") that I actually became the perfect basket case instead.

I remember feeling as if i simply could not manage another feed or another nappy change and while I did everything the wee man needed, I did it mechanically (You should have seen me making up the bottles in the evening- I was a one woman production line). Even hugging came down to doing so because whatever daft routine we were on that week dictated it was hugging time.I ignored whatever maternal instincts I did have if they didn't match the Baby Whisperer's EASY Routine and the result is I never allowed myself to get to know my own baby's personality. And if you don't know someone, how can you fall in love with them?


That said, I know I'm one of the lucky ones. My family are great at spotting when I'm going into a tailspin and they dispatched me off to a very lovely GP who sorted me on the road to recovery and made me realise that that I wasn't mad (well, not totally anyway). All that coupled with throwing away the baby books, dismissing talk of rigid routines and taking a more relaxed attitude to parenting meant that, several months down the line, the all consuming love I'd always heard about started to flood in for our son.And now, I love him with such a fierce pride and protectiveness that I want to breath in his cute babyness and I light up at the end of a day at work when I see his smile. I would challenge anyone who hurt him and I tend to rabbit on incessantly about his achievements.

Yes, there is still a level of guilt there that I didn't just do things my own way and relax more when he was tiny. I have just a vague memory of my eeny baby, having found those early weeks such a struggle that I never realised just how fleeting and precious that early baby stage is.But I've learned that guilt and motherhood go hand in hand and I'm not a bad mammy just because I didn't immediately proclaim my undying devotion to the wee man. Luckily he is happy, healthy and loves his mammy. (Can't seem to say Mammy though- much to my chagrin- he insists on calling me Daddy).

Now I feel, for the most part, happy and healthy in myself. But I've shocked myself by still finding my experiences difficult to admit too. I would be the first to say there should be no taboo around depression, be it the common or garden variety or Post Natal- but the truth is there is.People, generally speaking, don't understand it. They think we should all just "pull ourselves together". Even Tom Cruise, that pinnacle of celebrity, has hit out at Ms. Shields for talking so openly about her experiences in her book.Should we then sweep it under the carpet? Would Mr. Cruise (who is guaranteed never to go through Post Natal Depression himself) prefer we said nothing and let another generation of women feel they have failed themselves and their children in some way by not jumping with joy through the first few months of motherhood?My experience was mild.

Yes, there were unbearably dark days but I was able to find my way through it with some support and a husband who was more than understanding when it came to making sure I got plenty of rest. I have found the light at the end of my tunnel.For the women who are still going through this, however, we have to make sure that people speak up about what they have gone through so that not one person ever feels low and alone again and that everyone, God willing, can eventually fall in love with their baby in the way I have with mine.

Nooo shoooos

I can't believe my little one is growing so fast.
Today we bought his first proper shoes and I'm reminded of that old story about the mother who cried when she bought her child his first shoes because it meant he would be one step closer to walking away from her forever.
But I'm not feeling maudlin (for once, which you will agree is a major achievement for me!). I#'m proud as punch. But to make sure the sad feelings don't creep in, we bought shoes which light up at the heels when he walks away....how can you be sad when Disco Baby is dancing away from you?


TOM CRUISE= Stupid feckwit
As an aside I would just like to publicly say, Tom Cruise you are a feckwit. You've lost a fan and I hope you never have to undergo any kind of mental illness in your life. (That is, of course, if dancing all over Oprah's stage like a midget on heat was not proof enough of your lunacy).

Arise Darth Baby...

You would think by now the premise of Sod's Law would have sunken into to my somewhat adled baby brain.
Just three short days ago while taking the wee man on a routine check to the doctors to look at his slightly funny shaped ankle, I congratulated myself on the fact that we hadn't had to use his inhaler in about 2 months. (This being just about the only thing Joseph has ever had to see the doctor about).
I thought it was great that his chest problems seemed to be a thing of the past and as summer draws in, I thought we were sure for a wheeze free few months.

So God, playing his mad candid camera game on me yet again, decided that the very next day Darth Baby (as wheezy Joseph is known) would return to our house.

It started with a sniffle and it ended with a trip to the Children's Ward. In between we had a projectile vomiting incident in a supermarket, several hysterical crying fits (Joseph AND me), some weird and wonderful medicines and several foreign doctors who tried their best to understand an hysterical Derry mammy rambling about her "wain being in good form".

While I have since realised I do now actually look every one of my 29 years and the wrinkles are getting deeper- I don't feel all the grown up. Part of me (a wee tiny part deep inside) still feels footloose and fancy free. There is no greater way to make you feel like a proper grown up though than to have to clean up your child's boke in the dairy section of a supermarket on a Sunday morning. While Joseph sat in a pool of his own making I hopelessly pulled a couple of baby wipes from his bag and tried to clean him up.

People walked past- some smiled sympathetically others almost ran past to escape the smell and I did what every good Derry woman would do- phoned my mammy to ask to come help.

Boking aside, the wee man was his usual nutty self; but shortly after he was back to his Darth Baby impression- heavy breathing all over the place- which is most unsuitable given that I'm his mother and only accept heavy breathing from my other half!

So on we went to the doctors and then to the hospital where I had to act the proper grown up and answer all the doctor's questions responsibly and not show an ounce of fear when they talked about taking blood, putting in a drip and doing x-rays. My heart may well have been racing, but the wee man wasn't going to sense anything different with his mammy.

Luckily when we reached the ward they had a sit-in car ("Tar" as Joseph calls it) where he remained amused until he was eventually, after another dose on the nebuliser, allowed to go home.

I'm sure this was just the first of many scrapes the wee man will get himself into it- and I'm sure the scars will stay with me and his daddy for longer than with him- but this is one part of the mammy deal I didn't bargain for.

