Anyway, there are things one learns at night. Lessons both esoteric and mundane, profound and trivial. Firstly you learn that ghosts are real; you know this because they visit you unbidden, flickering in your mind’s eye and beckoning you down corridors to memories you would prefer to ignore. Secondly, while night time television is horribly bad if you have enough channels you will find either Murder She Wrote or a documentary on mummies. Learn to love these programs and you can survive the night watch.

Thirdly, between 11pm and 3 am you can listen to the bones of your house swell and settle, twist and creak. You will never truly know a dwelling until you have listened to it’s heartbeat at midnight.

Fourth, a sleeping baby will ignore tv, car horns, house alarms and raised voices but if you try to take a digestive biscuit out of a packet he will be stark staring awake at the first crinkle.

Fifth, my neighbours teenaged children fight a lot; even by teenage sibling standards. But they are talented pianists.

There’s a lot more but it’s almost half eleven and I need to watch Jessica Fletcher now. Or the darkness will come crashing in and the Dungeon Dimensions reach through to our reality. I’m only half joking…

In my day one poured over the morning edition of the newspapers, searching through lists and lists of CAO numbers – issued to each Leaving Certificate candidate before their exams – to find one’s number and beside it a bald statement of college and course. My hands were shaking, I felt physically sick, until I spied my number and beside it UCD, Arts BA.

My first year in UCD was halcyon….I had a fun filled, happy, upbeat year and one that ranks as the best of my teens. At 17, I was too young to drink in the pub for the first few months of my college career and by the time summer 1987 rolled around I felt as if I had grown up in UCD. (My second and third years were devoted to angst, love affairs and general drama.) There were so many possibilities and most importantly, the prospect of having to make a decision about any of them was far, far away.

In about four weeks I will have known one of my best friends 25 years. We both entered UCD together, although it would be a year before I actually got to know him properly, beyond a hello and goodbye, or a shared tutorial. He was a constant; reliable, highly intelligent, sometimes eccentric but always 100 per cent authentic.

I have a wish for Mr Bodhránbanger’s niece. I hope on her first day she talks to someone, and makes friends with them, and 25 years later, when she hears of someone going to college themselves, sits and smiles for an afternoon thinking of them, and the friendship they have shared. In the end, long after exams have ceased to matter and when all the cool luminaries of the college social scene are forgotten, that is what makes “the game worth the candle.”

Let me explain. I run my own business, with family members and after 3 months went back to work, but bringing Baby in with me. He has his own area, doting grandparents and lots of my attention too. As a solution it’s actually great. Except that there are weeks where I feel I am neither doing my job nor giving him my undivided attention. Especially when there’s a deadline, or pressure (such as trying to get VAT returns and accounts done.)

And when that happens one needs to vent to friends. Except many friends are working mothers with their kids in creches. And the response was sharp and judgemental. “You’re lucky you get to have him with you all day. I have to leave my baby in a creche.” So one realises one is not allowed to complain.

We went through hell to have Baby. Years of treatment, miscarriage and then finally a surprise natural pregnancy. If one complains that things are hard, sometimes, lonely or just a grind,  there is a raised eyebrow response and the general reaction that complaint is churlish, in the face of our good luck.

Friends are busy, even the sympathetic ones. Friends are also moving onto their second or third or fourth pregnancy and that creates a distance in itself. There will be no second pregnancy for us.

And I would love to just go out, with some friends, and have a pint. Just a night out, chatting and having fun. I have had one night out like that since Baby was born (10 months) but even then I was acutely aware that once I got home, I would be “on” for the evening so it was impossible to fully relax. I also miss female friends. The people I would have gone out with before are not here. For a myriad of reasons, I am pretty lonely right now.

Now, I have a great life by and large. I have good friends and I have family and I have my lovely baby. I am not crying into my beer every night. But increasingly I have been a bit jinxed where socialising is concerned. It takes so much effort to arrange everyone and meet in the one place at the same time. Everyone is on for it in principle but in practice it’s herding cats.

I have learned over the last few weeks that being sensitive about it is pointless. In the pre-baby days if I had tried to meet someon twice and they cancelled I would have shrugged and met someone else. done something else. Now I give it a third and fourth go. I meet any mother with a child remotely Dara’s age simply because as an only child I want him to have friends, as many as possible, growing up. Now I am applying the same ruthless and relentless appraoch to my own social life.

