What Motherhood has Taught me about Management

I wrote about the Mommy Brain in a previous post as well as in a 17 June Irish Examiner newspaper article titled “Mum Knows Best.” As per National Institutes of Mental Health neuroscientist Dr. Pilyoung Kim, women’s grey matter actually GROWS after childbirth. We become smarter. Raise your mugs of coffee and say a toast, mommies, because your muddled brain is attributable to exhaustion and not to some post-partum depletion of your faculties. Hormones actually work in your favour.

Manage that Baby! photo by CapemayL

I’m positive this whole motherhood thing has improved not only my brain but my managerial skills as well.  And I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. Read this article by Liza Kent in the May 2003 publication “Women in Business.” In it, Kent says “the lessons a mother learns are unique, and I have found that mothers often are surprised at what they already know about being an effective manager, based on the everyday experiences in their homes.” And, yes, our articles have the same title. It’s a coincidence (thought of mine before I saw hers and I’m keeping it. It sums my main idea up perfectly).

Women, tell me: aren’t you better at managing after kids? One of the brain areas which Dr. Kim discovered improve after childbirth is a part that deals with planning and judgement - key components of management. I used to hear about people who could see one step ahead; about tennis players who were good because they knew the next step their opponent was going to take; about people who could manage staff very well because they understood human behaviour; and, most importantly, about people who could see the consequences of their own behaviour – and that of others. I’m now one of those people.

I know EXACTLY what my three and five year olds are going to do next. I have an intimate understanding of their behaviour and understand exactly what the consequences of every interaction will be. I know that if I find a promotional packet of stickers in with the cheese stick bag and I give it to one of them, there will be war in the living room. So, I wait until we buy another bag of cheese sticks and get a second promotional packet of stickers. I don’t distribute any stickers until that time. This is a simple example, but it’s all about understanding human psychology and behaviour in a way that I didn’t before.

Knowing consequences makes you a better planner and organiser. You see what’s coming, and prepare. You don’t leave the house without baby wipes and a change of pants for your kids, do you? Of course not, because if you did it would ensure someone wets themselves and has to spend the rest of the afternoon wearing nothing but an old towel you found in the back of the car.

A great deal of this understanding you develop as a mother seems to come from paying attention to the needs of others and being a good listener - key management skills. But understanding what someone is articulating – his wants – doesn’t mean you’re going to give it to him. Think of how many times you have to say no to your child in a day. It’s healthy. They can’t have every toy they see or every sweet they want. Saying no and meaning it, being honest, is also a good skill for a manager. You have to know where to draw the line.

Some of this improvement in my managerial skills probably comes with age (don’t ask mine, it’s not polite); or maybe it comes with motherhood. More likely it’s a combination of the two. In either case: I win! Oh, by the way, since the improvement in brains is partly due to hormones and partly due to interaction with the new baby, scientists postulate that adoptive parents and fathers also experience some brain growth due to interaction with new infants and the challenges presented, even though they don’t get a dose of post-partum or breastfeeding hormones. Dads: as long as you interact loads with your kids, your management ability can improve, too.

Breastfeeding in Public, or How to Become Socially Unacceptable

I've done a post swap with Marilia of Tripping Mom. Marília is a surfer-single mom of a 4-year old girl. She writes about our common values system, how to find a relevant education and ways to keep your sanity around a kid. Her single mom blog has lots of unconventional parenting ideas. 

Below, she writes about breastfeeding in public in metropolitan Brazil - apparently not as socially acceptable as you might think.  I'll be posting about breastfeeding in Ireland over on her site, soon.

Enjoy!

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Breastfeeding in Public or How to Become Socially Unacceptable

 If you decided to breastfeed your baby on demand, or even if your child is on a schedule, it´s hard to avoid doing it when you are out of the house. If you have a young baby, say up to 6 months, people are tolerant to breastfeeding in the big cities. But if your baby is a bit older, then you get all kinds of negative reactions from people looking at you disgusted to outright telilng you that you could be doing it elsewhere  (like the bathroom, go figure), to asking silly questions about your toddler like ¨Isn´t she too big to breasfeed?¨

We know there is no such a thing as too big to breastfeed and La Leche League has tons of articles about the benefits of extended nursing (beyond one year).

Back in my home in the northeast of Brazil, a small beach village, breastfeeding is more of the rule. But when my daughter was 2.5-years old we went to visit my family in São Paulo, a big metropolis with over 20 million inhabitants. There, I felt really judged for doing this wonderful nurturing thing. Even my family felt awkward too see a ¨big¨ child breastfeeding.

I felt so bad about this, and breastfeeding was still so central in my relationship with Luísa, that I decided on not going back while I was still nursing. I went back to visit my family only last January, when Luísa was closer to 4-years old and free from the boob.

For me it was easy to solve the problem just by staying away from the big cities (where crazily people avoid so many natural things). But the women living in the big cities have to face people´s unfounded criticism no matter what.  La Leche League advises us to do it anywhere anyway, instead of hiding, to encourage other women to do so, to make this more common place with time.

 If you live in a big city, you can use humor when people ask you stupid things like: ¨Why are you still breastfeeding her?¨  You can try something like this:

¨I decided to be socially inacceptable.¨

¨My child is not very keen on the hormones injected in cows.¨

¨We have an incestuous relationship, as you can tell.¨

The important thing is to keep the answer short and not engage in too much of a discussion. First because this would mean turning yourself into a breastfeeding advocate, publicly trying to get people on our side (and although there´s nothing wrong with that, I think it´s better to do it by example than by engaging in polemics with narrow minded people). Secondly, because no matter what you say, those people will most likely keep thinking you are an aberration.

 Instead of discussing the important topic with people that clearly have no idea, get inspired by people who are also doing it.

If you don´t know anyone in your physical world doing it (I didn´t), get online support, read stories and rest reassured of the fact that breastfeeding is one of the best things you can do for your baby. Remember that besides the weird looks, there might be silent curious looks from women who will get encouraged by you.

