The music started off and everybody had to remove their shoes and hit the dance floor. Beyoncé’s ‘All the Single Ladies’ blasted from the speakers which I wasn’t sure was a good choice. After all, there was only one little girl on the dance floor, the rest all being boys. The problem was that nobody had any stamina. Gary had been at play school that day and was kind of tired. I reckon the other kids were ready for bed too. By the time the second song came on everyone was sitting down, Gary got into the ball crawl at the far end of the hall and one little toddler was fast asleep. Mind you, even at adult discos at least one person will always fall asleep, so nothing too unusual there.
Fortunately the organisers seemed to realise that the kids weren’t going to be boogying to Wham’s Jitterbug much longer and they came up with a brainwave. They went into a little room at the back of the hall and started retrieving toys. They emerged with bikes and prams and sit-on plastic hippos. The toddlers’ eyes shone with excitement and the toys were a great hit. What a great idea really. Maybe more adult discos should take note. I mean, when people are standing around doing nothing, and nobody is on the dance floor, there’s often an impromptu fight. Really, all night clubs should have a stack of toys in reserve.
SANTA
I remember thinking Santa was a bit of a drunk. After all, he always had a half bottle of whiskey in our house after coming down the chimney. And the next door neighbours told me he always had a glass of wine around theirs. In fact nearly all the kids on my road would boast that Santa had alcohol in their houses. No wonder he was always so merry! Only one household at the very end of the road claimed that Santa would call in for coffee. Maybe by that stage he needed to sober up before continuing his journey back to the North Pole.
Last year my son was too small to really understand what Christmas is all about. This year he talks a bit too much about Santa. We haven’t even gone to see the jolly bearded man yet. There was a Santa at the Toy Show in the RDS recently but the queue was too long. Then last week at the Food and Wine show, also at the RDS, Santa was back. When I saw his little grotto with a very short queue, I was kicking myself for not bringing Gary along with me. I half considered going in by myself but my father told me not to be making a show of myself and so I went off wine-tasting instead.
I have mixed feelings about Santa. When I was younger I had really short hair. I remember queuing in Switzers department store for what seemed like hours, only for Santa to ask me had I been a good boy all year and hand me a truck instead of a dolly. I also remember Santa leaving me some fruit in my stocking when I was allergic to it. Now what was that all about?
I want Gary to know that Christmas isn’t all about going to Smyths with Mummy’s credit card. Or waiting to see what Santa will leave at the end of the bed. Of course we have written a letter asking for a surprise, but there are more important things to teach him. Most importantly I have told Gary all about the baby Jesus and I have pointed out all the figures in the crib to him. I have explained to him that Christmas is the birthday of Jesus.
Christmas in our house will never be just about getting presents. Times are tougher now. Last year Gary got a second-hand toy plane that I bought on eBay. He still absolutely loves it and it cost about a fiver. This year I plan to spend a bit more, but not too much more. There are lots of fun things we can do like learning to sing carols and make our own Christmas decorations. I am getting a little weary of hearing parents complaining that because of the recession they’ll be forced to skip Christmas this year. What kind of message is that to be giving out? Christmas should not put people in financial turmoil. Baby Jesus was born on a bed of straw. There was no fancy cot, pram or designer toys in the manger. There was no sound of champagne corks popping, and nobody was dressed in sequins. Let's remember the Christ in Christmas. It shouldn't be about us at all.
DETOX
So it’s time for a detox. And I don’t mean just taking the Christmas tree down to the recycling centre. I need to be ruthless and get rid of all the junk cluttering my life. Unfortunately I am a hoarder. I have a whole wardrobe of clothes for a size eight woman and I am a size twelve. I have a press full of maternity clothes left over from the last time, which I have kept just in case… I have love letters from ex- boyfriends who have since gone on to have lives and families with other women and most likely do not remember me at all. I have bags with broken straps, and shoes with broken heels that I‘ve been meaning to get repaired for years but haven’t got around to. I actually don’t think one skip would be enough for all the junk.
The worrying thing is that I got a skip just a few months ago. I filled it to the sky and felt an enormous sense of relief when they came to take it and my clutter away. So how am I now back to where I started? Well, the problem is that I hit the sales this year. Normally I am not big into sales. I worked as a manager in a ladies department store many moons ago and I still have nightmares of women pushing and shoving each other on a busy Saturday afternoon in order to get a bargain. We used to have this bargain bin near the door and sometimes we would put a 99p sign on the top of it. Inside was mostly rubbish that we couldn’t sell, and to actually witness grown-up women hurling themselves on top of this bin as though their lives depended on it, was frightening!
I think because of my time spent in retailing I don’t care much for sales, and I dislike crowds even more. So this year, I decided to skip the madness and go off down the country for a couple of nights detox. The only problem was that my hotel was right next door to a huge shop that was having a closing down sale.