So tired, but relieved, our family unit are trying to get back to normal and Darth Baby is breathing relatively normally again. Let's hope it's some time again before we get another glimpse of the dark side.

Who wants to be a skinny malinky?

Who wants to be a skinny malinky?
ACCORDING TO one of the many slightly cheesy celebrity filled magazines I buy every week Desperate Housewives actress Teri Hatcher has now slimmed down to a shocking size four.

Try as I might, I just can't say the woman looks good for it. Her arms look as though they might break with a mere pinch and her face is almost skeletal. Superman wouldn't dare try and whisk the former Lois Lane actress off now for fear she would float away on the breeze somewhere over Metropolis, never to be seen again.
It's sad for me because, as a teenager, Teri Hatcher was my idol. I thought she looked amazing, had a great sense of style but she still looked like a real woman. Admittedly she was probably never more than a size 10, but at least then she look well.
The same cheesy magazine has told me that Bridget Jones actress Rene Zellwegger, a comfortable size 14 when she reprised her roll in last year's "Edge of Reason" is now a size 6 and quite frankly the woman would not look out of place in a depiction of the Holocaust.
But, in the pictures, Teri and Rene are smiling. They are wearing the latest designer clothes and you realise they must actually think they look better for the their skinniness.
The truth is they look ill, as if ravaged from some nasty disease that only a force feeding of stew and turnovers from Doherty's Bakery would sort out. Their gauntness also serves to make them look older than their years- so hardly the look you would think a celebrity would like to go for.
And yet, the cheesy weekly glossies that I have a strange addiction to are literally crammed with celebrities who are on some mad crazy diet or other. One claimed that Victoria Beckham slimmed down to a size six to "punish" her husband for not spending more time at home.
This week we hear that Kerry McFadden/ Katona/ whatever she calls herself these days may have an addiction to slimming pills. Remarkably her boobs are still ginormous but the rest of herself is eeny. It is not a good look and I fear she may topple over if so much as nudged.
I've never been a fan of the waif look- mostly because it is a look that I will never achieve, even if I contract a bad dose of cholera and lose half my bodyweight down the nearest toilet.
But I also just don't like it. I grew up watching films where the women were tanned and gorgeous and most of all had curves and they weren't ashamed of them. I was a fan of Doris Day, Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell and even in the 80s women like Carrie Fisher (Star Wars) and Jennifer Grey (Dirty Dancing) showed that real femininity existed in curves and looking, well to be honest, like a woman.
I could be drawn into lengthy debates about whether or not the media encourage young women to go on drastic weight loss plans, or I could defend whether or not it is simply my own insecurities that make me hate these super thin women so much but I do think then I really would be skirting the issue!

Women should be women
I just think, and perhaps I'm mad at thinking this, that women should look like women. It baffles me why we spend so much time and effort trying to change who we are.
Now don't get me wrong, I don't believe that we should just allow ourselves to go to pot. As someone who has battled with her weight all her adult life, and especially since pregnancy and the birth of my son, I know that being overweight is good for neither body or soul.
The current hot spell combined with putting my back out has reminded me once again of my need to slim down and shape up. I can tell you now there is nothing as unattractive as the site of me, sweating like a goodun, pushing a buggy with an impatient child up Fountain Hill on a sunny day.
And when my back went out, and I was forced to spend a considerable amount of time lying on the floor staring at ceilings, I realise it is in my own interest to improve my muscle tone and fitness levels.
But, I'm realistic about my goals and I'm not one of these women who believes that if I'm not a size 10 or 12 the world will come to an end. I've been almost every size in the book over the last 10 years and I know now that while my current girth isn't for me, anything under a 14 or 16 also makes me look like I need a good feeding.
I have a significant number of friends who moan about their size. They long for a model-like figure and I have to wonder are they really seeing a true reflection of themselves when they look in the mirror? The majority of my muckers range between a 12 and a 16 (They will love me for spilling that wee gem of information in the paper!) and none of them look overweight, fat or ugly.
They look comfortable in their bodies. Sure their tummies may not be flat, but then having babies will do that for you- and yes they might not like their saggy bingo wings- but hey old age comes to us all.
I just wish they could see that they at least look healthy and better- more womanly- than the lollipop headed celebrities on the pages of my magazines.

Three Cheers for Daddy

WHO WOULD have thought that just one Sunday could cost me so much? I am of course referring to the fun and games that is Father's Day.

Being a daughter, a daughter in law and the mother of a son who happens to have a father, granddad and grandpa and Godfather, this card buying business has turned into quite an expensive affair.
Six cards and a considerable dent in my meagre wages later, we're about ready for the big day to dawn upon us. All I have to do now is take the somewhat questionable risk of putting a biro in my 16 month old's hands and letting him try to "sign" the cards himself. (Chances are he will either try to eat the pen or draw on my walls).
Now I have to say that money aside, I'm all in favour of Father's Day. Of course, I tend to prefer Mother's Day these days, but it's nice to be forced by the card companies into actually saying a thank you to the men in our lives at least once a year.

I know for a fact that my wee man adores his daddy. It can gall me somewhat, after all I'm the one who endured the 26 hours of gruelling labour and the associated weeks of sitting uncomfortably while the stitches healed to give the wee man life; but given a choice between mammy and daddy, daddy wins hands down.
However having a somewhat limited vocabulary at the moment (basically 'Daddy' 'Noddy' 'Splish Splash' 'Nana' and 'swing swing') Joseph isn't generally able to tell his daddy thank you in uncertain terms. And as for me, I'm generally too caught up in what Joseph's daddy doesn't do to stop and say thank you myself.
You see my other half has surprised me with his approach to fatherhood. He is a man who in all his 32 years before becoming father refused steadfastly to even hold a baby let alone actually do anything to entertain or care for the wee mite.