I am saying yes to anything going (except the pity date with my sisters-in-law that my well-meaning husband arranged. I love them but really, that was just embarrassing.) I’ve become the person who rings around and arranges a night out. I’ve even on occasion employed a dash of emotional blackmail (“it’s been aaaages…”) and I try not to feel hurt by refusals or cancellations.

It’s hard. I am not naturally pushy especially where my own interests are concerned. In truth I am a shy person, who masks it with a lot of chatter. Given my druthers, I’d no more push people to meet up and I am given to a default assumption that no one really likes me. But for my own sanity I am trying. I want to look back in a few years and see this period as a blip, and have a healthy social life with friends to talk to.

I’ll let you know if I succeed

Pleasure’s Shared is my regular list of great, happy, interesting, fun things I’ve come across from television programmes to books to crochet to music and everything in betweeen.

My primary pleasure to share this week is GRR Martin’s Dances with Dragons. Now I’m not going to review the book yet for the simple reason that I have not managed to crack it open yet. I have a 9 month old teething baby folks, it may be this time next year before I get to read it. But the pleasure to share is the mere fact of it finally, existing.

I had the great pleasure of meeting the great GRR Martin himself when he travelled to Ireland. I actually had a cup of coffee with him and his lovely wife, Parris. They were both extremely charming and kind and George RR was a wonderful exception to the old rule ”don’t meet your heroes“. Far from being disillusioned, I came away thinking even more highly of the author for having met the man (and I had started off thinking pretty highly of him as an author as it was!)

Waiting for DWD has been a long auld haul. It was enlivened in recent years by the filming of the Game of Thrones series on HBO, shown recently on Sky Atlantic. But much as I enjoyed watching one of my favourite works brought to life on screen nothing really compares to the excitement of a new book, the smell of freshly printed pages and the dizzying prospect of all those words, woven together into something that will remain in your heart and mind forever.

So while it might be a long time before I can open it up and devote myself to reading it, for now I am content to know it exists and see it on my bookshelves. It promises hours of enjoyment, someday. Pure Pleasure.

He has grown from a little bundle of legs and arms and skinny ribbed torso into a sturdy baby man; our problems with feeding him are (mainly) in the past and while he still resists sleep for fear of missing something interesting….we are surviving quite well now.

I still cook all his food; with the exception of his morning porridge and the occasional Organix finger food snacks he eats no commercial premade or processed food. At the moment his favourites are Salmon and Broccoli in a 3 Cheese Sauce, Cottage pie with mash, and chicken and apple stew with pasta and carrot. Lunch tends to be a rice or pasta dish with veg and cheese, and yogurts. He has recently mastered the pincer grip so he has lots of grated cheese and carrot or squash bits as finger food. I puree fruit for him, everything from apples to a mix of berries.

I spend far more time cooking for him than I ever have or will do for myself

Wexford, Ireland makes the ideal family holiday location

Tomorrow is a red letter day, there should be fanfare and brass bands and parades. Tomorrow is our first family holiday.

Now, it’s not the Cote d’Azur, it’s the sunny south-east of Ireland. It’s not a posh hotel or a sun-soaked resort, it’s a rented house. And far from the wine and food oriented holidays of old, we are bringing my 80 year old parents and enough baby gear to open our own branch of Mothercare in Rosslare Strand. But it’s our family, on holiday, for the very first time.

I bought Baby a bag. His very own travel bag. My rationale for this was that I was sick of travelling on overnight stays to the inlaws with everything in four or five supermarket bags, overflowing into the boot of the car. So I went in search of a deep but neatly sized, pocketed travel bag. Luckily Adamson’s in Johnson Place, Dublin had the very thing; it ticked all the boxes above plus the unspoken but desperately desired element of “fashionable.” Sue me – I have a cheap functional change bag and my maternity clothes were just bigger versions of normal clothes. My inner Yummy Mummy put her foot down over Baby’s bag.

I spent last night packing Baby’s things. This time last year even while pregnant I would have been halfway through my own packing (I will probably remember to throw some clothes in a plastic bag on Saturday morning) and researching nice restaurants in the vicinity of our hotel (We know there’s a family friendly hotel restaurant in the town and that’s good enough for us.) I lovingly separated, folded and packed  his vests, babygrows, tops, trousers, dungarees, shorts, and socks. I packed his brush, toiletries and incidentals.