I thought I would pop in for a look out of sheer curiosity. I mean, there was nothing in there that I really needed, but what was the harm in having a browse? Well, plenty of harm as far as my credit card was concerned. I started off by buying some brightly-coloured plastic glasses. They will be handy when I’m having a barbeque, I thought irrationally, throwing a few of them into a basket. Never mind that we aren’t even half way into January, I also bought a pair of cute gardening gloves. Then I noticed the Christmas shop with 50% off everything. I bought scented candles, wrapping paper, baubles and even Christmas crackers. Then I bought a massive cookbook which was an absolute bargain at a fiver, and a coat for my son Gary suitable for age 6 even though he isn’t 3 yet. I know, madness, but it was so cute! I bought a jacket for Dad for his birthday in May and a woolly jumper for myself with a reindeer on it because there was a full 70% off. So much for my detoxing de-cluttering weekend!
DEPRESSING DIETS
Is there anything more depressing than starting a diet in January? I mean, it’s the coldest month of the year, it’s dark, everybody is broke and the summer holidays seem a million years away. And yet here we are being bombarded with diet books. They say the most popular books in the world are cook books and diet books. How not to eat what you just cooked, huh? I guess everyone is now in a hurry to lose all the extra lard before going back to work. I was browsing online the other day and notice that my fellow Northern Irishwoman, Christine Bleakley, has a fitness DVD out. I have always thought Christine had an amazing body, but I don’t think buying her DVD will make any difference to my own out-of-shape figure. Surely those celebrity DVDs are usually made by former chubby soap stars or reality stars who have transformed from ugly ducklings into swans? Christine has always been a beautiful swan!
Years ago I bought a Claudia Schiffer DVD work-out, sat down with a cigarette, and watched the whole thing before putting it back on the shelf never to be watched again. Unfortunately, we live in a country where outdoor exercise isn’t always possible, although I do make sure to play my tennis hail, rain or snow. I hate gyms, hate the testosterone-filled atmosphere and the fact that the person running behind you has a view of your wobbling bum as you pound the treadmill, so this year, I have hired my own treadmill to run in front of my own TV with only the cat casting a critical eye on me from the comfort of his cat cushion.
I think we put terrible pressure on ourselves to turn around our lives at this time of year. We’
re going to get that dream job, lose weight, find a nice partner, trade in our car and learn a foreign language. No wonder most New Year’s resolutions are abandoned mid-January! I make out a list every year with ten things to do. Half of them are very achievable and half are challenging. I hide my list away somewhere that nobody will see it (it’s too embarrassing to stick it on the front of the refrigerator along with a fat photo!
Last year I ticked off seven of my ten goals. It is very satisfying putting a little tick beside one of your completed goals and it spurns you on to achieve the others. But I never try and change my life around completely in January because then I would fail at the first hurdle. January always seems like a long cold, month, followed by the equally grim short month of February, a month that reminds everyone single that they are losers for not being in love. I sometimes think that squirrels have got it right. They hibernate for the winter with their stash of nuts only to re-emerge when the evenings get brighter and spring is on its way. But, alas, we can’t just disappear for January and February with our summer brochures, wondering which resort we’ll hit in sunny July, so let’s enjoy every single month, even the dreary ones, and not wish our lives away.
ONLINE SPENDING SPREES
I have an online spending addiction. I see my postman more than any of my family or friends. I wait excitedly for him every day to see what he’s going to bring, and the days when all he drops through the letter box is a reminder bill from my electricity company, I feel so disappointed that I immediately open my lap top and buy something cheap to cheer me up. The worst advice anybody ever told me was to start shopping online in order to save time and money. Not true. It doesn’t save me time because I can shop day and night, sometimes looking at online boutiques for hours on end. At least with regular shopping, a security guard will actually put me out of the shop come closing time. But now I can shop in bed in my pyjamas. Night-time shopping is particularly dangerous for an insomniac like me. I wake up during the night, and suddenly I’m online buying clothes that deep down I know are too small for me but look great on the model.
You see, with online shopping there is no shop assistant offering you a bigger size when it’s glaringly obvious you can’t pull up the zip. There is no mother or sister telling you the truth – that the dress looks hideous on you, or boyfriend sitting outside looking at his watch and wondering about the car park charges. There is no kid yelling for a go on the shopping centre kiddie train or wanting to go to see Santa. It’s just you and your credit card number, and it’s lethal.
I’m having a love/hate affair with online shopping right now. At last count I have ten black dresses. I can’t afford to keep them but the thought of selling any of them is just horrible. I mean, they were all absolute bargains! EBay is the worst because there are a lot of mean people on it outbidding you in the last three seconds on something you really, really want. I mean, I have found myself shouting at my lap top, ‘how could you DO that to me!’
I think it’s especially nasty when somebody outbids you at the last minute on a child’s toy for example. Okay, so I can understand why somebody would do that on a handbag, but on a toy bus? Come on, that’s low; my little son would have loved that bus!
Online shopping can be unhealthy because you are not handing over cash, simply keying in a number. There is nothing like the rush you get when you win a frenzied last minute auction. It brings out the competitiveness in people. You may never win a game of cards, an egg and spoon race or a quiz show but you can be a winner every day on eBay. I knew my addiction was getting a little out of hand the other day when I met a friend for lunch and started panicking at 1.45pm when I knew a bag I was watching was nearing the end of the auction. ‘Can I borrow your Blackberry?’ I asked and I sat at the table ignoring my dessert as I furiously tried to key in my highest bid.
