Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother

by Marisa Mackle

  NO CROISSANTS!

  You need to watch your weight,’ said the midwife in Holles Street maternity hospital when I was expecting baby Gary. At first I thought she was joking. I mean, I wasn’t fat, was I? I was pregnant. And pregnant women can eat whatever they want because babies need all the food they can get. Right?

  I have to say I was a bit insulted at the time. After all, there’s not much fun you can have when you’re pregnant so it’s alright to indulge in a buttered croissant or a jam doughnut now and then, isn’t it?

  Not so, apparently. I was shocked this week when I read that an Irish study recently found that 43% of pregnant women were overweight, increasing medical complications for the women and their babies.

  Even more shocking is the realisation that I must have been one of those women. When I was expecting my baby I used to eat from morning to night and wake up starving. I stopped exercising completely and would watch DVDs with a bumper bag of crisps kidding myself that the baby needed the carbs.

  When the baby was born weighing 5 pounds 10, I realised with horror that the other three stone was left on my hips and I had to waddle home from the hospital in my maternity tracksuit. Oh God, the shame.

  Since I had a caesarean I was unable to exercise for six weeks. I holed myself up in bed as my parents brought me my meals on trays. I need the grub to keep up my strength to breastfeed. Or so I told myself anyway. After a few weeks I actually discovered that I was the same weight as I was giving birth.

  I resented celebrity mothers who could afford personal trainers. It’s alright for them, I thought, angrily biting into another cheesy roll from the local deli.

  But three months later when I was still wearing my maternity jeans I realised I had to do something about it. I started going for walks again. The weight started to come off very very slowly.

  I have now lost three stone of the four I piled on. Feeling very pleased with myself I went out recently to meet a friend for coffee. She congratulated me on my weight loss. I decided to have a cream bun. Just as a treat. Then I recognised the lady sitting at the next table. We exchanged pleasantries and she informed me that she was 34 weeks pregnant. She wore a black vest and skinny jeans. All you could see was a perfectly neat bump.

  Then after a while she said she had to go. To yoga. She asked for the bill for her pot of tea. No cream bun. Just tea.

  ‘It was lovely to meet you again,’ she said.

  ‘You too,’ I lied. I rolled my cream bun in a napkin and hid it in my bag. Maybe Gary would like it for his tea.

  SOCIALITE KIDS!

  Kids are suffering from social exhaustion. It’s not surprising really. Three parties on a Saturday afternoon? All that networking and overeating? No wonder they’re feeling sluggish.

  My friend called around the other day with her four-year old fast asleep in her arms. ‘Do you mind if I put her down in your bed while we chat?’ she asked. ‘I’m dying for a glass of wine in peace.’

  I was concerned. ‘Is everything okay?’

  The child’s mother proceeded to tell me about her busy day. From 11am to 12.30pm she’d had a play date, followed by a garden party at 1pm with some other tots. That was followed by a 3pm trip to the zoo to celebrate another pal’s party with more food and fizzy drinks. I felt exhausted even listening to the child’s social calendar. She’d been up at the crack of dawn too deciding which outfits to wear to each party, and she’d had her hair curled especially in the hairdresser for the day ahead. I didn’t like to ask how much this little girl’s constant hectic schedule was costing financially. A present for each birthday party, not to mention all the petrol money mounting up acting as the child’s chauffeur, all adds up.

  I know it’s the summer now and parents are tearing their hair out trying to amuse their kids, but what’s wrong with good old-fashioned playtime? Every single day I sit down with my son and we play with his toys for at least two hours. It’s the most precious time in the world. He plays with the same toys I once played with as a child. It’s better than a free glass of champagne and chit-chat with strangers at any given function.

  When my baby spoke his first word it broke my heart. That word was ‘bye’ and he gave me a little wave. I was racked with guilt. I suppose it was inevitable. I was always saying that same word to him, every time I left him in the company of the nanny as I rushed out to more pressing engagements. My baby’s first word gave me a wake-up call. I realised that his little life would fly by and I’d miss it. I feared that I’d one day stand at the school gates wonder how I missed my child growing up.