The Best Purchase for Young Children is No Purchase at All

Someone recently asked me about toys that are good buys for young children. The March 7th Social Mom’s writing prompt asks: what was the best purchase I ever made as a mother? After having a think about this, I decided that I couldn't in good conscience write a blog post about spending money. Firstly, I have little of it. I could wax lyrical about great products, but I won’t be buying any right now. Secondly, lots of other people these days don’t have enough money, either. As they say, though: the best things in life are free. This sounds like a cliché, but when it comes to raising kids, it’s almost true. Here's a list of the BEST NON-PURCHASES I'VE EVER MADE:

1. Dirt – I used to pay for sand, but when the sand ran out one day, my two boys just sat down and started playing in the dirt under the sand table. I was like: ‘What the Hell – why not?” I have to make sure and bath them after an afternoon outside-- but I had to bath them after a spell in the sand box anyway. Sand is worse, actually, as it goes EVERYWHERE. PRICE: Free

2. A Large Cardboard Box – Because my two year old killed the TV last week (there’s another blog post in that story), my husband brought home a new TV on Friday night. It came in a large box. Last summer, I bought a large piece of furniture, which also came in a large box. Guess what happened with these boxes after their contents were removed? That’s right – hours of play. They ended up outside and the kids hid in them, imagined in them, and, eventually, destroyed them. Price: Free (initial purchase required-unless you go box hunting around town...) Warning: you may have to clean box pieces off your lawn or living room rug. Trust me, this is worth having them entertained and stimulated (read: out of your hair) for a while.

3. Fresh Air - There’s nothing like several hours outside to exhaust them and get them into bed by 7:20 pm. How does my family like to get fresh air? Walks, bike riding, skateboarding, “insect hunting” in the garden with old fishing nets, chasing each other, etc. If you don’t have a bike or anything else, walking will do. Collect stones, weeds, and other interesting tit-bits along the way. Price: Free (If you don’t have outdoor fun gear, secure hand-me-downs or shop in a thrift store.)

4. The Local Playground - I want us outside getting physical exercise as much as possible. Playgrounds are great for climbing frames, area to run, swings, and so on. They make a change from the front garden, and you can picnic there, as well. We were home in Florida visiting family over Christmas 2009, and made the disappointing discovery that the local playground in Broward County was closed two days a week because of cut backs in public services funding. We showed up there one afternoon ready to play and couldn’t. What a bummer. This means that the fabulous public amenities they have in Broward aren’t available to children and adults on those days. Price: Free – unless you want to include your tax dollars that go to maintenance. And, petrol to get there (unless you can walk).

5. A Packet of Balloons - The kind you inflate with your mouth. Having a pack in the cupboard is no less than a lifeline on rainy days. Blow them up and play balloon volleyball in the living room. Or, balloon soccer. Or, balloon catch...you get the picture. The kids get exercise even when there’s snow or ice outside- and you can’t break anything with them (unless you do a vicious spike – but my 5 and 2 year olds aren’t capable of that). PRICE: A Euro? A Dollar? Some Rands?

6. The Library - Raining again? Go to the library. It’s good for you, and often they have more than just books on offer. There are sometimes activities, computers, and in some even toys and play areas. Price: Free or the cost of an annual membership – only €2 at my local library!

I could keep going here, but use your imagination. Sometimes, you do need to spend a little money – but not much. The best toys are the core ones that get kids engaged, and which don’t cost much: Paper, crayons, Play-Doh™, reading books, balls, blocks, buckets, bowls, spoons, shovels, blankets. Some of these things aren’t even technically “toys”, but your kids’ imaginations will make them so.

In closing I’d like to say that, to be honest, one of the best purchases I’ve ever made for young children was part-time childcare – but that was a purchase for me, not them!

If you have more creative ideas for free or almost free activities, please share them in the comments section, here.

Free Education, My *ss

Let’s set aside the fact that third level institutions in Ireland have “registration” fees in the thousands of Euros and plan to increase these; and that universities (or our new government to be more precise) may also introduce some sort of graduate tax or other way to make Ireland’s “free” third level education even less “free” than it already is. If we set that aside, you may assume: well, you’re a developed, Western country so you still have free primary and secondary education, like they do in France, Canada and the U.S.A. As mother to a boy who has just started Jr. Infants (roughly equivalent to Kindergarten or first grade in the US) I’d like to say: Free Education, My *ss.

photo by Dean Terry

Maybe I’m looking back on my youth in the U.S. through rose tinted glasses strapped firmly onto my neocortex. Perhaps I don’t remember the cost in the States. Also, I grew up in the US, but am a mother in Ireland, so I don’t know what it’s like to parent school kids in the U.S. on a day-to-day basis. Nevertheless, lots of stuff seemed free in American schools, which isn’t free here. I have to buy my child all his school books, every year. I have to buy the 2 uniforms (sport and regular, with multiple shirts and trousers) plus shoes. (OK, we all have to buy school clothes, pencils and notebooks – but textbooks? In the US we get them for free – though some of them now may still list Reagan as president). Not only is there no subsidised lunch system in Ireland, there’s no cafeteria in most schools: so I provide a cold lunch plus snacks daily. There’s more: I have to pay a fee every quarter to CLEAN THE SCHOOL. Really, the Department of Education doesn’t provide the school the budget to clean—so, we pay for that. I had to buy tickets to see my kid in the school play PLUS make the costume. I pay for his transport. Then, of course, there’s the additional stuff like the book fair, fundraisers, competition entry fees, so on and so forth. The school urged us all to buy a certain newspaper, because if they collected enough tokens from the front page, they could get free sports equipment. People bought stacks.

To top this all off, my school is finally moving into a proper building this year, and THEY HAVE TO BUY ALL THEIR OWN FURNITURE, WHITE BOARDS, etc.  Guess who’s paying for this? That’s right: not the Department of Education - the parents. What does the Department of Education pay for? Teacher salaries and building rental, I think.

