You see, I have pale skin with freckles and although I love being warm, I can’t bear to sizzle in the heat. I abhor mosquitos, cockroaches and anything that crawls up wall. I have travelled the world but I find the climate at home the most agreeable. At least I can swim in the sea here. In Australia I was afraid to swim because of the sharks and dangerous jellyfish and I was terrified of snakes in the grass. When I was in Florida I couldn’t bear the sand that burned my feet, and in Singapore I thought I would go crazy with the humidity. When we were in Morocco (our last foreign holiday), our apartment was within hearing distance of a particularly noisy nightclub, rendering it impossible to sleep before 3.00 am. I also remember being in the Canaries one year, and listening to car alarms being set off throughout the night and constantly being woken by the car doors slamming, and then the maids knocking on the door at an ungodly hour to clean the room.
This year we stayed at home. I wasn’t bitten by a horrible insect, I didn’t get sunburnt and the food agreed with me (I grew most of it in my own garden!). Not having to endure air conditioning in my room, I slept very well and it didn’t cost me any money.
NEW WHEELS
I’ve just bought a new car. I can’t drive it yet. Well, not unless I have a proper driver in the car with me, but still, I’m excited. It’s not my first car. No, I actually had an old car years ago. I bought it off a work colleague from Cork . The reg number was very handy when I broke down, which happened quite a bit, because people would shout at me ‘eff off back to Cork !’ or something even ruder. Still I preferred being thought of as a lost Cork tourist than a Dublin 4 chick who wasn’t very good driver.
I had a few hairy moments in that car, like when I broke down on Leeson Street bridge during rush hour traffic. I remember breaking into a sweat as cars all around me beeped and shouted things like ‘you mad Cork woman!’ Really, I was appalled at how aggressive drivers could be to learner drivers – did they not remember being learners themselves? Couldn’t they clearly see my L plates?
Then of course I remember that time driving a group of people home from a night club. I didn’t even know who they were exactly but my friend had carelessly offered them a lift home in my car. Now I know how difficult taxi drivers have it. There really is nothing worse than somebody drunk telling you to ‘pump up the volume’ to the back of your sober head as you try not to skid on a dark icy road.
I wanted to get my license so I applied for my test. I paid for forty lessons out of my own hard-earned money and so I thought passing the test would be a breeze. Somebody had told me that it was easier to pass your test down the country as they aren’t as strict down there apparently. Well, it was just my luck that I got a narky Dub when I did my test in Dundalk. He wasn’t a bit friendly. In fact I’m sure his face would have cracked if he had tried to manage a smile. Afterwards, when he gave me my result – a big fat fail – he advised to me to take a few lessons. A few more? More than forty?
Anyway, the experience really put me off driving. So I decided not to bother for a while. I live very close to town with everything on my doorstep so I didn’t see the point in having a car for the last few years. When I was pregnant people said to me that I should re-take my test because they’re less likely to fail anyone with a big bump in front of them. But I didn’t. Then when my son was a baby they said to sit the test with the baby seat in the car. I still didn’t. But now things are different. My son is growing up and I need to drive. Yes I too will be a taxi mummy going to football, swimming and parties on a Saturday afternoon. My mum did it for me so now it’s my turn. I have my theory test booked for next week, I am relearning the rule of the road, and hopefully when I sit my real test in six months’ time, I’ll get a nice, calm person who isn’t having a bad day.
THE FORGOTTEN MUMMIES
I put my hand up. Guilty as charged. I was used to be the type of woman who would look down on stay at home mothers. I used to think they were lazy people, sitting at home all day doing nothing apart from arranging coffee mornings with other stay at home mums and occasionally driving their jeeps around in order to amuse themselves. Now of course I am a stay at home mother myself. No jeep and I gave up coffee months ago. I am, of course, ashamed of my dreadful condescending attitude towards the women who work harder than probably anyone.
Apart from stay at home mothers I cannot think of any other group of people who work all day for no pay, no status, and no breaks. I cannot think of any other group of people who get yelled at and thrown up on, and are never thanked for all the abuse they take.
I have a pile of unwatched DVDs piled up beside the TV waiting for a time in my life that I have a spare couple of hours to myself. I have a three year waiting list of friends that I’ve been meaning to meet up with, and the washing machine is on more than it is off.
Even as I write this I am aware that I have only one chid, and I can’t even imagine how somebody else copes with three or four. I truly take my hat off to anybody who stays at home to mind kids.
I remember when I was single and working in an office and spending most of the week planning my Saturday night out, women would come back to the workplace having been off on maternity leave al happy and full of smiles. I couldn’t understand it. How could they leave their babies at home with strangers? Didn’t it tear them apart? What was the point of bringing a baby into the world if you couldn’t spend every minute of the day with it? I felt so sorry for those women. They must have badly needed the money to have to come to work. But now I realise that the reasons they came back to work were not entirely financially motivated. They came back to work for a break. And some piece.
In work there are rules to abide by. Nobody follows you into the toilet or thumps you when they don’t get their own way. Nobody throws their lunch on the ground and expects you to pick it up. If you’re on the phone, you colleagues do not interrupt you by trying to pull your clothes off.