  My nanny is leaving at the end of September to travel. She’s been with me for over a year now and is very much part of the family. In fact sometimes I wonder if baby Gary thinks he has two mothers. And although I hate to admit it, I’m often envious at the way he looks at his nanny with unconditional love. I told my socialite friend with the busy daughter that I was thinking of not replacing the nanny.

  Her reaction was highly amusing. ‘Don’t feel bad Hun,’ she shrugged, ‘with the recession and everything, lots of mums around here are considering raising their kids themselves!’

  AM I A USELESS MOTHER?

  It’s easy to feel like a pretty useless mother. Everyone tells you you’re doing everything wrong. Other sprogs can do all sorts of things as yours stares lazily at you from his cot with seemingly no intention of catching up with the rest of the human race.

  If you’re doing a good job at work, someone somewhere may give you an occasional nod of approval or even buy you a drink at the end of a tough day at the office. No such treats for Mum.

  There’s always of course a well-meaning person to point out all your inadequacies. My own mum used to think Gary couldn’t see or hear when he was a baby and had me worried senseless. Then when he wasn’t crawling she was convinced there was something else wrong with him. Eventually I had to tell her to stop interfering. She did for a bit but then most recently she expressed concern that baby Gary still isn’t walking. What on earth am I feeding him? She wanted to know. Is he getting enough broccoli? Honestly it’s enough to drive a person to insanity!

  From the time baba is born it feels like you’re under siege, bombarded by questions. Can he sit up by himself? Is he smiling? Has he been christened? Is he enrolled at school yet? All the time you grin through gritted teeth and pretend it’s all marvellous. Oh yes, it’s wonderful altogether. You’re back in the gym doing press ups in the mornings, baking buns in the afternoon, entertaining al fresco in the evenings on your perfectly manicured lawn and as for baby? Well he’s just a genius. He’s already playing tennis, reading the newspapers and writing screen plays!

  Of course there are tons of parenting websites offering advice. But sometimes they are so overwhelming because every online poster seems to be managing parenthood a hell of a lot better than you. Sometimes I think it’s unwise to socialise with strangers online anyway. Aren’t you better off playing with your real-life baby than chatting to cyberspace mums who are called silly things like Hotmama and Bootycutie?

  THE CHRISTENING

  Everyone was late for the baby’s christening. Except for one aunt who arrived on time and thought she must have got the wrong church. Then all my family members walked in at exactly 12.31pm. Three babies were all being christened at the same time. My baby was very good and didn’t even cry once when the water (thankfully it was warm) was poured over his head. He even smiled at the priest, bless.

  There was another sweet little baby girl, younger than Gary, being christened, and then there was another boy around Gary’s age who screamed blue murder throughout the entire ceremony and whose face literally turned purple with rage every time the priest when near him..

  It was held in Donnybrook parish and it really was a lovely christening, although there was a bit of confusion when the priest blessed baby Gary ’s dad and his wife. Just for the record his wife wasn’t there and hadn’t been invited! I presume the priest thought the wife was me, but I had written very clea
rly on the questionnaire that myself and the baby’s father were not man and wife. In fact one of the questions had been ‘Name date and place of parents’ marriage. I wrote ‘UNMARRIED’ beside the question. It reminded me a bit when I was in Holles Street giving birth and the older midwives kept asking me where my husband was. Seriously folks, it’s 2010!

  Anyway, apart from a few mishaps (when I woke up that morning I couldn’t find the christening outfit and Gary was in danger of being put in a yellow sleep suit with chickens and lambs on the front!), everything was fine. Then sun was splitting the stones and we all went back to lunch in the garden, with copious amounts of champagne, fresh strawberries and whipped cream to be enjoyed. Apart from the immediate family and godparents I had limited the guest list to just two pals, Rosanna and Gillian, because if I’d invited any more, I would have needed a marquee!