The expense of the Irish school system is draining me dry. I walk through the school yard at collection time in the afternoons like a soldier running through a field rife with enemy fire: head down, look at my shoes, go fast, avoid the bullets of other mother’s eyes as they try to sell me baked goods or raffle tickets, or try to get me to sign up for stuffing grocery bags for coins down at the local grocery store. (I’d help, really, but I have a toddler on my hands and don’t know how I’d stuff bags and keep him from throwing the contents around the place.) I end up buying tickets or fairy cakes which, frankly, my *ss doesn’t need (there’s that bottom theme, again.) 

Look, I know you pay either way--either in taxes or straight out of pocket. But when you pay out of pocket, you’re paying from your already taxed income. There seems to be something inherently fairer in a system where taxes are collected and evenly distributed amongst the schools in a manner sufficient to cover needs such as sports equipment, desks and cleaning. And if that isn’t the way it works in the States, that’s the way I remember it working.  Maybe I’m wrong. American moms, set me straight.

I’m just ranting because I’ve come to realise that not only do I need to save for my boys’ college education, I need to save for their primary education, too.

Stand for Children

An election campaign enters its last days here in Ireland. I’d like to suggest that people consider the rights of children when they cast their vote. How will children fare after the election, if your preferred political party gets into office?

“Poverty is the root cause of many challenges facing children. The recession has compounded the difficulties for children already living in poverty. Their family incomes have been slashed by cuts to social welfare, increased taxes and increased family debt. At the same time, the public services many of them rely on for support in their education and development have been cut back. Some children have lost vital services that made all the difference to their learning and well-being while others are waiting longer for services already stretched to breaking point. Ireland’s most vulnerable children have paid enough for the mistakes of grown-ups; they must not be asked to shoulder any more burdens of recession. We must protect them as we try to rebuild our economy in the interest of protecting their childhoods and futures.” (The Barnardo’s Children’s Manifesto)

What can you do?

Barnardos are running a promotion that aims to put children’s rights at the centre of the political manifestos for this election. They’re offering people the chance to directly contact their local candidates to express their concern through a Facebook app. (Or, you can write to them directly yourself!) The link to the facebook app is http://on.fb.me/hihvhc

It’s worth checking out The Children’s Manifesto on their website, at the following link: http://bit.ly/g6E83S. The Barnardos website is http://www.barnardos.ie/

I’m going to think not only about my children, but about other, vulnerable children in Ireland when I cast my vote on Friday.

This is a charitable post. Barnardos contacted me asking if I would share this information with my readers, and I was only too delighted to do so. I received no payment for this posting.

Comedy of Errors

“Stop!”

5 year-old is laying on top of 2 year-old again, in an apparent attempt to suffocate him. I pull him off. “Don’t lie on your brother please, especially not on his head. That’s the sort of thing that makes him bite and scratch you.”

While I chat with 5 year-old, 2 year old crawls up behind 5 year-old and takes a bite out of 5 year-old’s leg in retaliation.

5 year-old is now hysterical, I have to comfort him. I try not to say I told you so. It’s hard; I have to bite my lip to keep it in.

I take 5 year-old to kitchen, clean and dress puncture wound. Hope for the best.

2 year-old follows us out to the kitchen. He’s walking blindly, his blankie over his head. I’m about to take him and put him in time out for biting, when he walks right into the wall (which he can’t see through his blankie), falls to the ground holding his forehead and starts to cry hysterically.

I take 2 year-old in my arms and comfort him. A large blue lump has already formed on his forehead.

Everybody starts to recover, calm down.

Not long later, 2 year old takes basin of water out of kitchen, and pours it on living room floor. Why he does this sort of thing (all the time) I don’t know. He loves sprinkling juice, yogurt, water, milk all over the place. It’s some primal instinct to...I don’t know what, maybe pee on everything to make it his? Not sure. (When he takes his diaper off, lots of pee happens all over, too.)

Anyway, he pours the basin of water everywhere. I go to pick him up and take him to time out as, primal instinct or not, I’m trying to curb this behaviour. He tries to run from me, slips on the water mess he just made and slides right into the corner of the wall. Slams forehead right next to spot where he already slammed his forehead. Cries hysterically. For the second time that day I comfort him instead of putting him in time out. I’ve got to re-examine my methods.

As I’m putting 2 year-old down in the sofa, 5 year-old starts complaining about being cold. This is not a surprise as he’s only wearing a t-shirt (and its winter). I’d been trying to get him to put a sweatshirt on for 3 hours.

Going to the utility room for clothes for 5 year-old, I miscalculate and slam my nose into door. It hurts so much I want to cry. Blood drips down my nose. Boys see me and start to cry hysterically. I clean up my face and reassure them.

Finally, everyone is calmed down. I put on the TV. I just need to keep everyone still for 30 minutes.

Things I’ve said to my kids

I’ve seen these lists before. It never fails to amaze me how mothers all over the world say things they never thought they’d utter. I’m also impressed at how each time, the sentences are different. There is an endless supply of wacky, surreal and unexpected situations presented to us by our children. These warrant replies in kind. Such as:

DO NOT eat poo

Don’t sit on your brother’s head.

If you spit in his face one more time, I will have to put you in time out.

That’s it! The toy is going over the hill (we live on a ridge, and over the hill to the side of our house is nothing but brush and bramble)

Please stop putting dirt down Max’s shirt (diaper subsequently filled with a mixture of soil, urine and poo.)

Don’t eat off the floor! And if you’re gonna eat of the floor, don’t lick the floor

Off the Television set!

Put the scissors down! .... (To the 2 year old – he robbed kitchen shears from the dishwasher tray next to me and ran)

It is NOT ninja time

Don’t wipe your nose on the sofa cushion

Don’t eat paper clips

Don’t feed him play-doh

No, you can’t drive


I'd like a laugh - Tell me some of yours! 

