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Car journeys ain’t what they used to be.

Last week we set off on our family holiday to West Cork.  Packing took an eternity as I tried to locate 56 pairs of socks, jocks and pants, not to mention ordinary items of clothing, for the kids alone.

My own personal packing was done in about 5 minutes flat as the laden down car practically reversed out the driveway without me. With every available space in our red bus filled, and a bum on every seat, we set off on our marathon journey.

Car trips have taken on a new meaning since the children’s arrival.  Gone are the days of leisurely drives.  Nowadays it’s all about bribery and distraction and trying to make sure child number six doesn’t swipe child number seven’s soother en route!

 

We had set off in the evening time, after rush hour traffic and after the children had been fed their dinner.  The hope was that the younger children might doze on the way and we could carefully lift them into their beds when we arrived, where they would sleep peacefully for the entire night and wake up wholly refreshed the next morning, full of the joys of life.  That’s one of the fascinating wonders of parenthood.  Even though you know there isn’t a hope in hell of something happening you still dare to dream it might.

And so the early part of the journey began with my husband and I nodding in agreement that they were definitely getting tired and they’d most certainly drift off any moment now. And as the miles passed we knew they were definitely just about to go to sleep.  And after we stopped to let some of them go for a wee, we knew that that was obviously all that was keeping them awake and their now empty bladders would mean they’d be fast asleep before we knew it. The conversations directed at us from the back of the car however, suggested sleep wasn’t on their minds just yet.

“Do you know that beavers’ teeth keep growing?” the five year old informed me “and we better get there before midnight because that’s when the mud monsters come out”. “This city is upside down” the three year old exclaimed, in spite of the fact that there wasn’t a house to be seen, never
mind a city! “I’ll really miss you when you die mum” the five year old continued, “I think you’ll probably be 109” “I think Ireland might be a planet sometimes” he added. This comment was enough to bring the seven and ten year olds in on the conversation. “Ireland is not a planet” they roared in unison.

Undeterred by his brothers, the five year old continued “yes I think it is a planet, but I don’t think foxes are real”. The seven year old wasn’t entertaining this notion at all “of course they’re real” he said “I’ve seen one” “Yes, but he was probably trying to sneak up on you like a mud monster” the five year old replied. “I love Spiderman” said the three year old. “I’m going to be a daddy when I grow up” said the five year old, “not a mummy, because I have a willy, like Spiderman”. “I love Spiderman”, said the three year old once again.

I attempted a little gentle persuasion to encourage the younger children in particular to go asleep and said that their daddy and I would carry them into bed once we arrived. “But we’re not tired” the five year old protested “we just have itchy eyelashes.”

Finally, at 11:30, we arrived, and all seven children were awake. As we left the cramped confines of the car, we realised, not for the first time in our lives, that we were very sadly deluded.  The kids had no intention whatsoever of going to sleep anytime soon.  They ran excitedly into the house we had rented, running up the stairs in heated debate over the sleeping arrangements.  It was a long car journey, but an even longer night……

 

War song of the holidays

It’s summer break and school is out
There’s parents on the brink
Of panic at the thoughts of it
It’s driving them to drink
The children have a different view
Of the weeks that stretch ahead
With no early starts or busy days
Do they need to go to bed
At 9 o’clock or even ten
Sure the sun is in the sky
And if you try to coax them in
You know that they will cry
And cry and moan a little more
Protest that it’s not fair
Cos Johnny, Sam and Sarah too
Are playing over there
And on the days the sun’s not out
The rain has come instead
The little darlings everywhere
Are bouncing on the bed
They’ll tell you that they’re really bored
They don’t know what to do
In spite of having many toys
That fill a room or two
The squabbling starts, “he hit me first”
Your nerves are all a flutter
You count the days up in your head
And “pleasantries” you mutter
But though you think you’ll lose your mind
There’s something to remember
When school is out, there’s one great thing
No homework til September!

 

School’s out for Summer

And so we have reached the last week of school.  I say it every year but that was an unbelievably fast year. My Junior Infant has almost completed his first year in school and taken to it like the proverbial duck.  My eldest son is about to go into sixth class and my daughter has finally finished her Junior Cert. It all seems to have gone by in the blink of an eye, except for mid-year project on the Great Famine – that took an interminably long time.

The graduation for the sixth class children is due to take place this week and my friend’s son is one of the boys who will be leaving and getting ready to start a new chapter in his education. She is feeling particularly emotional about it and she doesn’t even suffer from hyper-sentimentality like me! It’s a huge milestone for any child or parent. I expect there will be lots of tears on Tuesday, mostly from the parents I imagine, and some pretty embarrassed pre-teen boys. It will be my son next year. I’m not in any hurry for it to come around.

