Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother

by Marisa Mackle

  We could learn a lot from the way our grandmothers lived. They filed their own nails instead of going to nail parlours. I doubt they ever used fake tan. During the summers they would swim in the real sea instead of spending a hundred euro on a seaweed bath or a mud bath in a fancy spa. They were healthier too. For a start they cooked proper meals from scratch and that’s why their cooking was always so great. None lived in apartments so they had gardens to grow fresh produce. And very few were overweight as far as I can see from old photographs. Everybody always seems thin in old sepia photos. But I suppose back then they didn’t have fast food chains and people didn’t drink wine with their dinner, and a glass of champagne was something only to be enjoyed at a wedding. Also, families were much larger back then so there wouldn’t have been as much to go around. And because so few people had cars everybody walked everywhere and kept fit. There was no such thing as disposable nappies back in our grandmothers’ day and cloth nappies were washed by hand as there were no washing machines. But you know, no matter how bad the recession gets, I can never see myself doing this. God forbid! Nor can I ever see myself tending to the garden with a non-electric lawn mower, or swapping my beloved electric blanker for a woolly bed jacket and hat. However, like everybody else, I must be realistic. I no longer order cocktails on a night out, I no longer buy shoes that are impossible to walk in but look nice, and I write a list when going grocery shopping, which is funny because I used to secretly feel sorry for people clutching lists in supermarkets as I would happily fill my trolley with wild abandon. Now I swear by lists. They save me indulging. Like once I realised that two small tubs of sun-dried tomatoes equalled a week’s worth of nappies, the decade long relationship between sun-dried tomatoes and myself came to an abrupt end. Oh, well. I don’t think I ever really liked them anyway.

  WHERE ARE ALL THE WOMEN?

  Not so long ago, when an Irish air hostess got married, she automatically gave up her job. Married women could not be air hostesses. Married women could not be teachers or bankers. Married women could not be priests. Married women still can’t be priests. No women can.

  If a bank today staunchly refused to employ females, you can be sure that not a single Irish woman would deal with such a backward establishment. If a school only employed male teachers, how many of us would wish to send our daughters there?

  If women stopped going to church how much longer could the church last? The last time I went to mass the congregation was roughly eighty per cent female, and elderly. Why then is the church not getting the message in the face of such stark reality?

  The Catholic Church still stubbornly and incredulously refuses to allow women to become priests and existing priests to wed. My parish priest is a wonderful man but he is worked to the bone, on call night and day giving last rights, visiting the sick, performing christenings and weddings. There are so many educated women in this county looking for work who would make very capable priests and ease the enormous workload that ageing priests are being forced to undertake.

  Discrimination against women is alive and well in this country and I’m not just talking about the Catholic Church. You only have to look at the boards of management of most of the top companies in this country. Apart from one or two token female members who in my experience are nearly always childless and single, they are male dominated.

  A highly qualified female surgeon told me the other day she has her bags packed for Australia. An Irish mother of two she has failed every recent interview, up against males with the exact same qualifications and experiences. Australia has now opened the door that Ireland slammed in her face.

  When I was an airhostess, passengers would clap loudly when a lady captain spoke on the PA. I remember the surprise on their faces. I also remember once asking a man who recruited pilots why there were so few females in the job. ‘If a man and woman with the same qualifications went for the job, would give it to the man?’ I asked. He admitted, off the record of course, that yes, the man would get preference because he would not be taking maternity leave.

  My sister, a doctor, is often asked by patients if they can see the doctor. They automatically presume she is a nurse. Isn’t ironic that more women than men now enter the medical profession yet the top consultants in this country are male? Most of our judges are male. Most politicians are also male. Pity that. If women were running this country, we wouldn’t be in such a financial mess right now.

  TINY TERROR

  Oh God. My baby is gone. Yes, he is no more. He has been replaced by a tiny terror who takes great pleasure on trying to scribble on my ivory painted walls. Now why did I think it was a good idea to paint my place ivory when I was expecting him? I foolishly had an ivory dream where my baby played peacefully on a cream (yes, cream!) carpet. Now said carpet is covered in every stain from orange juice to red crayon and my beloved mirrored cabinets that I saved long and hard for have so many grubby handprints on them it’s overwhelming.

  I found Bob the Builder in the fireplace the other day as my son, obviously frustrated by the fact that he can’t drown him in the bath, has decided to burn him alive. Barney was thrown unmercifully from the pram not so long ago. All Gary ’s toys are living in fear. Even poor Tommy the turtle was beheaded yesterday. Nobody is safe.

  The crayons have since been assigned to the bin. The well-meaning and of course childless friend of mine who donated the crayons should have the pleasure of my child’s company along with his crayons in her minimalist chic apartment for at least an hour to understand the trauma she has put me through. Anyway Gary doesn’t need to learn to write or draw, I’ve decided. He can text or type. It’s far less dangerous. I just hope he doesn’t grow up to be one of those annoying ppl who wryt lyk dis.