In fact when close friends of ours became parents a week before my due date himself even refused to hold their newborn when we visited the hospital. He said at that time he didn't know how. The argument that a week before becoming a father yourself is as good a time as any to learn didn't wash with him.
So it was safe to say when he was finally handed his own bundle of joy his nerves were somewhat wrecked. He has since confided in me that those few seconds were the scariest of his life. (My heart bled, after what I'd just been through). While I'd had nine months of feeling kicks, feeling sick and growing to the size of a not-so-small African country to get used to the notion of impending motherhood, himself had adopted his usual tack of burying his head in the sand and pretending life would continue as was for as long as possible.

The gig was well and truly up though when our son was born. There was no escaping the emotional, financial, physical and mental impact of fatherhood. Himself was about to get a huge shock to the system; but he took it remarkably well.
While in the early days he paled at the notion of nappy changing and was over cautious when dressing all 6lb 9oz of our son, he soon found he had no problem with making up bottles, feeding, burping and generally looking on adoringly at his new family.

His one glitch on his road to parenthood was when he signed a card to our son from "Neil" and not from daddy. Even as I explained to him that there was a slight problem with the card it took a few minutes for the penny to drop before he looked at me with a mixture of pure joy and pure terror that he was now, officially, a parent.

In the months that have followed he has excelled himself in certain parenting skills. While I have a pathological fear of throwing the wee man into the air and catching him again to squeals of delight, himself has no such qualms.
Being an early bird, he's not the worst at letting me have an extra hour or two in bed at the weekend and he is now adept at getting the wee man fed, dressed (not necessarily in combination the average sane woman would choose, admittedly) and out the door while I get to be all girly and put my make up on.
Now I'm not saying he is perfect. Where he has improved in parenting skills he has definitely nose-dived in general helping around the house skills. While I can rest assured Joseph can be dressed before we head out the door I can quite often discover some encrusted Weetabix under his chin or that he is wearing odd socks just as I'm bumping into someone I want to show my baby off to.

But odd socks are something we can all live with if, at the end of the day, the wee man is happy and secure. My own daddy was famous for his quirky ways when we were wee. From his attempts to cut our hair, to dressing us when mammy was in hospital to preparing his own weird and wonderful versions of a Sunday dinner. It wasn't always conventional and from talks with my beloved mammy, Daddy's attempts at helping out around the house when we were wee was not exactly breath taking- but we were happy, secure and loved.

So for one day I'm going to put aside my gripes and complaints about what doesn't get done and think about the bigger picture. Dishes will always need doing, floors will always need mopping; but babies don't stay babies forever. So to my other half, and my own dearest daddy- for today do what you do best and continue to make your children smile!

Me and the Dabs, June 2004. My princess! 

Talking 'bout my girl

MY NIECE is three and a half and going through a kind of belated terrible twos at the moment.

We always congratulated ourselves that we managed to get through her second year relatively unscathed and apart from a few interesting tantrums in Tesco, Abby has been the model daughter, niece and grandbaby.

And then Aunty Claire did something bold, by introducing another baby into the equation and messing up Abby’s position as the centre of the known universe for everyone in our family.

In the first year, it all went extremely well. We were able to congratulate ourselves that she immediately fell in love with her cousin “baby Joe” and for the most part was delighted to see him wheel up in his buggy at her front door.

But then, he grew up a bit and decided he had a personality of his own. If he wanted to see Balamory then he would bum shuffle at the speed of light to the DVD player and batter it into submission. If he wanted to play with one of Abby’s toys then again he would grab, play and cry if he didn’t get his way. And generally Abby let him, because she knew that he was too young to understand the fineries of share and share alike. (He’s learning quickly now though for the sake of my sanity!)

But the worm ball (as my mum somewhat weirdly would call her when she was wee) has turned. And it’s all down to Aunty Claire to feel guilty about it.

You see as long term readers of this column will know, Abby used to be my number one priority (outside of work of course, Mr. Editor!) and I would while away many an hour sat on the floor with her playing with her “neep neep” (A giraffe which made a neep sound) or sticking my finger in her mouth trying to find teeth (I think I found the first five much to my sister’s- her mammy- chagrin).

Of course all that changed when I became a mum myself. Of course I didn’t love Abby any less and she is still my number one girl; but it was impossible to play on the floor when I had to feed the crankiest baby on the planet around the clock and it has come to the stage when he is now fairly claiming his right to my total and undivided attention- leaving the Dabster out in the cold for the time being.

With my wee man now having reached 16 months old, I’m inevitably getting asked time and time again when I’m having baby number two. Sure it would be a sin to leave my wee man an only child- wouldn’t it?

But all I can think is that if another baby comes along then my time, my attention and my energies will get stretched even further and soon it will be Joseph looking at my with soppy eyes and vying for my attention and Abby will be even further down the priority list.

They say you always have love for one more, and that’s true. Abby is still my princess and I love her with all my heart (all the way to the moon and back- as we tell each other). But while you have love for as many children as God blesses you with; do we really have the time to give them the love they need and deserve?

Of course it’s all married in with the guilt most of us working mothers feel when we head out the door in the morning knowing that the next time we will see our little ones is when we are tired and grumpy (if my editor is reading that; change those words for fulfilled and satisfied with my work) and then hold the nightly “how can we dump you in the cot so you are asleep by the time Corrie comes on” challenge.

Those who would promote the notion that we can “have it all”, say that those precious after work hours are “quality time”. If this wasn’t a family newspaper I would tell you exactly what I think of that particular statement.