Women can’t have it all. We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. We feel guilty for wanting to go to work and feel worthless when we’re not working and in the eyes of society ‘not contributing’.
It is perfectly normal to want to get away from your kids. It doesn’t mean that you don’t love them to death. But while the sound of the word ‘mummy’ is music to your ears a few times a day, it kind of gets annoying hearing it a hundred times a day. Every mummy needs some ‘me’ time. I bet if dads stayed at home, there would be more one-child families in the world.
POTTY TIME
We’re potty training in our house right now. At least we’re trying very best to. It isn’t easy. We started about a month ago but so far we have actually got no further than buying a potty. Well, two potties actually. The first potty my child used to put his toys into, and then he would fill up with water and throw it around the place. At my wit’s end I bought another, more attractive potty, with a picture of Thomas the Tank Engine on it. My son adores Thomas so I really thought this would encourage him. The potty is even designed like an arm chair to make it a more pleasant experience for the chid.
But do you think it worked? No. The first thing Gary did was put it on his head and now he just uses as a hat. Of course, like in all matters of chid-rearing, many of my mother friends offer conflicting pieces of advice.
‘He’ll tell you when he’s ready,” said a mother of four who dismissed my anxiety with a simple wave of her hand.
‘Boys take longer to train,’ said another. ‘It usually takes about three months.’
‘Nonsense,’ insisted a lady at the tennis club, ‘It takes three days’ intensive training. Summer is a good time to train them because you can be out in the garden all day.’
In this weather? I don’t think so.
Then somebody told me about a singing potty? A singing potty? Whatever they think up next? Mind you, I’m kind of eager to get a move on now. Gary is booked into a playschool next month and they’ve said they don’t take kids unless they’re potty-trained. But that’s not my only incentive. Nappies c
ost an absolute fortune and I’m can’t wait to stop shelling out for them.
So I asked a friend whether she had heard about the singing potty. She told me that her sister had bought one but it would start singing at strange hours of the night, waking up the household. At once stage they worried that a resident ghost was using it!’
I’m kind of at the end of my tether here. I have great plans for when Gary goes to playschool, like reclaiming some of my life, and being able to have a cup of coffee in peace! But the way things are going, all those leisurely coffee meetings are a mere dream.
Some people have suggested treats, like sweets or stickers for rewards after your child has done something in the potty. But now the treats have been eaten, the stickers are covering various bits of furniture around the house and we are no nearer to be being potty trained. In vain I searched the net for an easy answer. I came across a site advocating Potty Boot Camp. What was that? I wondered. Did you send your tot off for the weekend and they came back perfectly trained? Genius! Why did nobody ever think of it before? I’m sure my little Gary would love it. He could make friends and earn how to use the potty all at the same time. Alas, it turned out only to be the title of book. So no boot camp for my toddler after all. Pity. I had already been mentally packing his suitcase!
EXHAUSTION
Nobody gives you a medal for being a tired, harassed, mum. There are no promotions, pay-related bonuses, or congratulations for doing a good job. And that’s understandable. Nobody cares if you are up all night with a screaming baby, don’t have five minutes in the day to yourself and are struggling to cope. That’s right nobody cares and why should they? They have their own lives and day-to-day worried without giving your situation a second thought. But you will not get any thanks for being a martyr. You cannot do it all and you shouldn’t try. There is terrible pressure put on mums to get back in shape, look great, be fabulous cooks and supportive partners if there even are partners, and get back to work as soon as possible. Yet there are still people out there who deride mothers for hiring help when they should be doing everything themselves. ‘Our mothers did it so why can’t I?’ they cry.
Well, it was different back in our mothers’ day. There were communities back then. People didn’t live in apartments miles away from their families and not knowing their neighbours. They helped each other. Now we compete against each other. We all have to be doing better and coping better than anybody else. Rubbish to that, I say. No mother should try and be a saint and do everything, nor should she constantly moan about how tired she is because nobody wants to know. We’re all tired.
Ask for help. Be brazen about it. Obviously friends and family don’t like being taken advantage of so you can’t just load them off on people every time you want to go shopping. But do ask people to help you and don’t be ashamed of doing so. Don’t wait for them to offer because that’s realistically never going to happen. Some friends will offer to help you out ‘any time’. This, you will soon learn, translates as ‘no time at all’ as they think up excuse after excuse not to help you out. But others will help now and again if you really need their help.
If you can possibly afford help, buy it. Then you won’t feel guilty of taking advantage of family members all the time. If you can’t afford an au-pair or a nanny, then perhaps pay somebody to come in for even a couple of hours a week to give you a bit of respite. Believe me; it will make the world of difference to your life. You will be a much better mother if you sometimes take a break from the home, even if that is just a walk around the block by yourself.
British actress, Anna Friel, recently revealed that she employed two part-time nannies while she worked on set. She came in for a bit of flak after her announcement from stay-at-home mothers. Well, if she can afford the two nannies, why not? I think it makes her a good parent that she is working to provide financial security for her daughter. She is a single mother. She cannot work and look after her chid. It’s just not physically possible. So instead of criticising her, accept that every family situation is different. Maybe it's about time we all started minding our own business.