I Think Therefore I Blog

I want to briefly explain why I post here once or twice a week:

I was standing in the laundry room, taking clothes out of the dryer, folding them neatly and placing them into the laundry basket. I paused to sniff one of my sons’ warm shirts and thought, "The smell of this new fabric softener really brightens up my day." I instantly thought: something has got to change; I've hit rock bottom. Is that all I’ve got to look forward to? Fabric softener? I’ve lost my way. I need a lifeline. I need to climb out of this hole.

As a writer I was stalled, or blocked, whatever you want to call it. My first book was published in 2004, and since then I’ve had 2 kids and I got paying jobs. I got laid off from one of my day jobs in 2009. I was drifting, sinking in fact. So, I started a blog.

I had to write about something I know. I'm home all the time with kids, what do I know...? The mom blog was born. My husband thinks I'm cracked, but I know I would be really crazy if I didn't have the outlet and discipline of it. It’s also energised my writing career. I've finished a draft of book two and am also writing on occasion for print publications and online. I also teach writing. I do other bits, too. All this and full time at home with the kids; am I tired? Yes. Short on funds? Yes. However, I'm much happier--and it's not because I changed fabric softeners.

It's Not Ninja Time

One rainy, winter afternoon...

Max is two, so I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying at first: “Is no nina time...is no nina tiiiiiime!”

He ran out of the living room, fleeing his 5 year old brother, who was flailing dismembered cheese sticks like nunchucks and making funny noises. Max clung to my legs, shivering. “Is no nina time!”

I turned from the sink, “What’s going on here?” 5 Year old kept flailing the cheese. “Are you going to eat that or what?” I asked, sternly.

His brows were knotted. “No. It’s ninja time!”

The 2 year old screamed, “Is no nina time!”

Aaah, that’s what he was saying. “Ninja time? How do you know what a ninja is?”

“I saw it on TV.” He flailed at his brother.

“Have you gotten a hold of the remote again? Where is the remote? ... Zach, it is NOT Ninja time.”

Max, still clinging, said, “Yeah, Zach, is no nina time!”

“Why are you scaring your brother?”

“Because...” He pulled the cheese taught between his fists.

“OK, give me the cheese.” I reached out for it, but Zach dodged, turned and ran.

“Enough with the ninja,” I yelled into the livingroom.

Slowly, Max let go of me and made his way back to the living room. Receding, I could hear, “Is no nina time, OK Zach? OK?”

I gave ‘em about 45 seconds before they were out in the kitchen again.

...45 seconds later...

Max came running out of the living room, through the dining room and back to me at the sink where I was trying to wash dishes, yelling, “Is no nina time!”

Zach followed Max out of the living room at speed, like the CIA trained nunchuck expert he clearly is, “It’s ninja time!” He lashed Max with some cheese.

I turned off the tap, “It’s is NOT ninja time, Zach! Eat the cheese or give the cheese to me, I don’t care, but stop waving it around the place. What happened to the train set we set up?”

“Max destroyed it. There are tracks, like, everywhere! All over the living room.” I flinched. Zach sounded just like me, using the Valley-girl “like” I picked up sometime in the 1980s. “That’s why it’s ninja time!”

I peeled my gloves off with a sigh. “I’ll go help you set it up.”

I shepherded them out of the kitchen and back to the living room where I did, indeed, find train tracks everywhere. “Ok, guys, pick up the pieces, come on...”

It was ninja time for the rest of the rainy afternoon indoors, the train set never got set up again properly because of Max. I stopped them killing each other several times. I bribed with popcorn and oranges. Nothing worked, nothing brought down the level of madness. Except sleep, glorious sleep.

Mom, Interrupted

After dinner on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and on Saturday mornings, I leave the common living area by slipping out the hall door, up the stairs and into my bedroom. I get comfy, set the lighting, balance the laptop on my legs, and start typing. Like most humans, I spend the first 30 minutes or so messing around on email, facebook, twitter and so on. I start in on a project (an article, a blog post, my novel, whatever). I ease into it, loosing myself, knowing nothing but the words, not thinking just typing, getting into “the zone”, and then—

Knock, knock

I look up. There’s a small scraping sound at the door. The knob is being turned, tentatively. I furrow my brow and purse my lips because I know that there is a five year old out in the hall.

From bed I shout: “Go away.”

“But mom, I just want to tell you something.”

“Not now, I’m working. Talk to Daddy, he’s in charge.”

“But I want to tell you something. It’s just a little thing.”

I sigh deeply, a burning feeling of annoyance in the centre of my chest. I place the laptop safely on the bed, peel myself off the cushions, and go open the door. “What, darling firstborn?”

Five year old looks up at me with impossibly large, dark blue eyes. They search me, trying to determine my level of impatience. “Why do you, like, always come downstairs and have coffee and then come up and work in the morning times, like, everyday?”

“I don’t do that every day, I do that on Saturdays. One morning a week that daddy is in charge. Now, that is not an urgent question, get out of here.” 

From http://www.psych.usyd.edu.au/psyche/optical/12.html



He scampers away.

I close the door, return to my bed and get settled under the laptop. I keep writing the sentence, and then—

Knock, knock

“WHAT??” I shout from the bed.

“Mom...I need your help. I can’t get my zip up.”

“Go ask Daddy.”

“But I’m cold...he can’t hear me...”

I roll my eyes and make a hard, forced frown with my lips that gives my cheeks a funny chipmunk look. Laptop off, get up, go to the door, open it. There stands five year old, half naked.

“Here.” I zip him up. Rub his hair. “Now, get out of here and don’t bother me again. I’ve only got two hours.”

“What are you doing?” He peers around me and into the room.

“Working.”

“On the computer?”

“Yes, now go.” I try to close the door.

He sticks his little hand out, stopping the door before it meets the frame. I notice that I have to clip his nails. “Can I play a Computer game?”

“You know better than that. Get out of here.”

“Just one. The one with the Australian animals. Putting out the fire.”

“Huh? You can play later. After I’m done. Get out of here and leave me alone or you won’t play on that thing again this month.”