Quality time is a myth for most of us and with 101 programmes on the TV constantly reminding us that how we behave with our children at this young age will shape their personalities forever more and determine whether or not they are productive members of society or psychopathic serial killers, us parents (and aunties) feel under a great deal of pressure.

Now I’m not suggesting for one second that my wee niece is on a non-stop track to becoming a lunatic but I do wonder when our children (even our nieces or nephews) fell down the priority list so that they feel they need to work harder and harder to get our attention.

We working mums and aunts like to console ourselves with the notion that we are putting food on the table, roofs over heads and Balamory DVDs in the DVD player; but at what cost to our children?

It might protect my sanity a little to escape the madness of baby talk and the endless replaying of the Cinderella story (Yes, Abby, I will marry you!) and go to the office, but I wonder will the children in my life forgive me for it when they are older?

Now who's desperate?

MY NAME is Lola and I'm a desperate housewife. Now, this is no reflection on my lovely husband; simply on my addiction to a certain American drama which sadly had it's season finale this week .

For the cold winter months, the desperate housewives with all their quirky habits and engaging personalities have been my companion. It had reached such a critical level with me that on a Tuesday afternoon when I inevitably realised it was "Desperate Housewives" night I would come over all giddy and start planning my 'Desperate Housewives' viewing experience.
The night starts with me staggering in from my aerobics class and quickly putting the wee man to bed at the speed of light (quick bottle and then literally dumping him in his cot) before jumping into the bath for a long soak using only the finest Sanctuary products.
Then it was on with my favourite jammies before climbing into my sumptuous king size bed just in time to switch on the telly and find out about the latest goings on in Wisteria Lane. (Depending on how good the scales had been at my weigh in, I may also have treated myself to chocolate!)
Maybe it is a little sad to find myself swept up in the hysteria that surrounds this programme, but I find such popular series hard to resist. Typically I am one of those people who has to watch the latest American import and falls for the hype. (With the exception of 'The Sopranos' and 'Lost' which are in turn too violent and too scary for my delicate sensibilities).
First there was my obsession with 'Lois and Clarke, the New Adventures of Superman', which funnily enough also starred Teri Hatcher who appears among the housewives! I was 16 and just making my decision to follow a career in journalism. Watching Lois Lane swan about in her lovely suits, her gorgeous shoes (yep, I was shoe obsessed even then) and, of course, her superman willing to save her at a moment's notice- I became convinced this could be the right job for me.
Yes, I had my hair cut into the same bobbed style as Teri's and I carried a Superman folder to and from school each day. I even bought some stunning cream shoes just because I thought they were "so Lois Lane" and I arranged some work experience at the Derry Journal (How they must rue the day they ever let me in the door of the building!).
And then I was one of those sad people who got madly caught up in the 'Friends' phenomenon too. I was 18 when the show first hit our screens and it seemed so glamorous to watch these six twenty-somethings living a life that was definitely more glamorous than my existence in the Halls of Residence at Jordanstown.
I had the Rachel haircut, the Monica haircut and all the episodes on video. I even had a huge purple cup just like the one's they had in Central Perk. My cousin and I would enter into mammoth debates about who loved Ross more; which culminated in her painstaking attempt to spell out "Ross in Mine" using literally thousands of letters cut out of magazines.
Yes, we were sad. But there was no harm in it. We too had our 'Friends' nights where it seemed everyone would rush home from work to sit down in front of the TV with a can of coke, or a glass of West Coast Cooler (I was not yet a hardened drinker at that stage) and a bar of chocolate and enjoy some deep belly laughs.
Everyone who was everyone was talking about 'Friends' and it seemed if you didn't know who Ross, Rachel and co. were you were considered to be some sort of televisual freak of nature.
To be honest, I thought my obsessive days were over. As a mature(ish) woman in her late 20s, surely I would have had a bit more gumption about me? But then Susan, Bree, Lynette and Gabrielle appeared on the scene and it all changed.
You see I could empathise with all the characters (with the possible exception of Gabrielle who is a spoiled rich crier who needs a kick up the bum). I could see why Bree had become obsessed with a perfect life. I certainly sympathised with Susan's bad luck and clumsiness due to my own habit of doing or saying the wrong thing; and as for Lynette- the harassed mum- well she made me realise I was not alone in my insanity.
The central story-line of their neighbour Mary Alice's big secret became just a distraction to me and watching how they got with their lives was much more interesting. Perhaps because I'm a wife myself (though not house-bound!), or perhaps because this is one of the first times that television producers have made drama just for women without painting us as trollops or neurotics (Think 'Sex and the City').
This was intelligent and witty tv, for intelligent and (hopefully) witty women and I was happy to welcome it into my home. I'm delighted to report though that I showed a certain sense of maturity by not getting my hair cut into the style of any of the leading characters. (Most often though it does seem to take on the appearance of Lynette's bird's nest- but that is merely a bad hair day coincidence).
And now, with Tuesday's season finale (or Wednesday if you were watching on Channel 4) I'm facing a summer of cold turkey from my favourite programme. Somehow Big Brother just doesn't have the same appeal!

