Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother

by Marisa Mackle

  THE IMPROMPTU BIRTHDAY PARTY

  I was at a birthday party recently. It wasn’t a wild one and I was safely home by three. That’s PM by the way, not AM. The host was just a year old and to be honest, he didn’t look like he was having a great time as he looked at around the room in bewilderment at the adults drinking beer and champagne. His older siblings fought with his cousins over who could play with his presents.

  I’d been thinking about throwing a little party for baby Gary ’s first birthday, but after that I decided we’d have low-key celebration at home. Just the two of us. Babies don’t remember their first birthdays anyway and he hasn’t made any friends yet. Did I want to invite my own friends around in his honour? Not particularly.

  On the morning of his birthday I gave my son a teddy, but he simply ignored his new furry friend and tried to eat the wrapping paper instead. So much for that!

  Then a friend phoned asking what I was doing for Gary ’s birthday. I felt momentarily guilty. ‘I’m having a little party,’ I lied. ‘Just a very quiet one.’ I didn’t bother mentioning that I hadn’t actually invited any guests.

  ‘Oh goody. Well, I’ve a little present for him,’ she said, ‘so I’ll call over with my two to give it to him. Does 4.30pm suit?’

  Actually it didn’t suit at all. That’s when Gary and I usually watch Judge Judy in bed but of course I didn’t say that. Instead found myself pretending to be delighted that she’d be dropping in with her two little terrors. Then my sister rang. ‘Is it Gary ’s birthday?’

  ‘Eh, yes. How nice of you to remember.’

  ‘What time is everyone calling at?’

  I felt my heart lurch. I hadn’t even got dressed yet.

  ‘Around four-ish.’

  Then Mum called and said herself and Dad were looking forward to the party.

  Oh God, I thought. All these people were arriving for a non-existent party and I’d nothing prepared. Suddenly I remembered a Swiss chocolate roll in the freezer. That could do as a cake, I supposed. But when I checked the box, it said that the cake took six hours to defrost. Six hours! But the party was starting at four. I madly started baking. At least if I had a few cupcakes on offer, it’d look like I’d made an effort. Then I found an old Get Well Soon balloon in a cupboard along with a half packet of birthday candles. I blew up the balloon and stuck it on the gate. Big mistake. The neighbours were round in a flash enquiring about our health.

  I assured them everything was fine and they too were invited to the party. An unopened tin of Quality Street left over from Christmas eventually saved the day and kept the kids happy. We all sang Happy Birthday and nobody seemed to notice my flustered face. Next year I’ll be more organised.

  BABIES AND PHONES

  Men always want what they can’t have. They seem to learn it at a very young age too. My son, Gary, for example, only wants to play with things that aren’t his. I’ve spent a fortune on fancy toys for him but his three favourite objects in the whole world are my laptop, my glasses and my mobile phone. Of course I need all three to be able to work and so they are strictly off limits. I have even bought Gary three different kiddie mobile phones of his own to mess around with so that he’ll lose interest in mine. They are colourful and play lots of funky tunes, and in my opinion, are far more interesting than my plain silver one. But nothing has worked.

  I suppose he sees my phone in my hand all day long and thinks that if Mummy loves this little object so much it must be amazing. So when I’m finished with the phone at the end of the day I make sure I switch it off and hand it to him. His little face lights up and he turns it over and over in his hands and it keeps him amused for ages.

  Speaking of phones, mine is like an extension of my hand at the moment. I’m in Spain living in near isolation and refuse to talk to anybody in order to finish my book (not so easy to concentrate with a one year old). It’s grand during the day because I’m busy but then at night I get this uncontrollable urge to contact others.

  It’s easier to text people, because if you phone you catch them unawares. At least with texting, they can get back to you in their own time. I didn’t text anybody at all when I was pregnant because I’d read an article about mobile phones being harmful to pregnant women and then when the baby was little I didn’t have time to be thinking of little messages to send to random people in my past. So most people didn’t hear from me for a good two years.

  Therefore you can imagine their surprise when they recently heard from my phone at around 4.00am on a Tuesday morning in January. I didn’t mean to phone so many people. In fact I didn’t mean to phone anybody at all. But I gave my mobile phone to the baby just before I went to bed, and for once in my life I forgot to turn it off. I left it in his cot and went off to bed.

  So you can imagine my horror when I discovered he had managed to contact so many people from my address book. One was an ex who was obviously not pleased about getting a call from my phone to hear ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ being played from Baby Gary’s other toy phone.

  ‘You need to grow up now, Marisa,’ he sent in a rather irate text the following morning.