  TOO MANY TEDDIES

  Lots of my pals are having babies around now. Maybe it’s a recession thing with people spending more time indoors and entertaining at home. Whatever it is, there’s a baby boom going on right now. Babies aren’t cheap. Ladies, you can forget your spa trips and nail appointments once you see the thin blue line on your pregnancy kit. Treats are soon to be but a very distant memory. However there are many ways to cut costs when being a mum. First of all, don’t buy any toys at all. It’s tempting when you see that adorable teddy starling at you from the shop window and you’re seven months gone, but don’t let your hormones get the better of you. Keep your purse in your pocket because everyone in the whole world seems to buy you a teddy when your tot arrives. At the last count my son has 27 teddies. There are so many teddies lying around my place it’s a wonder I haven’t broken my neck tripping over them. I will never think a fluffy teddy is cute ever again! And don’t buy clothes, especially if money is tight. The only things you really need are a good warm winter coat and lots of vests and socks. Get everything else from friends. Most peoples will be only too delighted to de-clutter by offloading old toys and clothes on you. Trust me.

  THE GOOGLE DOCTOR

  An apple a day keeps the doctor away. So does Google. Why visit a real doctor when you can Google your symptoms and diagnose yourself? Okay, you might come to the conclusion that you’re dying but at least you’ll have saved on the GP visit. I have to admit I’m a divil for looking up medical problems online. For myself and my baby. If one of us isn’t dying in cyber space the other always seems to be.

  Of course there is no need for any of this madness. Both my sisters are doctors and could easily diagnose me if I asked them, but that would mean the bother of a phone call or a home visit. It’s so much easier to open my laptop to see what’s wrong as I’m waiting for the kettle to boil. The sisters trained for years and years but sometimes I wonder why they bothered when I can simply diagnose my illnesses online in minutes.

  I write this all very much tongue in cheek by the way. Just in case anyone is wondering. But I have been known to worry myself senseless after Googling a few choice medical concerns.

  When I found out I was expecting I hadn’t a clue that I might be pregnant. Ridiculous as it might sou
nd, the thought never even entered my head. I was suffering from stomach cramps and fatigue. When I Googled these symptoms and did a bit of online ‘research’ I was convinced within about an hour that I had either endometriosis or cancer. Eventually I went to the GP, so that he could tell me for sure. He sent me to St Vincent ’s for a scan where I was sure they would find a tumour. I returned home, Googled my symptoms some more, and waited anxiously for the results of my scan. The next morning the doctor’s receptionist requested I make my way urgently to his surgery. That’s it, I thought. I’m dying. I mentally made a will driving to the surgery.

  When he announced my pregnancy it didn’t sink in. All I could think about was the fact that I wasn’t dying.

  Now me being a naughty girl I never attended any of my antenatal classes. Therefore when my waters broke I wasn’t sure what that meant. As I was in a bit of pain I rushed to the computer and Googled ‘labour’. I self-diagnosed that yes indeed I was going to have a baby and asked Mum to drive me to the hospital. I was delighted when two hours later I gave birth. I was becoming an expert at this medical stuff.

  Then last winter I was convinced I had something seriously wrong with my throat and ears. I spent an entire morning in Tallaght hospital undergoing tests with the ENT surgeon and a hearing specialist. The verdict? I merely had a cold. I couldn’t understand it. And I felt more than a tiny bit foolish too. Google had convinced me I was going deaf!

  IMAGINARY FRIENDS!

  Do you work just to pay crèche fees? The average price to keep one child in a Dublin crèche full-time costs approximately a grand a month. Yes, that’s what I said. One thousand euro! I’ve been shopping around recently and I’m horrified. Sometimes it’s actually more and sometimes a bit less, but on average it’s about twelve thousand euro annually.

  If you and your partner are in fairly well paid jobs you can afford this. If you aren’t, you can’t. It’s as simple as that. If you think babies are expensive, then you’re in for a big shock when they become toddlers. Sometimes it’s cheaper for one parent to stay home. But which one? Does it make sense for the highest earner to keep their job? Whose work is more valuable?

  As a novelist I work from home so I don’t have to make that heart breaking decision over whether to drop off the kids to strangers every morning. But I still have a child minder because contrary to belief, my son will not sit quietly at my feet playing with his teddy while I write two thousand words a day. We cannot possibly be in the same room while I’m working. Toddlers make much noise and a writer needs peace and quiet. It’s quite a juggling act to simultaneously be a single mother and a novelist. Not that I’m looking for a medal, but I have encountered a few smart comments from fellow working mothers. ‘Isn’t it well for you?’ I’ve heard that one a few times. They make out that I’m living the dream just because I have some child minding help as I work to pay the bills. Unfortunately mothers’ worst critics can be other mothers. Maybe they should realise that if I had a husband or a partner at home like they do, I might not need the “luxury” of a child minder at all.

  Baby Gary is at an age now where he is curious about other little people. And for that reason I’d like him to attend playschool, even a couple of days a week. I asked my own mother recently what she thought about creches. ‘He’ll pick up everything going,’ said my mum, a thought echoed by friends who say their crèche-attending kids seen to catch a new bug every day.