A letter to a "friend"

It's been five years now since we spoke an amicable word. It seems like a long time, but it some ways it seems like yesterday.
I think we both know by now that we fell out for the right reasons. Things were not working for anyone in our group and it seemed there was no way out but to cut our losses and run.
It's still hard though.
You never did get to go to my wedding, or share the news of my pregnancy and you have never met my gorgeous son. You would love him. You always did have a soft spot for children.
You've never known of the depression that haunts me, or the fact that in the last 16 months I have laughed and cried more than I ever thought possible.
And I was never there when your relationship when tits up and when your ex got married. I don't know if you were okay with it, or if it still hurts.
I don't know if you are happy. I hear you are; and I hear occasionally from your mother and she lets me know what you are doing but not how you are doing.
As you know we have seen each other from time to time on the street and we both bowed our heads and walked on or mumbled a quick hello. Sometimes I know there is nothing to say; sometimes I wish I'd just said something.
I miss the "Jazz hands" and the memories of some mad things. I wonder do you still remember our "trauma tops" bought when you came to Belfast to escape a family row and went out on the lash?
We've both made half hearted attempts in the past to talk again- a passed on phone number, a letter or card- but the other has never been in the right place to accept that.
I don't want to be a huge part of your life; but a coffee or a glass of wine and the assurance that you are doing okay would be nice.
I won't send this to you. Just put it out there in the ether. If you are meant to read it, you will find it...

We're all going on a summer holiday..

AS YOU read this I will either be walking along the glorious Donegal coastline praising this wonderful country for its scenery, or sitting staring out at the rain crying with boredom.

Oh yes, this week we are having our first proper family holiday down in the sunny (hopefully) climes of Rathmullan and as I write this I am hoping the good weather gods have shone down for at least three or our seven days.
Having initially dubbed our holiday as a trip to "just Rathmullan", as everyone inevitably wonders why we didn't jet off to some guaranteed sunshine in the Med, I think maybe it's time to set the record straight.
You see I am one of those dreadfully sad people who genuinely believes that if you get the weather, you really don't need to go far from home for a holiday worth remembering, and that belief stems from a number of memorable local breaks in my childhood.
Money was an issue for us growing up; we weren't one of those fancy dan families who jetted off to Spain for a fortnight. But that certainly doesn't mean the breaks we did share weren't filled with loads of memories; and most of them good.
First of all there was an exodus to a house up a hill in Ballyliffen. With my mum's friends and their families in tow, it seemed like there were about six adults and 50,000 children all crammed into a house whose most memorable feature was that there was a goat tethered out the back which used to scare the beyjasus out of us in the middle of the night.
I remember that holiday because it was the first time someone tried to feed me cornflakes with warm milk (Yuck!) and because there was a wee farm down the road where we would go and play with our newly made friends and get covered in hay and cow poop before clambering up the hill again, tired and dirty, all ready to get scared out of our wits by the mad goat.
Next came the week in Gweedore in a caravan, again somewhere up a hill. Four wains, two adults, and a roasting hot week where the sun never stopped made for plenty of memorable experiences. First of all was the wee woman who owned the caravan. She made home made bread and jam and I swear to this day I have never tasted toast as nice in my life! It was like stepping into a time warp to walk up to her house each day and collect the bread. Amid the balmy Donegal evening air (are you getting the picture here?) you would smell the aroma of freshly baked wheaten bread wafting on the gentle warm summer breeze.
Likewise the wee shop at the top of another big hill where the lonely shop keeper would take at least 15 minutes to serve you when you wanted a Kit Kat, is another story which has taken on legendary status in our house. If you want, on any given night, we can act out his mannerisms for you. It's a hoot, but then maybe you had to be there to get it.
The rest of the time was spent with myself and my sister trying to decipher the signs (I don't think my parents had realised it was in the Gaeltacht) with our second year Irish and failing miserably. ("That means beach!"; "No I'm sure it means airport." "Actually it means bin!")

No goats this time
And then it was a week in Spiddle, Co. Galway (the name alone made for much merriment among my friends). This time we progressed to a luxury home, with no hint of any goats in the garden and a rather fabulous pool room on site. (It was still up a considerable hill though).
I think it was that holiday which made me realise what a priviledge it is to live in Ireland as we saw as much of the scenery as we could, and enjoyed craic by the bucketful.
We took a day trip (four wains in the back of the car, two parents, windy weather) to the Cliffs of Moher. Being the "mad Davidsons" as my sister's other half would refer to us, we were more excited about the fact that they filmed that classic movie "The Princess Bride" there than anything else. (Cue us wandering about shouting: 'My name is Inuego Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!' and scaring a few American tourists in the process).
And we spent days in Galway city (biggest memory; a ride at a funfair in which I literally thought I might die) and at Salthill (best memory; a stall which sold the nicest gravy rings you will ever taste).
Best of all though we drove back to Spiddle one night and stopped to see the sun go down on Galway Bay (on Gaaalllwaaaay Baaaaay). I still remember the sun streaming through the red streaked sky and thinking to myself that so many people, of Irish descent or not, would have given their right arm to be there and see that sight.
I imagine that during all those holidays it rained somewhat. Being Ireland, I imagine it probably rained a lot; but I don't remember that part. I remember the fun we shared as a family and the sunny days where we went out and about decked in shorts and T-shirts and ate chips out of the paper at the beach and went home again thoroughly exhausted.
I hope this week in Rathmullan brings its own happy memories and I hope by the time we get home I will have stopped referring to it as "just Rathmullan" and have realised how lucky we have been to enjoy a break in such a scenic part of the world.

Pay it forward

A VERY mad but lovely Scottish friend of mine forwarded me a story this week retelling this story of a mystery person who has been posting random amounts of money into letterboxes in Edinburgh with the words "Do you believe in angels?" written on the envelopes.