So that’s one bag filled. Another gym bag is now filled with his cereals, and some back up foodstuffs like Ella’s Kitchen organic fruit packs and Hipp Organic baby food.  The bulk of his food, home-made, will be transported in freezer boxes. Two of them. Then there is the bag of toys and the bag of sheets and blankets.

Lucky really that I won’t have much time to pack for myself and his father could live for a week in a pair of shorts and a couple of tee shirts. And the old people don’t take up much room and the new roof box will hold the pram, playpen, pop up beach tent, and my dad’s ancient “windcheater” that he is insisting we bring, lest a rough breeze disturb his grandson’s repose on a picnic.

Speaking of picnics, in anticipation of their first picnic with Baby the grandparents are bringing their entire picnic basket set, camping chairs, golf umbrellas and two plastic backed picnic rugs.

Lucky really we will be bringing both cars.

Of course with the Irish weather, it’s altogether possible we will be stuck indoors for 7 days. But it will be 7 days with my family, 7 whole days of no work and no rushing and being able to talk and enjoy each other. You can stuff your Cote D’Azur

This raises some strange fears. WIll he be lonely? That’s the first and simplest fear. We promise ourselves he will be close to family and cousins and we are building a network of friends for him among our own friends with babies. Will he be burdened by us as we grow older and he’s the only child to help his aged parents; no siblings with whom to share the burden ? We think a lot of about saving up, trying to be financially responsible and not hamper him in later life or become a burden. Although I hope he grows up to be the kind of man who doesn’t consider his aged parents a burden.

So many things go through your mind when you are the mother of an only child. Listening to that sad tale on the radio hit me right in the heart. Because if anything happens to Baby, we have no other chick. The rational part of me points out that even if we had ten children none of them could replace the other and the pain of losing one child is presumably not lessened because you have others. But the irrational part of my mind screams that he is our only love, our one baby and that to lose him would rip a hole in our lives that nothing could repair. If we had other children they would claim our attention, force us to go one living. If we lose Baby then….how would we survive?

Yes these are morbid thoughts. I am not unaware of that. I realise that. But when you are blindsided by tales of loss on a Monday morning you cannot control your response so easily.

I look at Baby; at his adorable handsome face, those big blue eyes that can look so sad or dance with mischief, those big kissable lips and little snub nose. I look at his lovely big little hands and big little feet (seriously he is like an alsatian pup) and his now sturdy legs that are finally putting on weight. His arms reach up to me and when I catch him up he pauses for a moment to face plant a wet open mouth kiss on my cheek.

I remind myself that the here and now matters. Every single day matters. I cannot control the future but I can control what use I make of the present. He deserves a mother who enjoys every moment with him rather than one who squanders his babyhood anxiously awaiting doom.

Faith in the future is a hard trick to learn; I will strive for it as best I can. I will try to believe in a future where my darling boy grows into a darling man and creates a family of his own, and in turn grows old. And in the meantime I will enjoy the here and now with him, while he still thinks Mammy is the best thing ever.

Dear Son

First of all let me start by saying I love you.

I have never experienced nor imagined love such as I hold in my heart for you. You are the light of my life, the jam in my doughnut, the happy in my day. I love you from the hedgehog head of hair on you to the wigglies on your big little feet.

There are a few issues though that need to be addressed. I feel it is important to clear up these things before we go any further down the road of this Mother/Son relationship. They are not big things. Gods know they are not deal breakers. But I feel we really should talk about them.

The first is sleep. Really I don’t know where you got this idea that sleep lasts 3-4 hours and then is followed by food or play but let me put you straight. There are two types of sleep. One takes place during the daytime and is called a nap. It is fine to nap for a short period and wake up full of beans with gimlet eyes dancing in your mischievous little face. Then  there is night time sleep. That takes place when it gets dark. Or at this time of year, when I say so. It should last from about 7 pm to at least 4 or 5 am the following morning. It is acceptable for it to last to 10 pm, be interrupted by a night time bottle and then last til 6 am the following day.

It is NOT acceptable for you to wake me at four hour intervals  or less. It just isn’t. Mammy isn’t built to last on tiny amounts of sleep per night. I look like hell and my head hurts. And I feel like a nintey year old. So please, address your sleep habits and if you could please transform into one of those babies that sleeps all night  I would be most grateful.