DATING
A date? The last date I had was of the fruit kind. It was so long ago now I can’t remember when it was exactly. Single mothers don’t have time for dates. They don’t have hours to get ready, money for the hairdresser, the babysitter, the taxi home and the energy to stay up late. It costs a small fortune to go on a date when that money could go on clothes or toys for the kids.
I don’t date at all. I honestly couldn’t even pinpoint the last time I kissed somebody. As a doting mother of a toddler, I don’t bring people home to stay the night and neither do I spend the night in anybody else’s place. All the dates I enjoy these days are play dates in the park with lively two-year olds. Do I feel I’m missing out? Not in the slightest.
I was persuaded to go out on a date with a friend of a friend last year. I had never met this guy but was assured what a wonderful chap he was. Perfect for me by all accounts. The date was stressful enough. My date sat on his hands for two hours so determined was he not to buy me a drink. He kept telling me it must be very hard to be me with all my baggage. Well, what some people might deem as baggage, I consider the love of my life. I would die for that piece of baggage. That baggage has made me the happiest woman alive. I told this to my uninterested date as his eye glazed over with boredom. Then he asked me for his bus fare home. After that I swore I wouldn’t accept another blind date. Not ever.
It’s funny when you think about it. I am a romance writer with no romance in my life. I write about heroes and I’m eternally single. I sell a dream yet my reality is man-free.
But the stakes are so much higher when you have a child. You are reluctant to invest emotionally in a man if you’re a single mother. Life is tough enough without stressing over whether somebody will call or not. And anyway there isn’t time to be waiting by the phone or discussing the relationship or lack of it with girlfriends over bottles of wine. When you’re raising a kid by yourself, you have to be organised with military precision. I have a stack of films that I’m dying to see if only I could get Bob the Builder out of the DVD player. I have party dresses that I bought pre pregnancy that I can no longer fit into even if I was invited somewhere. I have killer sandals that are not compatible with pushing a pram, and my once-trendy apartment is cluttered with Lego and has crayon marks on the walls.
Single mothers do not have the luxury of spontaneity that lovers enjoy. There can be no romantic walks a deux, no last minute flights to Paris or to anywhere in fact, and grandparents must have at least a fortnight’s babysitting notice before even arranging to meet somebody for a single evening drink. The single mothers I know are practical, strong, hard-working, loving and don’t play mind games. Time wasters need not apply.
BORN IN A BROOM CUPBOARD?
Imagine giving birth in a broom cupboard? I met somebody the other night whose daughter recently gave birth in the cupboard of well-known maternity hospital. I thought the woman was joking as she handed around the photo of her daughter and her new grandchild. ‘Aw, how cute,’ I said, because of course you always say a baby is cute or lovely or gorgeous. I mean, you wouldn’t say ‘he’s alright’ or ‘I’ve seen better-looking babies’ would you? But then, once the cooing was over and done with I had to ask again about the broom cupboard, so convinced I was that I’d misheard.
‘Well, there weren’t enough beds and she couldn’t give birth in the corridor, so they brought her into the broom cupboard, and then after the baby was delivered they found her a nice private room, so everything worked out alright in the end, ‘ said the grandmother in a nice, calm voice.
I was gobsmacked. Truly I was. What next? Deliveries in the toilet cubicles? Or outside in the car park?
Another woman who was sitting at our table laughed at my shocked face. ‘It’s not that unusual,’ she said. ‘In fact I myself gave birth in a hospital broom cupboard as well, and I was a private patient.’
My hea
d swivelled. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she said, I can remember looking at the mops and buckets and bottles of detergents when I was pushing, and I was private, you know. But there’s no guarantee, even if you’re a private patient, that you get a private room.’
I cast my mind back to when I was trying to decide between being a private or a public patient. In the end I decided to save the €4000 it costs to go private. I was a public patient. A mere commoner. But at least I gave birth in a delivery room.
‘And whatsmore,’ said the lady next to me, on a roll now. ‘Some woman who was positioned between my legs, and I’m still not sure whether it was a doctor or a nurse, was texting somebody on her mobile phone throughout the delivery.’
‘And you a private patient?’ I reminded her.
‘Exactly, I was private patient. I had my own consultant gynaecologist, only he wasn’t there because unfortunately he was away on a golfing trip.’
I cast my mind back to when I was expecting. Some women would ask me who my gynaecologist was. As though they were enquiring about a designer handbag. An awful lot of snobbery goes hand in hand with having a baby.
‘Well, I was a public patient,’ I said with a cheerful smile. ‘And I didn’t see as much as a jay cloth!’
There was a moment’s silence. But then the former ‘private’ patient found her voice again. ‘Well, I have to say the ante-natal visits were great, and I could get back to work quickly as soon as they were over. I didn’t have to queue all day. That’s the great thing about being a private patient.’
I didn’t get it. She gave birth in a brooming cupboard and she’s still dining out on the story all these years on. And she’s still using the story to let people know she was a private patient. Private. If she said that word once she said it a hundred times. Jeez.
Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother Page 5