Of course, being a practical modern living woman of the noughties, my first thought was one of "Why does said mystery man not live in Derry?"- but then my second thought was that whoever this person was, they were obviously well versed in the concept of "paying it forward".
For those unfamiliar with the term (or the film of that name starring the wee lad who sees dead people in "The Sixth Sense") - paying it forward is like a happy version of that gloom laden statement "What goes around, comes around".
You see, basically if you are nice to someone, something nice will happen to you in return. And if you perform a random act of kindness (such as stuffing a wadge of tenners through your neighbour's door) you will start a chain of goodwill and happiness and, sooner or later, we will all be a bunch of happy people, having touched each other's lives in a positive and inspiring way.
Obviously your random act of kindness does not have to be as generous as parting with your hard earned cash and I doubt that unless my numbers come up on Saturday night or my boss realises what a fantabulous journalist I really am and quadruples my salary, I would ever be in a position to hand over my cash to strangers.
But you could do something as simple as holding a door open for someone; offering to carry someone's shopping or complimenting them on their hair or their shoes. It could even be as basic as smiling at someone. (Please note however, quipping "Cheer up, it might never happen" is inadvisable in any circumstance unless you fancy a smack in the mouth.).
I admit I try to "pay it forward" as much as possible and I'm sure on occasion that this has give me the appearance of a weird kind of crazy stalker lady . I have stopped someone just to say their shoes were lovely and ask where they bought them. Similarly when I've seen a young toddler dressed in a cool outfit, I'll comment on it and ask where it was bought.
If someone has a gorgeous baby I'll the mad woman smiling maniacally into the pram and telling the mother their child is gorgeous and, of course, that they look amazing for someone who has just given birth.
With every expression I know I risk the person receiving the compliment glowering at me or considering me to be a looper; but sometimes such a phrase can make a world of difference to someone's day.
Have you ever been out and feeling harassed, stressed out and generally frump-tastic? Then someone comments on your bag, or your shoes or even your hair (which you had thought looked more "bird's nest" that the fashionable "just got out of bed" look) and suddenly you walk a little taller, feel a little slimmer, increase your confidence and smile at the next person who looks at you?

And so the happiness continues
It's a little sad in this day and age that we always think that when strangers are kind to us they must have some form of ulterior motive. Immediately we hold our bags a little closer to our chest, maybe walk a little faster and quite often we either ignore their comments or feel so uncomfortable that someone has said something nice that we ignore them or mumble a quick response rather than accept their kindness as just that.
And it's worse still that often we feel too afraid of being ignored or looked at like we have two heads to be nice to strangers or say what is really on our minds.
Perhaps this is why the mysterious person in Edinburgh has chosen to carry out his or her acts of kindness under the cover of darkness and has remained anonymous. If we actually knew who this person was, maybe we would question their motives. Again we may wonder why we only got a tenner in the door, when her up the street with money to burn anyway got £20; and we would forget that this was initially just someone trying to do something nice and not trying to stir up trouble.
It makes me sad to think that this person felt they had to write "Do you believe in angels?" on the envelopes. Now, don't get me wrong. I believe in angels, I believe that they are there guiding us and helping us; but in this instance I prefer to believe in the kindness of strangers.
How much nicer would it have been for our mystery person to feel confident enough to write: "Do you believe people are still good at heart?" on the envelopes and wouldn't it be nicer still if such acts were not that uncommon that they merited a mention on the national news?
Maybe we should all bear that in mind the next time we want to say something nice or we are tempted ourselves to "pay it forward" .

All Hail the Baby Bores!

THERE WAS a time when I was renowned for my sparkling wit and dazzling after dinner conversation. If you wanted a witty quip or an hilarious one liner then I was your gal.

If there was a topic on the news that had grabbed your attention, I was the very person to lead a (semi) intellectual debate on the issue. I was the equivalent of Sky News to some of my friends and it felt good.
And then, well then, I became a mammy and all intellectual talk disappeared out the window to be replaced with anecdotes about Jo Jingles, weaning, nappy changes and the latest words my son has attempted to say.
Of course, when it comes to babies I know the score. Want a good buggy? I've done the research and can tell you all about the market leaders. Want to conceive? Well I'm the the gal to tell you about cycles, ovulation and other super girlie things. And when it comes to the best disposable nappy on the market, we've been through them all and have a firm thumbs up for Tesco.
And while this suits me at the moment; it hardly makes me the most inspiring conversationalist in the company of non-parents.
Which is exactly what happened to me last Sunday. Having decided to meet some school friends I hadn't see in about six months for lunch, I knew this was going to be a mammoth gossip session.
None of these friends have children. One is newly wed, the other planning her wedding and the third patiently holding out for a proposal of marriage from her Mr. Right. On the other hand there was me, married four years (with one stone on for every year of marriage!) with an ankle biter and well settled into my adult existence.
While they began regaling stories of their dazzling careers, their wedding plans and their hectic social lives I recounted what happened in the latest episode of "Noddy" and discussed my home-made chicken nuggets.
There were discussions about holidays, hair dos and hangovers. My contribution involved details of our forthcoming family exodus (Entitled "Two frazzled parents and a mad baby invade Rathmullan"), my son's curly locks (trying to decide if he looks cute or a bit too like Kevin Keegan) and the fact that two glasses of wine is enough to give me a hangover that will knock me off form for the entire following day.
The thing is, I was vaguely aware that my friend's eyes were glazing over. You see, I've accepted that while I, as a mammy, am in awe of every cough, babble, fart and clap my first born does, I know it's not exactly in the realms of fascinating repartee.
But it is hard, as a new parent, to think of something else to talk about it. Most new parents find their lives consumed by the changes that having a child brings. Before you give birth people tell you that it will change your life and that things will never be the same again.