(But I love you and wouldn’t really change you)

The other issue is my hair. Mammy has had long hair for most of her life. There was that unfortunate period in primary school when I had a pageboy, but we don’t talk about that. Long hair, on the Mammy, that’s the norm. You’ve known this since you were born. 8 months have passed. Everyday you see my long hair. So why has the fascination not abatted? Every day you try to eat it, swing out of it, go to sleep on me holding onto tendrils of it (always in the tightest, most painful way possible.)

I understand that you like it and want to explore it and that’s kind of your job right now but please! Mammy already looks like crap from the not sleeping. It really would help if her hair didn’t look like a demented bird’s nest.

(But actaully I love you and wouldn’t really change you)

There are one or two other niggling little issues. Emptying your water bottle over your head is not what the books mean by “taking water from a sippy cup.” Mammy’s finger is not an approved teething toy. Biting it will elicit complaints. Sneezing or blowing raspberries while eating and spraying food across Mammy’s face is not polite, bodes ill for your  future table manners and you really shouldn’t laugh while you do it.

Apart from that I need tell you – you’re doing brilliantly. You are so brave, always trying new things, always smiling even when in pain, always good natured and sweet, even when rambunctious and gleefully destructive. You go for walks with me and smile and chat – you are the best company in the world. I would go without sleep for a month for one of your smiles and shave off the hair to save you a minutes pain.

(This in no way negates the requests contained in the blog above – sleep and leave the hair in my head if possible ) 

These are questions I have asked for the last few years and hoped some day to get answered. Well that’s not going to happen now. I can’t hold any rancour towards her, may her gods receive her. But it hurts.

Then last Sunday I attended the funeral of a man who hasn’t talked to half his family for 14 years. Over a sullen, petty, imagined slight. Another sad waste.

Mr Bodhranbanger and I talked about this. There’s nothing we can do to fix the loss of those who are gone; all we can do is build a life where we keep a hold of our connections. Where the threads that bind us to friends and family – no matter how frayed or thin – are cherished, minded. Where the people we love are held close.
Life is too short to surround ourselves with people who don’t care about us or who cannot reciprocate friendship. But where there is real friendship and love we should be slow to resentment, quick to forgive.

And we have started solids. Solids are the best thing ever; I can’t believe how nervous I was at the thought of starting. I pureéd butternut squash, carrots and sweet potato into submission and after a few spoonsfuls of baby rice, he took to real food with a vengeance. He is not mad about carrots, he will take broccoli and peas if mixed with sweet potato but he adores butternut squash and pear and apple and yogurt and sweet potato and as of last night – beef!

We are abotu ready to move onto more complex recipes and tastes but I’m heartened by the success so far. After the heartbreak of 6 months of breastfeeding and the ongoing battle to get him even to take the bottle of milk some days, to hvae one aspect of feeding proceed successfully and relatively easily has been such a relief. And the mild guilt at ceasing breastfeeding (a moot point really as my supply simply disappeared while he had a cold) the ritual of cooking and making up dinners for him myself is a good compensation.

I will let him have jars at some point, perhaps during the summer when out and about, if necessary. But I would be perfectly happy for him never to have processed commerical food for the first year at least. I have invested in some Glenfisk organic baby yogurts for emergencies, but I do prefer to feed him the Glenfisk orgnaic whole fat yogurt, with homemade apple or pear pureé.

Every week sees him getting a bit more robust and mobile. He is on the verge of both crawling and sitting up unaided (he actually moves all over the room by a mixture of rolling and scootching) and he is now the prooud owner of a high seat and a jumperoo. And a large pentagonal playpen that my husband tells everyone is for the mini werewolf.

And I had to apply for schools. Actually I had to do that when he was 5 months! It’s bizarre and shouldn’t be the case but if we want a decent primary school with a link to any decent secondary, then he needs to be enrolled asap. We have applied to at least 5 schools and will continue to apply to more as we hear of them. If he doesn’t get in I’ll homeschool him and charge the state. Only joking but you never know.

Well that’s my monthly online time used up. I really am going to try to get on more often and I want to finish my list of firsts. It’s my one shot at getting them down and writing them into his baby book some day.