Musings on a Life Quite Ordinary

The first week of last September was a landmark one for me for a number of reasons. My daughter started school and I reluctantly went to my first parents coffee morning. I had been dreading it.   I felt low and inadequate. There I was, in the restaurant, gripping my son as though I was afraid someone would steal him, his sister had run off to primary school just two days earlier after all and I was delicate. I eyed the table and the introductions started.   As I scrambled to remember names I was sure I would be tested on later, a voice said “and I’m sure you know Hazel Gaynor, she’s Hot Cross Mum”. Well, relief flooded through me as I turned to the lady whose blog I had been following for months and whose commentary on her own life had made me realise I am not alone in my job as a stay at home parent. I was delighted to meet her, but what the hell was she doing at a coffee morning with a blog to write? Surely it takes every spare ounce of energy she has to pull it together week after

I can’t remember the name of my first school teacher, but I remember the first shop I bought sweets in, it belonged to the Lowry family whose daughter was in my class. One day playing in their house, which was actually behind and above the shop, her mother gave us 5 pence each so we could go into the shop and buy some sweets.   Mrs Lowry wore one of those proper cover all aprons, it was brown, secured with two round buttons on her shoulders and had a big pocket on the front. I was four at the most and mesmerized. It was 1975 so you could still get halfpenny sweets.   I may not have been paying too much attention at school but I managed to figure out that the little copper coin gripped tightly in my chubby hand had the potential to get me between 5 and 10 sweets. To this day, I remember exactly what I bought: 1.        2 aniseed balls, the little red ones that lasted ages. 2.       2 flogs – yellow and pink swirls of yumminess. 3.       1 liquorice lace – red, not black, I can’t remembe

Jonathan Griffin holds the Flame of Hope with Garda Síochána Deputy Commissioner Nacie Rice & Assistant Chief Constable Duncan McCausland PSNI My last blog post was quite emotional and blue, I wrote it in the early hours after a long day obsessively watching the events unfold in Japan and felt so sad.   I was on a bit of a downer to be honest and felt guilty that the only bright side of what I wrote about benefited me and my family. Then along came Sunday morning and I got to see something great which reminded me of the fact that no matter what awfulness happens in life, there’s always something wonderful happening somewhere else. You know that thing that gets us up in the morning with hope in our hearts. The something wonderful I got to witness was the launch of Special Olympics Team Ireland at the Convention Centre in Dublin on Sunday morning. The 126 athletes, who will be representing Ireland in Athens this summer, took to the stage in a whirlwind of cheers, clapping & f

When I awoke Friday to a drizzly cold grey morning, I felt tired, grumpy and a little overwhelmed by my never ending list of things I need to do but rarely get to the end of. It was supposed to be spring, but I was cold and miserable, there was no time for breakfast before the school run and the house needed a good clean. I lost patience with my daughter’s experimental dress sense.   She is five and a half and went out the door looking like a finger painting set had exploded all over her. Basically, I was a moaning, whiney, pain in the backside. We get quite a bit of rain where we live, we see a lot of clouds, but our general air temperatures are middle of the road. My whole life, I along with most of my country men and women have complained about rainy summers and grey days. Little did I know that by bed time Friday night, I would be so grateful to live in such a gentle little corner of the Earth. The fact that my husband and I can give our children a home in a place where the simple

I’ve got 25 minutes before work. My kitchen is a mess. There are strange sticky marks on the sitting room floor. There’s toothpaste all over the bathroom sink. There’s an odd smell coming from the press in the corner of the kitchen. There’s a mountain of laundry to be done. I somehow spilled coffee on my hair. My son has just dragged a large basket of little cars into the already messy kitchen and upended it on the floor. I got a nee naw (police car) right on that funny little bone on your ankle that makes your tummy feel funny, but not in a good way, when it’s hit and Lightening McQueen is upside down in the cat’s water bowl. The cat is thirsty and won’t touch water with Lightening McQueen in it, because in fairness, she has no idea where else that car has been. I’m just sitting here blogging. Honestly? I could care less. The kids are healthy, my other half and I are healthy. Our parents, siblings, cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews are healthy and even my 93 year old grandmot

Spring has apparently sprung, although it didn’t feel like it at 8am this morning when I was adding layer upon layer to my daughter to send her to school.   She waddled up the road for her lift with our neighbour looking like a little pink onion.   It took all I had not to laugh when she dropped her glove and had to make a few attempts to bend over to pick it up; such was the level of layering. She has been sick for most of the month of February; a couple of weeks into the month, her brother joined in and we may as well have set up a direct debit from our bank account to the family doctor’s office.   Adding to that my immense stupidity at Googling their symptoms which multiplied normal parental anxiety tenfold and by yesterday, I was glad to kiss February goodbye. I am however, going to take a moment to brag now, because I really feel I should.   My daughter has to be one of, if not the best patient on the planet.   She does not complain, she does not whinge, she does not demand, at wo