Life changing?
You laugh and scoff and think they have to be exaggerating slightly. Surely once bubs is asleep your life can resume as it was and, with the help of a trusted babysitter, your life need not change one bit.
You've seen countless celebs pop out their oddly named children and snap back into shape before the midwife has even finished the episiotomy stitches, so there is no way that you think 15 months down the road you will still look like you're still pregnant.
And you think, because we are the modern generation who can easily multi-task and achieve anything we want, that baby will sleep or play contentedly while you catch up on the news or read the Sunday morning papers.
But when baby comes along, you suddenly realise you may have been wrong. And as that large "Ehhhh, Ehhhh" sound from Family Fortunes plays in your head you struggle to do the basics; never mind read up on the latest developments in the Middle East.
You realise the people you thought would beat your door down to babysit actually have their own lives and commitments (all that drinking, socialising and watching the news uninterrupted to do) and as you try to fold your flabby post baby belly into your jeans you realise that it may just be some time before you find yourself in the high fashion stakes again.
And so, you talk about what you know. Forget the Middle East, I know nothing about it, but I can tell you all the latest goings on in Toytown, Woodland Valley or Balamory.
And where you used to boast about your own adventures, you boast about your child's. Yes, admittedly its sad, its boring and its not the standard of conversation people normally expect; but it does make you feel kind of good because you are the ultimate expert on the subject. (Do you think Mastermind would take me on? My specialist subject: Joseph and his bizarre habits)
There is a jingle at the end of some programme on the TV where a child's voice says with pride "I made that"; and if I'm honest every time I look at my son and see him do something new I think, admittedly smugly, to myself: "I made that"; and I want to tell the world about it.
I just hope my friends and colleagues keep humouring me by listening.

If I were a rich girl...

I KNOW that coveting thy neighbour's house is a sin, but I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy when I heard an 18-year-old had scooped the top prize in the Derry City Dream Draw.

Like many people out there I spend probably way too much time contemplating what life would be like if the God of good fortune choose to look favourably upon me and grant me a win that would change my life.
I'm not the most unlucky person in the world; so far I've scooped a couple of tenners on the lottery, a fruit basket, a Foyle Hospice Hamper and the Bonus Ball prize money in work on two occasions (one a rollover!) ; but none of those has actually changed my life dramatically (with the possible exception of the Foyle Hospice Hamper as I'm sure I put a couple of stubborn pounds on my thighs munching my way through the tin of Cadbury's Roses).
What I crave is a win that lifts me from my relatively dull existence and transforms me into a woman who no longer needs to visit the Credit Union on a regular basis or who takes duck disease when an unexpected bill plops through the letterbox.
They say money can't buy happiness, and I do believe that to be true; but it would certainly make me more comfortable in my misery! I imagine feeling a bit scunnered while downing the finest champagne on a sun-soaked tropical island surrounded by man-slaves feeding you peeled grapes would be marginally more preferable to feeling scunnered while supping the last of your tea in Frankie Ramsey's, giving out that your wee car has carked it and the CU have blacklisted you.
I imagine the topic of a big win is one of the most popular conversation pieces in history. I'm willing to bet we've all sat down on at least one occasion (or indeed every Saturday night just before Casualty while watching BBC 1) and imagined what we would do if our numbers came up. Maybe you would divvy out the proceeds among family and friends or maybe you would keep aside a fair portion for your favourite charities; or maybe you would just go on a one woman spending spree, the like of which has never been seen before.
If you are me, you would probably opt for a combination of the three. Personally I don't hold court with this notion that if you win the lottery you shouldn't allow it to change your life. Trust me if my numbers came out I would be out the door of this very fine journalistic establishment quicker that my esteemed editor could shout: "More Jed's wains!" (in-house joke there- sorry!). My newly acquired Manolo Blahniks would leave the daintiest wee trail as I jumped into a nice Limo and headed for the airport to jet off to the Seychelles.
I would forsake my pretty wee terraced house for a luxury cottage somewhere on the Donegal coastline, with a holiday home in the sun-kissed Tuscan hills; and both would be filled with enough gadgets and gizmos to keep himself amused for a good couple of years and allow me time to concentrate on a combination of writing (as and when I want) and working with my super fit (and totally gorgeous) personal trainer to achieve the body beautiful.

Brooke Perk?
Myself and a colleague have long planned that when the big win comes in, we are going to set up our own bookshop/ coffee shop , complete with a beauty salon up the stairs and an adjoining restaurant for our food mad hubbies to run. We would, between drinking copious cups of tea and getting our nails done, sell the occasional book. If one of us wanted to take a sickie, the other wouldn't mind one bit; after all this would be our hobby not our lifeline.
The wee man could drag as many of his new shoes from Clarks through the muck as he wanted, because I would no longer have to turn into a female version of the Incredible Hulk as I raged about the cost of them and how he only had them two weeks and now needed new ones.
I would be able to succumb to my wholly ridiculous desire to buy the latest Maclaren buggy just because I like the colours ( we already have two- for one baby- himself believes that is adequate) or I may even buy one of those ridiculously expensive Bugaboo prams that all the top celebs have.
And as for my wee man and his love of the "Slish Slash" (translation Splish Splash; baby for bath, swimming pool or any random puddle) I would have our own heated swimming pool for him to swim about in 'til his wee heart was content.
Now, don't get me wrong. I know that chances are Lady Luck isn't going to shine on me. I mean, I would need to buy the odd lottery ticket to start with. And I know that there are blessings in my like that money could never buy; but it's nice to dream.
It's nice to think that with a purchase of a wee ticket you could find yourself financially secure for the rest of your life; that you didn't have to worry about your car carking it (can you tell this has happened to me this week? Our wee car is very sick!) and you could lie on in your bed in the morning without having to worry about the rush and fuss of the rat race.
It would be bliss not to have to worry about paying the mortgage every month. and indeed making sure your family didn't have to worry about theirs either.
Fair play to the lovely Catriona Doherty who has been so lucky with her win of a luxury apartment, I hope it brings her much happiness. But if she finds it doesn't fulfil her life in the way she hopes, then I'll willingly take it off her hands.