“Oh...OK...” Five year old turns and backs away, capitulating. As he turns, however, the door to the dining room downstairs bangs open. Two year old stands in the doorway below, looking both forlorn and angry at the same time. Through the wooden mesh filigree of the banister rails he spots me in the doorway of my bedroom on the top floor.

“Oh, crud.” I back away and try to close the door as quickly as possible.

Two year old, alarmed, calls, “Mammy!”

I turn the lock. If two year old gets in, he’ll climb the bed and start pounding on the keyboard. It’ll be mayhem.

I hear clambering up the stairs on all fours. ‘Where the heck is my husband?’ I wonder about now.

Two year old starts pounding on the bedroom door, “Mammy! MAMMY! I WANT MAMMY!”

Guilt creeps up on me. It’s starts at the small of my back and works its way up my spine, leaving a dark shadow at every vertebrae. Following hot on its heels is an even worse feeling: resentment. This one swoops in from above my right side. It’s a bright yellow colour and settles on my shoulder, laying like a chunk of lead I fear I won’t be able to lift on my own.

I huddle on the bed, under blanket and laptop (the combination of which is making my thighs sweat). I start tapping away at the keys, slowly, building in intensity, thoughts in my head fighting their way through the noise of the kids at door yelling for me. I don’t like ignoring them. It’s difficult. But this is my time.

Eventually, after what seems like years but is probably only 60 seconds, husband arrives at the door and ushers our crazed offspring away. The yelling recedes down the hall and is then muffled by the closing of the hall door to the dining room. I continue typing.

2010 Roundup

How was your 2010? I hope it was good and that 2011 brings you happiness.

My 2010 was, on balance, good.

Financially, it was not good. If any of you made a fortune, big or small, in 2010, share it with us in the comment section, below--I’d like to know how you managed it.

Professionally, it was good. I was awarded an arts grant in March, started my blog in July, was appointed fiction leader at a local literature centre in the Fall, got a new literary agent, completed the first draft of my second novel (working on the second now), was featured on mamapedia.com twice, wrote a feature for an Irish newspaper and was asked to submit more, got included in an upcoming literary festival, and did other stuff, too, but these are the highlights.

My father passed away in May. You must think I’m nuts or heartless for thinking 2010 was good, but I’m so happy and grateful that I got to spend the last week of my father’s life with him. I flew home to Florida alone, and without the distraction of children just sat in the hospital room with him every day, until his last.

My kids made it through 2010 intact. They’re always a worry as they spend a huge amount of time bonking each other on the head and pushing each other face down onto grassy lawns, so I always wonder will one of them not make it to see a new year. They did. I’d like to take the credit for keeping them alive, but I suspect chance had more of hand in it than I did.

2011 started as I hope it means to continue: Family together; friends over on New Year’s Day for a visit; me on the computer doing a little writing.

Pizza for Christmas

OK, this isn't an excerpt from the book Alive: we're not about to eat each other. But we are stranded "at altitude." It's not the Andes, exactly, but there are hills the car can't get up. We can go nowhere. And school is cancelled. Cue foreboding music: Maybe we will eat each other? Doubt it, but eating is definitely going on around here - lots of it.

View From The Back of Our House

I now know why there is so much rich, fabulous food associated with this time of year: Because in the olden days, if you were stranded indoors and lucky enough to have a full larder, you cooked and baked.

This past Friday, the weather descended. A full shop was done. Saturday evening: whiskey aperitifs, beef stew, apple sponge cake, red wine. Sunday, I roasted a duck. They take almost 4 hours, so the best day to tend to one, is a day when you can’t get more than a couple of rooms away from the oven. It was accompanied by roasted potatoes and green beans (thrown on the floor by the kids); hot chocolate pudding for afters. We rolled off to bed.

Today, the kids and I made Christmas cookies. I justified this two ways: 1, it was an activity that would keep them engaged and occupied; and 2, we were NOT going to eat these buttery delicacies, we were going to give them away as presents (please don’t laugh). The cookies took almost two hours between the mixing, refrigeration, cutting out shapes, baking and decorating. That was great, as it was two hours where they could fight over who was cracking eggs instead of trying to choke each other on the sofa. OK, yes, we did eat a few. There are enough left to give as presents. Small presents.

Tonight, I tried to take it easy on the calories with fish and salad. Got a text from the school however and, you guessed it: school closed again tomorrow. Now, we move into what’s in the freezer territory...a coconut milk chicken curry or fried liver? It’s almost the 21st of December. I won’t need to lose weight after the holidays; I’m going to need to lose weight before the holidays.

I shouldn’t worry as there are only a couple of dinners in the freezer. If this weather keeps up much longer we’ll be having frozen pizza for Christmas dinner.

Happy Holidays!

Thanksgiving Day

I’m an American living in Ireland. Thanksgiving Day comes and goes with great fanfare in the States, but I usually forget the date. (I had to ask my facebook friends when Thanksgiving was going to be.) This Thanksgiving, for example, my husband is taking a class in the evening, and I will be boiling pasta for the kids. Everyone, who has a job, is working today. Everyone is working tomorrow. Schools are in session. And we don’t have sales until January over here, so no “Black Friday” fun for me.

Yesterday, the Irish government presented an outline of a series of spending cuts and tax increases to be applied for the next four years. The cuts are severe, and sure to contract the economy. We have to accept these new financial restrictions, we are told, so that we can pay back the massive Irish government deficit, mainly incurred trying to prop up our banking system. The IMF and EU central bank was called in over this. They have, in effect, dictated the terms. My family’s financial circumstances are a reflection of the state of the nation.

But, this doesn’t mean I’m not thankful. I am. My kids are healthy. Well, one has a cough and the other an ear infection, but you know what I mean – they’ll get over it. We’re well fed. We’ve cut out filet steaks and pate, but I made a damn fine beef stew last night. The cars are running (more or less). The lights are on. My husband is in good health. I’m enjoying my writing projects of late. And, I’m falling slowly in love with Twitter. Life, financially, is fairly crappy. I say no a lot to the kids over sweets and toys in the supermarket when we’re out.