‘I think you’ve got a problem, Marisa,’ she said.
I know she is right!
BYE-BYE BABY
My baby’s gone. Yes, after weeks of preparation, and a couple of false starts, Gary finally joined play school last week. My tiny, purple, ET-resembling, wrinkly bundle of premature joy became an independent little boy and sauntered into the playroom.
‘Bye, Gary,’ I said, waving to his back as he disappeared into a crowd of children. He never even turned around to wave back.
I wasn’t in tears and neither was he. I had tried taking a couple of pictures of him outside the pre-school on my mobile phone but he wouldn’t stop sticking his tongue out. I sincerely hoped he was going to behave. After all, I had told the playschool manager that Gary was an angel and would be no trouble at all.
He had carried his favourite teddy with him to school, but then one of the play school assistants told me I would be better taking it away in case it got lost. The only problem was that Teddy was too big for my tiny handbag and I had agreed to meet a pal of mine for coffee in Donnybrook straight after saying good-bye to Gary. My friend was running late so myself and Teddy sat down at a table. An elderly man sitting next to me reading the paper threw me a strange look. For a fleeting moment I thought it would be funny to really wind him up and start chatting to Teddy and offer him some of my muffin, but then I thought better of it.
I enjoyed my coffee so much. Having being attached to my son for so long, I was finally free to do whatever I wanted for a couple of hours. So after departing my pal’s company I popped into my local hairdresser above the coffee shop to ask them if they could do anything with my scarecrow hair. The girl at the reception said that was no problem, and then she gave Teddy a sort of odd look. Again, I was so tempted to ask for a short, back and sides for Teddy too, but refrained.
In the hairdresser Teddy sat on my knee as I caught up on what Kate Middleton has been wearing these past few months. As a busy mum, celebrity fashion trends are not high on my list of priorities but there is nothing nicer than mindlessly flicking through glamorous photos in the hairdresser. I noticed the lady beside me peering at me. I suddenly became self-conscious. I wished I’d put Teddy on the floor or something, or checked him into the cloakroom along with my coat and umbrella.
After a few moments the lady introduced herself as Patricia and asked me if I was Marisa from the Herald. I hurriedly explained that I was, and that the reason I had a stuffed bear on my knee was that my son Gary had just started playschool across the road. She seemed to accept my explanation. Phew! I was beginning to feel like Mr Bean with Teddy hanging out of me. Then it was time to collect my little man. I wondered if he would be thrilled to see me, but no. As soon as he saw me said, ‘Go home, Mummy,’ and turned his back. So much for that. Hmm. At least Teddy doesn‘t hurt my feelings.
DAY OUT AT THE TOY FAIR
Every mother wants to feel proud. So when myself and my son recently visited the Toy Show in the RDS, I made sure he had a bath beforehand, his hair was scrubbed clean and I picked out a cute outfit for him. He looks just like a cherub. I thought as we set off happily.
At only two, I wondered if he would be able for a big show like that. After all, there was a queue outside and hordes of people inside. It was a bit like buggy hell, with Bugaboos coming at you in every direction.
A magician’s show was hugely entertaining. I laughed out loud although I think the jokes were all lost on my son. Then we bought some clothes and wellies. I was tired. It had been a very late Saturday night, but Gary seemed to be having fun.
The queues for Santa and the face painting were both too long so we gave them a miss. The queue for ice-cream was also very long but my longing for a 99 was greater.
We sat down and Gary’s ice-cream dripped into our clothes. The chocolate flake was smeared into his trousers. There was a mini funfair in a separate area with hobby horses and other kiddie rides. Gary insisted on going on every ride twice. I was the proud mummy waving at him. Then he got off the last ride screaming. He wanted to keep going but at €2 a pop my money was running out. We went to a little gym area which was thankfully free, and he seemed to enjoy that jus
t as much rolling around on the mats. By this stage he was pretty filthy and my sleepless night was finally catching up on me. I had bags full of toys and clothes, but I was hungry too despite scoffing ice-cream and Slush Puppies. The sight of a hot dog stand excited me. I’m a vegetarian but my son isn’t so I thought if I bought him a hotdog it would save me from cooking later. Bath and early bed was calling me.
We bought a hot dog. Gary refused to eat it. I couldn’t understand it because he normally loves sausages. I certainly wouldn’t be eating it, but because it had cost me a princely sum, I wouldn’t throw it away. It would do the dog later.
At one last attempt to get Gary to eat we visited a bagel stand. Gary chose this point to lie flat out on the dirty ground and refused to get up. I thought about disowning him temporarily as harried parents gently stepped over him. I even heard a lady behind me tell her children that hot dogs were bad for them. If ever I felt like a slummy mummy it was now.
Finally my bagel was made and we found room at a table overflowing with rubbish. At that stage I didn’t care. I tucked into my bagel and Gary glared at his hot dog which was now cold. The anti-hotdog lady from the queue then sat down beside me. She said hello and immediately I recognised her from school. Herself and her three daughters were clean and immaculately dressed.
Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother Page 3