  Poor little baby Gary’s back teeth’s arrival coincided with the christening so he was a bit poorly and sadly slept through most of the celebrations. Everyone went home at 5.30pm and Mum decided to keep the baby overnight. As it was Saturday night and I was in good form I decided to go to the opening of the Celtic Rising show in the Burlington Hotel. I didn’t know anybody going so I went by myself. I sat down at a table and introduced myself. I told the lady next to me that it had been my baby’s christening earlier. She looked dumbfounded. ‘And you’re here?’ she gasped.

  ‘Yes, well the guests have long gone home,’ I explained. ‘So I thought I’d come along to the Burlington for some dinner.’

  She was so gobsmacked, I might as well have announced I’d just got married that day, and had left the wedding party early!

  THE CHRISTENING IS LOOMING!

  The priest, my ex and all my family are getting together soon. Imagine that! All of us all in the same room celebrating. Already I feel a migraine looming.

  I’ve put the baby’s christening off for so long now it’s embarrassing. But a couple of weeks ago I set the date. I contacted the parish priest who enthusiastically congratulated me on Gary ’s birth. ‘Thank you,’ I said, declining to inform him that the birth was a good sixteen months ago and Gary was now practically ready to run down the aisle and would probably be even able to pour the holy water over his own head.

  Then I had the difficult task of choosing the godmother. I asked a neighbour recently whom she had chosen to be godmother. ‘My sister was the main godmother and then my best friend was the second godmother,’ she explained.

  I was amazed. ‘Who do you think you are? Elton John?’ I gasped.

  Actually I didn’t say anything but I definitely don’t think godmothers are like bridesmaids and that you should be able to have as many as you want. I had to decide on just one. I’m godmother to both my sisters’ sons and wouldn’t be able to choose between them, so that honour instead went to my best friend Roxanne. I asked the brother-in-law to be godfather. Once that was sorted I had to think of the catering. One guest had asked if we’d be going to a nice restaurant after the church.

  ‘We won’t,’ I said. ‘We’re in a recession now so it’s all back to mine for food.’

  I meant it too. It’s a bit extravagant inviting everyone to a restaurant for a christening. Anyway our garden is huge which is great. If you don’t want to talk to somebody you can hide behind a tree or something.

  Then I was trying to figure out what baby Gary should wear. If I stuck him in a christening robe at his age, he’d never forgive me. After a seemingly endless search around town, I finally got him a white linen shirt and matching trousers. Perfect. And at least he’d be able to wear the outfit again.

  I still have a couple of things to get. Like a christening candle and a white shawl. Thankfully Google pointed me in the direction of Eason and VERITAS for those. When I was online I also had a sneak peek at an online discussion about christenings in Ireland. People were wondering how much money to give the priest and the sacristan. Some gave 100 euro to the priest and 50 euro to the sacristan. Some gave nothing claiming that priests get paid anyway and that’s their job. I think I’ll offer something in between. I’ve also still got to buy a cake and order in champagne. Holy God, no more than communions and confirmations, christenings don’t come cheap!

  SEX AND THE CITY!

  If Samantha from Sex and the City were a man, not one woman would find him funny or attractive. Seriously, if a film starred four men and one of them was a sleazy fifty-something year old, who openly leered at twenty-something females and made suggestive vulgar comments to them, we would not cheer at the screen in agreement. No, we’d be appalled. He’d be called a dirty old man. And we would shudder. No matter how nice his clothes were.

  With Sex and the City 2 mania kicking in right about now, women all over the world are donning their finest cocktail dresses, getting together in groups, downing a Cosmo or two and heading to see the film en masse. I very much doubt you’ll see too many men at this flick. Indeed if you’re going on a first date or anything, please don’t even attempt to suggest going to this.

  I saw it. Indeed with all the hype I wouldn’t have missed it. And I enjoyed it for what it is; pure escapism and utter nonsense. The best thing about Sex and the City, as always is the fashion. Carrie wears the kind of clothes only she could get away with. And besides, fashion that looks cool in New York, would have you ending up in Sack the Stylist in Dublin magazines.