Oh how we laughed...

I was just thinking the other day how it had been a disgustingly long time since I laughed so hard I thought my sides would split.

I think it was several months ago when I had a surreal online conversation with a friend which degenerated in utter weirdness involved web address and Gnus (best not ask), it occured to me that my son and my niece laugh almost the whole day through and I wondered had I really become the ultimate misery guts.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not on my way to being Victoria Meldrew just yet, I do laugh on frequent occasions, but its more of a slight chortle than a full belly laugh which is so hard it means, as a relatively new mum, I have to worry about the prospect of mild incontinence.

So it surprised me last night, while putting my son to bed, that I ended up in fits of laughter so hard that I literally had to hold my sides as they were getting so sore.

The reason for my laughter: a simple game with the wee man in which I spat his dummy across the bed. He would lift it, giggle, put it back in my mouth and shout "Dee" which is Josephese for "Again".

Within a very short time all the pair of us had to do was look at each other to collapse in kinks of laughter, with tears of pure joy streaming down both our faces. It felt so good.

It felt good because I was laughing and as a dear friend always says, a belly laugh is better than a good cry any day of the week; and it felt good because I was connecting with my baby. We were sharing a joke, communicating on a real level fo happiness and contentment and joy.

As well as fearing my sides might split, I feared my heart may actually burst with pride and joy.

And, to top it all, I hadn't even taken my happy pill yesterday. This was joy without the aid of an SSRI!


(And even better, I didn't pee myself with the effort either! Yay me!)

When the pupil is ready....

TO USE a local expression I got a quare gunk the other day when it dawned on me it is 24 (almost 25) years since I first wandered, hand in hand with my mammy, into Mrs. Spellman's class at Rosemount Primary School for my first day in P1.

I remember I had a little fawn coloured trench coat that I thought was so trendy and grown up looking and that I was carrying a wee brown satchel (Yes, I went to school in the days when you had satchels and not rucksacks bedecked with pictures of the latest cartoon heroes). My hair was scraped into two mega curly pigtails and, even if I say so myself, I was cute as the cutest wee button in the button shop.
I remember being told the story of the Fox and the Hen and trying to draw a picture of the same with one of those big old chubby crayons that smelled good enough to eat (in fairness, I was only four) and fitted nicely in my chubby little hands.
And even though it was a lifetime ago I still remember this happy, smiley teacher who came and sat beside me and talked me through my picture as though it was a work of art and not the very dodgy orange scribblings of a nervous child. Likewise I remember sitting day after day with my laminated word cards, which were stored in an old tobacco tin, learning to read with this woman who had seemingly unending supply of patience.
The reason for my "quare gunk" is that I saw that very same teacher the other day. She was driving past us as I was out walking with the wee man and my sister. I knew straight away it was her. You see, she still has the same curly hair and wide smile I remember from all those years ago.
I doubt that I would remember all my teachers from those early days in the same way. I remember their names and how they were to me while in their class but there is something about that primary one teacher, and her gentle manner that will stay with me always.
I remember how she kindly told me I would have to write out my work again after I, in a fit of babyish creativity, had decided that I didn't need spaces between words and would prefer instead to draw wee houses. I never felt like she was telling me off, even though on that occasion and a few others I'm sure her patience was tested to the limit.
Most of all though, and this is what counts, she remembers me even to this day. If we meet in the street she asks how I am and asks after my family. It may be that she simply has a photographic memory, but I prefer to think of her as just one of those teachers who cared enough to see you as that youthful, impressionable child before her and not just another name who had to be taught for a year before she moved on to the next lot.
There aren't too many teachers like that out there. There are more I remember for their strictness or the fear factor than I do for the kindness factor. Yes, when push comes to shove I imagine I learned just as much, academically speaking, from the old teacher who used to threaten us with the cane if we hadn't learned our rivers of England or our long division as I did with Mrs. Spellman or the other teachers who took the softly-softly approach. But stepping away from academia, I learned, emotionally speaking, much more from those who recognised that even though I was only child I deserved respect just as much as I needed discipline and educating.

Now that doesn't mean I was let become some sort of superbrat who needed Supernanny to come in and kick me into touch. Funnily enough, give a child some respect and encouragement and you get much more back than riding roughshod over their feelings.
People often talk about their school days and whether or not they really were the best days of their lives. I remember a lot about school. I remember being bullied in my early days at Thornhill College and I remember rising above it and finding my own (admittedly nerdy) niche within the writers' workshop.
I remember the friends I made, at primary school and at secondary school and the mad adventures we got up to, like skipping madly hand in hand into our primary two classroom, or working our wee hearts out on a project about cavemen which involved an lengthy search for just the right stone to stick in the scrap book to make the spear. (We came second in class and got 50p each, which was a fortune in those days).
But more than all that I remember those teachers who inspired and encouraged me a long the way. I know from having a father who teaches that it can sometimes feel like a thankless task. After all, not many children willingly run into their classrooms in the morning and when the school bell rings and not many stop to say thanks when the school year is over.

So, I want today to say a big thank you to Mrs. Spellman for making my first foray into "big school" as painless and as enjoyable as possible. Along with a select few other teachers (most notably Mr. Grant, who was mad as a hare, the two Mrs. Boyles from Thornhill and Mr. Mallon) you instilled in me a love of learning and more importantly a belief in myself.
I may now be far removed from the wee toot with the pig tails, and I'm instead turning my attentions to my own child's education, but I can only hope, when the time comes, someone as caring as you will set my wee man off on the road to academia.