  I pointed out that it’d be nice for baby Gary to make friends. ‘Did I make friends in playschool?’ I asked.

  My mum shook her head. ‘You used to tell your dad and myself that you had a little pal called Assie Donoghue. Really? This was all news to me.

  ‘Yes,’ she continued. ‘And one day we decided we’d invite this Assie Donoghue to tea but the teacher said no child ever existed. When we quizzed you, you said Assie had died and gone to Heaven.’

  ‘I’m shocked, I said.

  ‘Oh, so were we. But then you did go on to become a novelist, making things up for a living. God bless your imagination!’

  HEY ROBBERS, I’M ON FACEBOOK!

  A lot of people were away last week. I know because they informed Facebook. It would have been very handy if I were a burglar. I’d have known exactly where people were at any given time. “At the airport”, “About to board plane now”, “Sitting by pool in Marbella”, “Enjoying cocktails in Ibiza” were just a few of the updates that my Facebook “friends” posted on their status updates. Some chronicled every detailed moment of their trip from “Packing my case” to “Ouch, sunburnt!!!” to “Just landed back in Dublin.”

  When Andy Warhol suggested that one day everybody would have their fifteen minutes of fame he must have looked into the future and seen the social networking phenomenon that is Facebook. Because if you have, say, a couple of hundred Facebook “friends”, the chances are that at any given time at least twenty or so of your “friends” will be online and no matter how boring your status update is such as “making a sandwich” or “boiling the kettle” the chances are that at least a couple of people will “like” what you are doing.

  I was on holidays last week without my computer and without Facebook. It was a relief not to have my mind melted with trivial updates from people that I don’t know but are online “friends”. The worrying thing is that recently I’d got used to spending so much time on Facebook reading hourly updates from people I don’t know, that I actually couldn’t find time to meet my real friends. Meeting real friends is a bit of a bother really. I have to organise a babysitter, wash my hair, put on something decent and actually leave my house. It’s so much easier to chat to my cyber friends. They laugh at my jokes, tell me I’m looking well when I upload photos even if the photos were taken a good few years ago, and they are there for me day and night. It doesn’t matter that I can’t remember how in the name of God “Lucy from Seattle ” or “Abdul from Morocco” came to find me; the fact is that they are there when my real friends are busy leading their real lives.

  Facebook is every narcissist’s dream. “Friends” are completely interchangeable and you have a constant supply of people to tell you “well done, Hun, X” every time you mention your achievements, no matter how minor “Just walked the pier. Go me!”

  You are never alone online. People even invite you into their personal drama like when they change their relationship status to “It’s complicated”. Or they write “A true friend would never stab you in the back” Suddenly you’re part of their crisis, trying to figure out who they’re fighting with. It’s like playing detective.

  But there’s also something mildly depressing about social networking sites. And that’s the hollow realisation that if they were all to shut down in the morning you would have no friends left.

  HOLIDAY HELL!

  There are two types of holidaymakers; those travelling with kids and those travelling without. The passengers without kids hope to God they are not seated anywhere near those with kids. I used to be a ‘passenger without’. I would look on in mild horror if anyone with a baby came down the aisle of the plane, mentally urging them to keep walking. And I’ll never forget flying to Australia with a toddler mindlessly kicking the back of my chair for about an hour until I had to have stern words with his father. A holiday with children is a holiday for children. In other words there’s no rest for you. When I was childless I used to always avoid two types of holiday venues. Anywhere described as suited to the ‘young and lively’ was a definite no-no. It usually meant that you would not get one wink of sleep for the whole duration of your holiday and that the place was probably a bit of a kip because ‘young and lively’ people don’t particularly really care where they crash out. Another description I found off-putting was ‘family friendly’. If there was a playground and ‘professional entertainers’ on offer I wouldn’t have gone to that place if you paid me. The thought of some skinny spotty bloke in a bright yellow T-shirt blowing a whistle all day and trying to get everybody to join in the aqua aerobics or th
e fun-for-all quizzes was enough to depress me. Funnily enough, if a place was described as suitable for the ‘elderly and infirm’ I found it kind of appealing. As long as there was no Irish bar on site, or any karaoke whatsoever, I’d take my chances. Now I realise that for the next few years I will be somebody who is actually pleased to see that there is a kids club on offer, and that there’s a children’s paddling pool where my kid can splash other tots and make lots of noise.

  The last time I took baby Gary on holidays, my book came back in the suitcase unread. It was the first time in my life I’ve never got to read a book on holiday. I seemed to spend my time slathering Gary in suntan cream and worrying whether he was too hot. I fretted about him getting too close to the water and about the foreign food not agreeing with him. Taking his pram through security at both airports and remembering to take enough nappies, wipes, milk and toys was a bit of a nightmare. And then coming off the plane, Ryanair told me I had to collect the pram with the luggage about a mile away. So I had to carry my heavy son and his mountain of stuff all the way to the carousel. When we both arrived back in Dublin everyone said baby Gary looked so relaxed after his sun holiday. Pity nobody could say the same for his poor mama.