  Sex and the City was created when everybody had money to spend. Before the whole recession thing kicked its Manohla heel up our butt, we too could buy designer heels if we saved for a month. We too could cough up fifteen euro for a cocktail in a fancy five star hotel. Now we’re taking great care of our fancy clobber of yesteryear because we might be wearing those clothes for a long time yet. We can no longer afford to go drinking mid-week, and ordering tipples with cherries and umbrellas is no longer seen as appropriate unless it’s for a special occasion. But luckily we can still manage to cough up for the price of a ticket in our cinema and mentally escape to Abu Dhabi with the girls without worrying about the price of the airfare or volcanic ash.

  People always ask me if I identify with Carrie. I don’t really. Yes, like her I write a column but I don’t write it in high heels and there was never a Mr Big lurking in the background. I didn’t identify with prim and proper Charlotte either and man-eating Samantha’s crudeness often left me cold. But the one I least identified with was Miranda. She was the boring one with the baby. It’s funny but as I type this column now in the midst of nappies, baby wipes, and a high pile of baby clothes just waiting to be washed and ironed, I now realise with horror that I have actually become Miranda. Only I’m not as skinny.

  And definitely not as rich.

  COMMUNION TIME

  I marched up the aisle in my white dress with one thing on my mind: money. I was six years old and I knew exactly what I wanted. One particular aunt had promised a medal but I didn’t think much of that offer. Cash in hand was what mattered.

  ‘Wait till he makes his Holy Communion,’ somebody said to me the other day, referring to Gary. ‘It’s all about money these days.’

  I laugh when people make such comments. It’s thirty years since I made my Holy Communion and it was all about money then too. I didn’t actually like the religious part of the Holy Communion at all. As far as I was concerned that was something you just went along with in order to get the dosh.

  They say there’s huge pressure on parents to fund their child’s big day, but was it ever any different? I cast my mind back to the year of my Holy Communion. A girl in my class was boasting about going to a restaurant where the waiters had real gold buttons on their jackets. Of course now I realise that either she was lying, or her parents had lied to her, but either way I was terribly impressed. I too wished I was dining somewhere so fancy. Instead we went to Powerscourt Gardens where I rolled down the hill and got grass stains on my dress. My mother was giving out because she’d now have to get the dress dry-cleaned so my sister could wear it two years later.

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nbsp; I think you have to be at least seven now before your make your Holy Communion, which is good. I found the experience a bit overwhelming to be honest. I didn’t like the hymn which stared with ‘suffer little children’. It frightened me, and I certainly didn’t like the gloomy confession box where I had to sit opposite an old man whom I couldn’t see and tell him all my sins. I mean, honest to goodness, how many sins does a six-year-old have?

  I remember the nun we had preparing us for our Holy Communion. She was a bit of a witch, really. One day she asked us all to stand up and tell the class what was the best thing about making our Holy Communion. I said the best thing was that my dad was going to buy me two boxes of chocolates all for myself and that I would only share with my sisters if they agreed to be my slaves for the day. My answer didn’t go down well and I was told I was a child of the devil and made to sit in the corner. But the day of the Communion itself was great fun. I got a watch even though I couldn’t tell the time. I can’t remember much about the watch only that it was expensive. That was the most important thing, you know.

  A TEARFUL PREGNANCY

  I hated every minute of pregnancy. I remember once walking past a dead bird and bursting into tears. The poor little bird, I thought sobbing all the way down the street. That’s how emotional I was. When I wasn’t snivelling I was throwing up. I carried a plastic bag around because I couldn’t walk past a petrol station, a chipper or somebody smoking a cigarette without puking. Sometimes there wasn’t time to fish the plastic bag from my pocket. Now that was embarrassing, especially around Christmas time when I’m sure passers-by thought I’d one too many the night before and tut-tutted to themselves as they hurried by.