So now with bleary eyed sentimental reflective rose tinted glasses I am looking forward to the summer holidays.  No homework induced battles for nine weeks. No smelly, temporarily undiscovered, lunch leftovers to be scraped off the bottom of schoolbags. No sudden disclosures of urgently required paraphernalia mentioned two minutes before we leave for school. It all sounds like bliss

Roll on Thursday when they finally finish up and our time, for a while, is our own.  Watch this space for complaints, from Friday, about how on earth I’m supposed to fill that time and ramblings and rantings about long until they go back!

 

 

Father’s Day

A father is a hero,
in his child’s adoring eyes,
He keeps the family safe from harm,
from villains and bad guys.
A father can do anything,
he’s the best at every game,
And stronger than every other dad,
he’d put them all to shame.
A father can fix anything,
from sadness to a broken toy
With a hug, a kiss or sticky tape,
for his little girl or boy.And even when we’re grown up too,
some things will never change.
A father remains a hero,
for his kids of the adult range.

 

Happy Father’s Day to dads everywhere! Thinking also of
those especially missing their dads today. Jen, x

One final battle

Mid-June already and we’re trundling towards the end of the school year but not before the one last torture that is Summer Tests.  This house is still under the dark cloud of the Junior Cert and now the end of year exams for my older primary schoolers have been thrown into the mix. Stress levels are rising. The already manic afternoons now have an extra demand on them and frantic scouring of revision sheets is commonplace once homework is completed. The weekends haven’t escaped either as mountain, rivers and counties of the Emerald Isle are listed off and alternate discussions about the Bronze Age and the Great Famine take place in the kitchen depending on which child happens to have wandered in at the time.

But let me clarify. It is not my troops who are initiating these discussions, nor they who are feeling the stress.  It is not they who are scouring the revision sheets to check what needs to be known for their impending tests and it certainly isn’t they who feel the need to know the where the Galtee mountains are or which river flows through Cork. Horizontal, is not a strong enough word to describe my “Summer tests takers” and “laid back” doesn’t do them justice either. They’re much more focused on playing outside with their waterguns, flickers and lightsabers.  They see the
reduction in written homework as an opportunity to escape to their own planets all the quicker.  I am reassured by them on a daily basis that it will “all be grand”, after all, it’s things that they have done through the year. I use the word “reassured” loosely. They talk the talk but they certainly don’t recollect the details!

Getting the motivational balance right is proving more difficult every year. I don’t want them to be overly worried about their tests but I would like them to have some interest and try their best. Any attempt to keep them at the dining room table just ten or fifteen minutes longer to revise for the next day is met with huge resistance. Every day I am told the tests were “fine”. I think this might be my lads’ favourite word – non-committal, covers a multitude and pacifies mam, the kids think anyway.

 

Roll on the summer holidays. Free from homework, free from making lunches, free from school runs and most importantly, temporarily free from the reminder that I still can’t pinpoint the counties, mountain and rivers of Ireland!

Time flies when you’re having fun!

Fifteen years ago tomorrow, I became a mother for the first time when my beautiful baby girl came into the world, informing it of her arrival with lungs that Shirley Bassey would have been proud of. She turned my life as I knew it, on its head and if I’m honest, in the weeks that followed, made me wonder what on earth I’d done.

In spite of the shock to the system that was first time motherhood, I fell completely and utterly head over heels in love with this gorgeous bundle of pink and my parenting journey began. Twelve years later to the day, my sixth child, her little brother and Godson was born.

 At the time, his arrival made my daughter seem very grown up by comparison, as she approached the end of her primary school time. He seemed so dependent in every regard while she was about to start an exciting new chapter in her education, one she couldn’t wait for. She strived for independence and he couldn’t live without me. The different needs were stark and challenging.

The first child gets to be the guinea pig in so many regards. I was she myself, so I can appreciate the frustrations but now I’m viewing it from a different perspective. This week as my daughter takes on her Junior Cert I’m like most mums I imagine, and I worry that she’ll get enough rest, not stress too much and hope the paper goes well. I’m trying in the little ways that I can, to make home life a little bit easier for her so she can do what she needs to do. What I really want to do however, is actually go in and take the exams for her.