Oddly, as the economic downturn in Ireland has taken us in its grip, sunk its teeth into our flesh and started chewing, my mood has lightened. Through the emotional freefall of loosing work, pay cuts, tax increases, falling house prices, the lot, I have felt strangely liberated. I feel free. It must be all the time setting my own schedule (that’s a laugh; really my schedule is dictated by the kids). But...they’re napping right now, and I’m writing on the laptop. I look out the window and the sky is blue, the hills are green, the rooks are evacuating the farmer’s field across the way in favour of the trees behind my house. The cattle are in the sheds for the winter, but we occasionally hear their lowing drift on the wind from their winter shelter to our garden patio. The weather—cold and crisp—is dry.

Thanksgiving has come to Ireland.

Eye Gouging, Kicking, Biting and Other Activities for Boys

I often leave the living room to go to the kitchen to prepare a meal or wash a cup, only to hear hysterical screaming about thirty seconds later. I get about as far as the breakfast bar before I have to turn around, go back to the living room doorway, and say “What’s going on here?” Sometimes I don’t even bother returning to the living room. I just yell, “Stop that!” from the kitchen, blindly. They stop whatever it is they were doing which caused the ruckus. I don’t even care what it was--I just want a quiet, aggro-free life.

I never knew how much violence would come with raising two boys. My husband keeps saying, “Welcome to the world of boys”. (He has 2 brothers and three sisters; I have none.) My two kids are forever kicking, biting, scratching, knocking each other off of chairs, and pushing each other into doors.

The worst came yesterday. I’m not entirely sure of the sequence of events (I was, of course, out of the room at the time pouring a cup of tea or washing something in the sink). I think Max, the 2 year old, tried to turn the TV off. Land Before Time was playing, one of Zach’s favourites. (It’s not the Land Before Time of our youth with the pylons and furry humanoids. It’s an animation with singing dinosaurs.) Zach, fed up trying to keep little brother from the TV set on/off switch, grabbed his head in his hands, and gouged his left eye with his thumb. I walked back into the room to find Max crying hysterically and Zach hiding behind the sofa. I took Max in my arms, and asked Zach what he did. Zach told the truth, then paled when he saw the look of horror in my face.

Photo: Sky Sports (on http://www.telegraph.co.uk/ site)

Max’s eye was fine in the end, but Zach spent a LONG time on the naughty step, and was not allowed his cartoons that evening. While it was the best I had in my arsenal, I know it won’t stop the aggro. What will stop the aggro?

They fight over everything. Any little thing Zach has, Max wants, anything, even a broken piece of plastic. If Zach shows the least bit of interest, Max screams, “Mine!” Equally, if Max has something that peaks Zach’s interest, it could get snatched out of his hands. Only when they’re totally engaged in something that I’m supervising do they not attack each other. I literally have to stand there and say, “Zach, you kick the ball. Good. Now Max, your turn. Don’t hold it...kick it back...good, now, Zach, your turn...kick it back...great. Now, Max, your turn...” Clearly, I can’t do that all day. I try to keep them exercised: playground, scooter, bicycle, walks, “nature trails” (where we go down the lane with the nature book and try to identify insects – the only animals to which we can get up close and personal, aside from the cows and cats). I’m not sure if it keeps them from attacking each other, but it wears them out.

*Sigh* I don’t know what to do. Brendan is just like: get used to it. He’s probably right, but I still worry this will all lead to one or more visits to A&E.

What is Poetry? A Judgement Call

Dave Lordan and I were messaging back and forth recently around the topics of writing and why you write – is it for yourself? Is it for readers? Publishers? If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If a writer writes and no one is there to read it, does it make a difference? This led me to thinking of when I was young, and wrote alone, in my bedroom, with no intention of showing any of it to anyone.

I bring this all up in context.

Zach walked up to me recently and asked, “What is a poem?”

I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Me, the lady who studied fiction and poetry in grad school, and likes to talk. I’m kind of staring at him.

He looked at me, “Mom?”

I had to think about it for a minute, “Uhm...its words...”

“Yeah?”

“Like a story...but not...not as many words on the page. Also, there’s not necessarily a beginning, middle or end like a story...but there could be. Sometimes it does tell a story, and is really long...Sometimes it rhymes...but not always...it could be really, really short...it has rhythm like a song...beats...but there’s no music playing when you read it...it doesn’t always make sense the way a story does, but you figure out what it’s saying by listening to the words and making a picture in your head...” I was struggling, pitifully. Ms. Manrique, I hear Marilyn Hacker in my head, you get an F.

Zach’s staring at me.

“Uh – let’s go to your bedroom and get the STORIES AND RHYMES FOR BOYS book. I think I have to show and not tell on this one.”

I was wondering why the sudden interest in poetry, then I found out. I picked Zach up from school subsequently, and the teacher handed me a note. It asked my permission for him to participate in a poetry reading competition. The teachers would prep him in reading and interpreting the piece. It would be my responsibility to drive him into town, to an auditorium, where he would stand, on a stage, in front of judges and other children and adults, and read his poem, with expression. He could win or lose or get honourable mention, or whatever it is kids get these days when they’re good but not the best. He would be judged.

He’s 5 (as of yesterday).

That seems awfully young to be standing up in front of crowds of adults who will judge you. Maybe he’s judged all the time. The teacher – he’s always trying to please her. His mother and father – we’re always observing, hovering, encouraging, whatever you want to call it. This child – has he been performing the whole time? He performs when he says he didn’t hit his brother, and I know that he did because of the way Max is crying and the way Zach is looking at me (the slight curl up one side of his mouth and the questioning glint in his eye, which asks: “will she buy this?” No, I won’t. I have eyes like CCTV cameras, strategically placed throughout the house. I know when a baby has been pushed from 2 rooms away).

My husband and I signed him up for the competition. I consoled myself, thinking: I can always pull him out of this later if he’s not happy, if it isn’t working out, if he can’t stand up in front of people...