  Mortifying.

  FLYING BABY!

  It was 4.00 am, I remember. I was in the back galley of the airplane with some other air hostesses. Suddenly I heard music being played loudly.

  Who was that? I couldn’t believe one of the passengers would be ignorant enough to play music when everyone else was trying to sleep on the way from New York to Dublin. I walked down the cabin to investigate and I saw the culprit. He wasn’t drunk like I expected. Just very small and cute, playing his music on a toy with flashing lights.

  Of course there was no point saying anything to him, especially when he looked so delighted with himself, but I did say to his granny, upon whose knee he sat, ‘you’ll have to turn that off now because the other passengers won’t be able to sleep.

  I don’t know how the granny entertained the child for the rest of the flight home, but I didn’t think any more of it until recently when baby Gary and I took a three and a half hour flight which felt like twenty-four hours.

  First of all we had a five hour delay at Dublin airport so all the baby’s food supplies had gone by the time we boarded the flight. Then we were seated beside a man with a completely bald, shiny head and Gary thought it was great fun to bounce his rattle off the top of it.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said and then asked to be moved to another seat where we’d have more room. Thankfully there was a free row of seats down the back of the plane.

  I laid Gary out on the row of seats hoping he’d fall asleep. But no such luck. Instead he climbed on my knee and the next thing I knew he was yanking a pair of sunglasses off the head of the female passenger in front.

  I’m so sorry, I said again. In fact I seemed to keep saying it throughout the flight. Like when Gary threw his dummy into the crowd and everybody had to lift up their feet so I could locate it.

  ‘Next time, I’m leaving leave you at home.’ I hissed into his ear.

  He didn’t care. The little rascal knew I couldn’t put him into his cot for the next couple of hours and he wanted to party. He got a sandwich from the cabin crew, took it apart and smothered his fingers with butter. Then he proceeded to smear butter into my hair. Great.

  When one of the air hostesses picked him up to admire him he grabbed her breast. Actually I think he was probably trying to grab her name badge that was pinned to her breast but it was still really embarrassing.

  As we exited the plane the crew smiled politely.

  ‘You’re lucky you’re so small,’ I whispered in baby Gary ’s ear. ‘If any other passenger had behaved like you, the airport police would have been escorting them off this flight in handcuffs.’

  ALL ABOARD!

  I used to think travelling was a hassle. You know taking off your shoes (really embarrassing if you’ve odd socks on), having a strange security woman getting more familiar with you than you’d allow on a first date, and handing over tw
eezers, lighters and expensive anti-cellulite cream (I tried to explain once that this was medication but they were having none of it).

  But the nice thing was, once you were through security, you could wander off to the bar and have a drink, or spray on various perfumes, and browse through the shops buying suntan lotion and getting all excited about seeing the sun. Now that there’s four of us (myself, baby Gary, the nanny and Bob the Builder), it’s a lot more stressful.

  Packing for a start is a major headache. I used to just throw a few bits and bobs into a bag at the last minute. But when you’re travelling with an entourage it’s a different story. I have to make sure that all three passports (Bob doesn’t have one but Baby Gary does) are kept safely with the tickets, money, credit cards etc.

  Then there’s the major trauma of trying to pack everything into my case (maximum weight 20 Kilos). Isn’t it really unfair that infants don’t get to have their own suitcases? I mean, it’s totally illogical because they need more stuff then anybody! When we were going to Morocco last week, I made many personal sacrifices. For example, there wasn’t room for my travel hairdryer because the nappies took up so much room. My high heels had to come out of the case to make way for Gary ’s favourite teddy. I could only bring one novel instead of three. Then when I was almost done I realised I hadn’t any swimming nappies.

  Somebody told me recently about this great website where mums can log in and give each other tips.

  ‘Only mums? Are no dads on it?’ I asked. ‘Trying to get tips?’

  She shook her head. No surprise there then. Anyway I logged on and somebody told me where I could buy them. So I put on my snow boots and battled the harsh elements into town. When I say ‘battle’ I exaggerate a bit here. I used to live in Austria where the temperatures would often fall to minus 20 and everyone just got on with it and dressed appropriately.

  Finally we were at the airport, pram and all. I was exhausted already and we hadn’t even gone anywhere. When I checked in I was about to make my usual request to be seated as far away from any babies as possible. You see, I enjoy catching up with my sleep when on flights. There’s nothing worse than being stuck beside a very little but very loud person. But then I realised that there was actually only one baby listed as a passenger on the flight. And by law he was required to sit on my knee.