As I type, my nine month old son is bouncing to the tune of “In the Night Garden” and my “one day away from 15” year old daughter is taking Irish Paper 2. How she gets on will be totally down to her. I can’t influence or affect the outcome of the exams, save maybe for helping her to be in the best frame of mind possible and discouraging the pointless post mortems after each paper. In contrast, I can pick up my bouncing nine month old and feed, change and do everything he needs done for him.

As I walked back from the school today many parents stopped to admire my littlest dude. They said they couldn’t believe how he big he is now and everyone agreed time goes so fast. It certainly does. As if birthdays aren’t enough of a reminder, state exams certainly hammer that home!

 

Dinner dramas

We try to eat dinner here as a family, as much as possible. The idea behind this is that we can all sit down together and have a chat about our day, and the added bonus is that I’m not standing over the cooker all evening as I would be, if meals were staggered. The disadvantage is, that in spite of adequate snacks, my kids are fading by 4:30, declaring their starvation and in whiny monotone drawn out voices ask me constantly “how much loooonnnngggger to dinnnnerrrr”. The constant questions start to grate after a while and I find myself watching the clock until my husband walks in the door when I thoughtfully suggest that they go and annoy their father instead while I dish up dinner.

I usually call the older kids to set the table and my reluctant helpers argue over who is to bring in the knives and who is to bring in the forks.  It appears in my children’s minds that this should be a two person job.  All the while, we try to keep the table setting operation a secret from my only enthusiastic helper, my “not yet three” year old. Any help from that terror, involves a massive clean up and a larger than usual dinner for the dog! Once dinner is served, at least two drinks have been knocked over and a row has taken place over who is drinking from which colour cup, we get down to the nitty gritty of eating and chatting.

The randomness of my children’s thoughts, feelings and resulting conversations never fails to amaze me. Yesterday at dinner the “not yet three” year old announced that he thought he had a chicken in his willy – and it was really making him need a wee. The five year old attempted to establish and confirm the fact that if his father and I died, his sister would be his new mammy and she’d probably need to marry her twelve year old brother because they’d need a dad too. The ten year old announced that he and his friends had set up a new band called “chicken in sticks” in which he is the lead singer. One friend played the tambourine, another the violin.  Obviously they needed security too, ahead of their destined fame , so, two nine year olds had been recruited as “heavies”.

The fifteen year old still gagging from the suggestion that she would marry her twelve year old brother nearly choked with laughter on hearing of her ten year old brother’s new musical direction. Too cool to be scoffed at, he continued to describe their musical genre – “ we do a bit of rock , a bit of rap, bit of oprah (no that’s not a spelling error, he was talking the Winfrey, while obviously referencing the classical). Apparently, we were informed, if they get really good, they might be allowed to perform at assembly.

In the meantime the “not yet three” year old returned from
the bathroom and confirmed he was actually poulty free, but he thinks he might have missed the toilet bowl a bit. Dinner can be a very informative experience here…..

 

Sports Day’s a comin’!

This week sees the annual occurrence that is sports day at my boys’ school. I had a vague recollection of it’s mention in the school newsletter a few weeks ago but watching my older lads running laps of the back garden while passing the dog’s toy to each other this weekend, in preparation for the relay and discovering my seven year old going through my husband’s tie drawer for a “nice colour” tie confirmed my suspicions that it was drawing ever closer. The countdown has begun and everyone is keeping their fingers crossed that the weather will stay fine.

Experienced parents have booked their time off work and one first time Junior Infant parent asked me earlier “is it that big a deal?” My reply was “Oh yes – sports day is a huge deal”

Love it or loathe is, and I’m really not sure what camp I’m in, sports day is a huge deal for the kids and for several of the parents too. Yes it’s great to see our children having fun with their friends and, if your child is any way sporty, maybe even win a medal or two. The “it’s all about taking part” line, however, does not wash with all of the children, particularly those past Senior Infants for whom a medal is no longer guaranteed, just for taking part.  In this house, with children of extremely mixed sporting ability I know there will be tears and sadness on the day for some of them, when best efforts will still leave zero chance of coming anywhere.

I know it could be viewed as a life lesson but, as an adult, I’m not likely to put myself in a competitive environment for something I know I am absolutely brutal at, and I can handle disappointment slightly better than a child.

And speaking of competitive environments, the highlight of the day for many there will be the parent’s race! You will see some, kitted out in their top notch sports gear and expensive running shoes, laughing off suggestions that it’s anything but a “bit of craic” but discreetly warming up on the sidelines as they cheer on their sons in their races.  Toned and tanned limbs give away any misconception that these parents are anything other than seasoned runners, and they mean business. Elsewhere, the more reluctant sportsmen and sportwomen among us will panickedly try to think of excuses not to take part. I already, am lamenting an absent pregnancy bump for different reasons to usual. It has crossed my mind to just stick a cushion up my dress, after all I’m always pregnant and I think most of the parents from the school have lost count at this stage.  Would anyone even be suspicious?