In the face of the judgement, will he lose his interest in what poetry is, and turn away? Maybe I need to leave him alone to just like poems. If Zach one day writes and no one reads it, it’s still worth something. It’s worth Zach writing it. It’s worth Zach.

SLEEP? WE DON’T NEED NO STINKING SLEEP!

Earlier this week

Max (2 years old) comes into our bedroom at 1:20 am saying, "I wet, mammy, I wet, mammy, I wet..." I’m so drowsy I don’t know what’s going on. I just say, “What? What?” repeatedly.

Brendan (husband, age undisclosed) finally interprets: "He says HE'S WET."

So, I get up and change Max’s diaper, then try to put him back into his own bed—a futile effort. The diaper change has roused him. I bring him into our bed, stick him in the space between our pillows. This usually works.

Toss, turn, toss, turn. No one sleeps.

Around 2:30 AM, Zach, the almost 5 year-old, shows up from out of nowhere on my side of the bed. I mumble: "Go to daddy's side of the bed." He does.

Still from - Treasure of The Sierrra Madre

Over on that side, I hear Brendan say, "There isn't room for four people!" Zach gets into our bed, and Brendan goes down the hall to Zach's bedroom, to sleep under the Diego comforter and John Deere tractor blanket.

My head sinks deeper into my pillow thinking: ‘I’m sleeping with my children instead of my husband. I don’t care. I just want to sleep.’

Twenty minutes later, Max sits bolt upright, crying: "My bed, my bed!" I lift Max, start leaving the room.

Zach lifts his head, groggy, off Brendan’s pillow: “I’m really tired.” I pat his head, tell him to close his eyes, go to sleep; I’ll be back in a few minutes after I settle Max into his bed.

I take Max down the hall to his bedroom. Now, Zach is in our bed alone; Brendan is in Zach's room; Max is in his bed; and I am on the sofa in Max's room. I’m only around 5’3” tall, and the sofa is too short, even for me. I don’t care, I’m lying down. I close my eyes. Sleep approaches me, gives me the once over, considers enveloping me in its sweet oblivion. It then recedes, rejecting me, because--

http://www.whme.com/Admin/images/greenacres1.jpg

--Max won't sleep. Toss and turn, toss and turn. He gets up and joins me on the sofa. The two of us are now scrunched together. I don’t care: I’d sleep in a cage, loaded on the back of a flatbed pickup as it went down the road at 50 miles an hour, kicking up dust, blasting the theme tune to Green Acres repeatedly from its speakers, if that was all I had. I’m a mother of two boys under the age of five; I know about sleep deprivation. I try to drift off despite the discomfort (baby legs in my belly, no pillow under my head).

That’s when Zach gets up. I hear him leave our bedroom and go down the hall to his own room. He evicts Brendan from the Diego bed. Brendan doesn't realise I’m in Max's room with Max--so instead of going back to our bed, he goes down to the living room and crashes on the sofa, with no pillow.

So, now, to recap: Brendan is on the sofa downstairs; Zach in his own bed: Max and I are on the small sofa in Max's room; the marital bed is empty. Our big, lovely, comfy, memory foam and spring combination mattress is empty.

People start falling asleep. Zach sleeps in his own bed. Brendan, downstairs. Max finally falls asleep around 5 AM, in his bed (having decided the sofa wasn’t for him). I tip toe back to my bedroom and fall asleep by 5:30 AM--praying to the gods of baby sleep that these people I gave birth to crash out until 9 AM.

At precisely 6:59 AM, Max comes back over to my side of the bed (where this all started 6 hours ago), asks me to come back to his bedroom. I take him back to his bed. He tosses and turns and can’t sleep.

Zach wakes up around 7:30 AM. The circus starts again with the bed hopping, except now it's time for Brendan to go to work. I give up on sleep and everyone is downstairs in front of cartoons by 7:45, and I’m staring at the kettle, blurry-eyed, nauseous from lack of sleep, willing it to boil.

Water: Blog Action Day 2010

On Wednesday, our power was out for the entire afternoon and into the evening. We live rurally, and depend on water being drawn up from our own personal well by an electric pump. When the electricity goes, so does the water. So, when the power went on Wednesday, I knew I had to start rationing water before the tanks in the attic ran out. No toilet flushing; fill the sink to wash hands and face; no dish washing, etc. I thought: what a hassle it would be to have to go fetch your family’s water every day.

“Blog Action Day is an annual event that unites the world's bloggers in posting about the same issue on a single day – October 15.” (http://blogactionday.change.org/) Today, many of the world’s bloggers (including me) are blogging about the importance of access to clean, safe drinking water for almost a billion people, worldwide. Drinking unsafe water and lack of basic sanitation provided by water causes 80% of the world’s diseases, and apparently kills more people than violence, including war. Children are the most vulnerable.

WOMEN AND CHILDREN

“In Africa alone, people spend 40 billion hours every year just walking for water. Women and children usually bear the burden of water collection, walking miles to the nearest source, which is unprotected and likely to make them sick. Time spent walking and resulting diseases keep them from school, work and taking care of their families. Along their long walk, they're subjected to a greater risk of harassment and sexual assault. Hauling cans of water for long distances takes a toll on the spine and many women experience back pain early in life.” (http://www.charitywater.org/whywater/)

When Zach or Max want a drink, I open the tap. In the worst case scenario, as when the power went out the other day, we hop in the car and go to a shop to buy water. We’re not so broke we can’t afford clean water – and it’s accessible.

“With safe water nearby, women are free to pursue new opportunities and improve their families’ lives. Kids can earn their education and build the future of their communities.” (http://www.charitywater.org/whywater/)

Empower women and children. Visit http://blogactionday.change.org/  to learn more and sign a petition.

It's a Love-Hate

THINGS I HATE about being a stay-at-home mom

1. Being considered the “laundry mistress” of the house. I’m supposed to know everything about laundry: how do you get this coffee stain out? Does the Spiderman suit drip or tumble dry? Can you wash this shirt by tomorrow, I have a meeting? Etc. and so on.  I DID NOT study this stuff in college, people. I will wash your stuff, but I don’t guarantee satisfaction, or that it will emerge from the laundry room the same size it went in.

1. Preparing all the meals. I used to love cooking, but now that I have to come up with lunch and dinner every day, I’ve got cooker’s block. What to prepare? People won’t eat the same thing two days in a row, and cooking is a must because we live in a rural area. Can you say, ‘scrambled eggs for lunch?'

3. Cleaning the house. Oh, woe is me. My solution: let the house go. End of story.

4. Driving. DRIVING. Pick up from school, go to shops, go to Gymboree class, go to playground, go to friend’s house, go to dentist appointment...over and over and over. Green party, don’t get mad at me. There are no footpaths or mass transit for miles around, so it’s either take the car, or me and my kids get run over on the road by the local sight impaired farmer in his 30 year-old tractor.

5. Which brings me neatly to: shopping. Gotta drive to the shops. I’m in the frickin’ grocery store, like, everyday. If it isn’t milk, it’s bread. If it isn’t bread, it’s cheese. I try to go and do one big shop on a Friday, but by Sunday evening all the bananas are gone, and...oh you know the story. Everybody’s always eating, 3 times a day, blast them, and as the unemployed lady of the house, it’s my job to keep the place in biscuits and square meals. Can’t shirk this responsibility like I shirk the cleaning.

THINGS I LOVE about being a stay-at-home mom

1. The hugs, the kisses, the laughter (as we roll around, tickling each other on the dirty carpet)

2. Being with them

2. Wearing pyjamas well into mid-morning

4. Listening to talk radio as much as I want (see my previous post Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Mom for more about the downsides of that pursuit).

Re-reading above, it looks like I hate more than I love, but when things are good, you just don’t write about them as much.

Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Mom

To preface this, let me tell you that these confessions will not include: keeping a Vodka bottle at the bottom of my lingerie drawer (I don’t even have a “lingerie drawer”); having an affair with the gardener (the “gardener” around here is my husband, in any case); turning tricks on the side (though, I do need the money...); being addicted to oxycontin; etc.  



Confession 1: I use the TV as a babysitter/narcotic for my children so that I can get 30-60 minutes in the mornings to myself, in order to wash my face, change clothes, check my emails, do a load of laundry, etc.  I use it again in the evenings so I can cook dinner, in peace. I use it after school for about 30 minutes, because Zach comes in exhausted and cranky, and a half hour on the sofa staring at the screen seems to sort him out. I feel guilty about this, but for those 2-3 hours a day, the TV provides respite. This is not the 1950’s and I am not the perfect mother. Am I justifying my behaviour? Yes, and I’m sure some of you will call me on it. Fell free. Maybe I’ll reform.



www.catholichomeandgarden.com



Confession 2: I stay up too late. I get involved in a stupid TV show and sit on the sofa watching it when I should be in bed getting ready for the next day. I don’t even get to sit down in front of said shows normally until after 9, and I try to get up off my bottom by 10:30 – but really, I’m not getting enough sleep. I must ask myself: Do I REALLY need to watch that particular episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians again?



Confession 3: Which leads me to the next confession: I’m fairly educated, widely read, follow politics, read poetry, and in general try to function and appear like an intellectual. The intellectual life is a veneer. In the little time I have to devote to TV, I watch America’s Next Top Model (Living TV) and Fashion Police (E!), I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant (Discover Home and Health), and I Shouldn’t Be Alive (Discovery). They’re total escapism. They add nothing to my intellectual or moral development. They’re wrong to watch. WRONG-WRONG-WRONG.  They’re so indulgent that I feel like I’m eating a whole bag of chocolate chip cookies when I watch them (but no calories!). Yes, I have a stack of books on my bed side. I read periodicals, online fiction magazines, etc., etc. But...this just doesn’t square with the baby birthing stories I like to watch...over and over again. Which person am I? The John McGahern loving, Ann Enright reading, Theo Dorgan appreciating, Raymond Carver adoring, Cormac McCarthy admiring lady or am I the lady who watches Fashion Police and emits guttural laughs from the sofa?



Confession 4: I leave the radio tuned to Radio 1 all the time. I’m addicted to chat. I turn it on at 7 AM when Morning Ireland is on, and it stays on all day. At noon, when Pat Kenny finishes and Ronan Collins starts his 1 hour music show, I desperately tune in to Newstalk radio. I go back to RTE 1 for the lunchtime news at 1. Sometimes, I’d rather hear what he guy on the radio has to say, instead of my kids. This happens mostly in the car. When Max was around one or so years old, I had him strapped into his car seat, behind me as I drove. I turned Liveline on to hear the opening credits, you know, when the voice goes: “Jooooeeeee Duffffyyyyyyy!”  The guy on the radio said “Jooooeeeee-” and from the back seat I hear, “Duuufffyy!”  It was one of Max’s first words.



Confession 5: I’m running out of confessions, as clearly evidenced by my previous confession. My true confession, my core confession as it were, is that I have the same foibles as any mom. I use the TV as a narcotic/babysitter. I stay up late in order to get an hour to myself, and spend it filling my head with crap. I don’t clean the house as often as I should (not explicitly confessed to, above, but true none-the-less). I am addicted to talk radio. I love my children, but need moments of respite: deep and total respite.



Confession is a key instrument in purging the soul. It is the first step in change, to say it out loud. That first action, and it begets further positive action, that will, in turn, hopefully engender change.

I’d love to hear from other mothers out there – do you confess to the same? Or, would you like to suggest an alternative to any of these?



My guess is, reviewing the above, I’m not going to stop watching Fashion Police or listening to Liveline. I will, however, try not to let it interfere with listening to my boys’ chat or finishing that Zora Neale Hurston collection of stories I started.  It did feel good to get it off my chest, though.