Failing that I’ll just have to hope the organisers turn the tables on those magnificent sporty parents and that the parent’s race involves an egg and spoon!

 

Invasion of the party boys

By the time you’re reading this I will be drowning in a sea of 9 and 10 year old boys as the first birthday party of the weekend takes place.  The banners have been purchased and blu-tacked to the wall.  The party bags are filled and waiting for distribution and there are enough chicken nuggets and pizza in the freezer to feed an army. The only thing still proving quite a challenge are the age 10 balloons which are still sitting on the mantelpiece, refusing to expand no matter how hard I blow into them and may quite possibly result in me having several burst blood vessels in my eyes if I persist.

No amount of gentle persuasion or, out and out bribery, could convince my two birthday boys to share a party so the house will most likely, over two days instead of one, resonate noise levels not heard in these parts…. since last year anyway. My own personal saving grace is that tomorrow’s party also entails a trip to see Captain America, Civil War. As my baby still requires frequent access to my bosoms, I can bow out of this part completely guilt free.  Never have I felt so glad to be restricted!

I can dawdle and ponder my good fortune no longer, as the first lot of party attendees arrive shortly and the balloons still need to be wrestled with. Time to batten down the hatches and get ready for a boy invasion. May the force be with me!

The Silly Season

Next week marks the beginning of the silly season in this house and by silly season I mean birthday season part one.  Through careful bad planning, four of my children have their birthdays inside a three and a half week period including two on the same day!

Birthdays are big business here.  The kids are already so excited and a countdown of days began a few weeks ago. A tradition we started many moons ago of giving a small token present to the people “whose birthday it’s not” means everyone looks forward to their sibling’s big day for that reason too. It can be more hassle sometimes trying to think of and find all the token presents necessary for my not unsubstantial brood, than it is actually sorting the birthday boy or girl’s gifts, but we get there in the end.

I never work on the children’s birthdays and my husband always takes a half day – he used to take the full day but the increase in numbers puts a real pressure on his leave! Birthday dinner will be the birthday child’s choosing and for the school going birthday children there is never homework. Everyone loves birthdays, well everyone except me a little bit.

I am possibly the world’s most sentimental person or at the very least on the shortlist for the title.  I lament every passing phase of the children’s lives. Much as I crave sleep and the ability to visit the bathroom or take a shower without an audience and much as I would love to be able to finish a conversation with another adult without being needed to solve someone’s immediate “crisis”, I don’t really want my kids to grow up.

I love to see their happy faces on the morning of their birthdays and to hear, when they get back from school, how the principal mentioned their names on the intercom and their classmates sang “happy birthday”.  I love to see how excited my kids are for each other and I love also the effort they make for each other on birthdays by drawing a picture, making a card, or even buying a chocolate bar for their sibling because it’s their special day.

I love how special the birthday boy or girl feels. In the midst of all of this my mind is cast back to that particular day however many years ago. I, of course, blank out the gory and painful bits and rewrite history in my head when they pop in.  I clockwatch a lot of the day and remind my other half of exactly what was happening at this stage. He doesn’t need a reminder, not only was he there, he gets a rerun of events every single year.

Depending on the child he hears how I was watching “only fools and horses”, I thought I needed a wee but couldn’t go, we had to stop for change at a garage while I was in labour so that we could pay for parking at the hospital, I was wearing my purple shirt (echoes of Fr Dougal Maguire here) or I went to watch the junior infant nativity before I would agree to go to the hospital.  Whatever the child, like most people, I have a story leading up to their birth.

I remember seeing each of my perfect little babies for the first time as clearly as if it was yesterday and I find it hard to believe that so many years have gone by since they came into the world.
The first birthday up involves my third child reaching double figures! I was wearing my purple shirt going in to have him :-D. He is beyond excited as Wednesday approaches and chicken tikka masala is on the menu
for dinner (courtesy of his nana to be honest).

The tidal wave of anticipation will sweep us all up as the big day draws nearer but I will remain somewhat nostalgic as my baby boy grows up way too quickly for my liking. I know it’s my job to help and guide him as he grows and to try to keep him safe and I know I am incredibly lucky to so far have had the privilege.

Over-sentimentality can be a curse. The rational side of me will just have to try to focus on the yummy dinner that’s coming….