  THE DINNER PARTY

  I was at a dinner party a while ago. The hostess put me sitting beside a father of three. His wife works nights so she couldn’t be there. He’s a stay-at-home dad and loves nothing more than to talk about his children.

  Unfortunately I know this man a long time as we share the same friends, but I always try and avoid him. When he first started having kid he was constantly clogging up my Hotmail account with pictures of his babies. Every time I bumped into him the photos would come out, literally hundreds of them and I used to look at them and nod politely but not say anything. I thought if I said anything I’d only encourage him to keep going.

  He even once offered to show me a video of that he took of his first born’s birth. Would I like to see it some time? He asked over dessert. I remember searching his face for all traces of sarcasm but not being able to find any. Unreal.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he said when I sat down, making me feel a bit guilty because the feeling was definitely not reciprocal. ‘How’s your little girl?’

  ‘Little boy. I had a boy.’

  ‘Oh yes, Harry, wasn’t it?’

  ‘ Gary.’

  ‘He must be nearly two now.’

  ‘Nearly one.’

  Like most people who talk about non-stop about themselves and their kids, he had little interest in either me or my child. I hoped somebody would rescue me. But everybody else seemed engrossed in their own conversations. To think I’d braved the snow to put myself through this. At least at a cocktail party you can tell somebody you’re bursting to go to the loo and escape!

  ‘I must show you some photos of my fellows later on,’ he said, failing to notice the agony in my face. ‘My eldest is in school now. ‘Though he was off last week because of the snow.’

  ‘That must have been fun.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want him to be missing out so I gave him some grinds.’

  For God’s sake, the child is five!

  It was tough, you know on all of us with the tennis club being closed as well. The courts were all iced up.

  ‘Does your five-year-old play tennis?’

  ‘And the four year old plays too. We’ll be seeing them in Wimbledon one day.’

  Oh no I thought. He’s going to be one of those annoying dads who turns up to every game so see his sons ever play. The only dad I remember in school who turned up to every single hockey match to cheer on his daughter. Week after week. I used to be so glad my own father would quietly wait for me in the car instead.

  Desperate to change the conversation I asked him whether his wife minded working nights.

  ‘No, not really. In fact, she likes to get out of the house.’

  Come to think of it, she probably does.

  Well, would you blame her?

  PITYING PARENTS?

  You know what they say… people with children feel sorry for those without and vice versa. I once felt extremely sorry for young parents. I used to think their lives were totally over.

  One of my school friends got pregnant pretty much straight after the Leaving Cert. She had four babies in a row, remaining pregnant for all of her twenties. She used to invite me around and I rarely took up the offer. I didn’t want to be stuck inside with little kids running around the place screaming. The thought of it was enough to bring on a mini migraine. What if they got their grubby paws on my lovely designer clothes! I invited my pal on my nights out but she was always too exhausted to come along, and anyway she had nothing in common with my single friends. They were looking for men but she already had hers. In fact she had five of them including her four sons.

  Sometimes she’d ring to say she spotted me in a magazine at some function when she was in the doctor’s waiting room with one of the kids. She’d often say she was envious of the life I was leading. I’d play it down and say that it wasn’t as much fun as it looked and that it must be very nice to have a family. I was lying of course. I wouldn’t have traded places with her for anything in the world. I could do whatever I want and I did. I jetted all over the world and partied like there was no tomorrow. I’d no ties and nobody asking when I was coming home. I didn’t need money for childcare, baby wipes and nappies; every cent went on handbags, shoes and fancy cocktails and there was my poor friend who never seemed to manage to get out of her tracksuit.

  Fast forward a few years. The partying has stopped. I obsess about sleep because I’m so often deprived of it. The designer shoes are in the attic because they’re not very practical when you’re pushing a pram around.

  Then I was at Dublin airport the other day. I was exhausted, and stressed, wearing no make-up with my baby crying in his pram. Normally I’d browse around the shops trying on perfume before my flight but this time I needed to find a baby changing room. I spotted a very glamorous woman. High heels, sun glasses on top of her perfectly blow dried hair. It was my long lost friend. We air kissed. She admired baby Gary. She introduced me to her son, a fine strapping lad. They were off to London for the sales. Her husband was at home with the other three boys. We didn’t chat long. Her son was off to the bar to buy a pint for himself and a Gin and Tonic for his lucky mum, and my son needed his nappy changed. I pretended not to notice the pity in her eyes.

  NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS

  I’ve already written out my New Year resolutions. I think it’s best to make a list now because every Jan 1st I feel ropey and the last thing I want to do is write.

  Every year I vow to find a man and lose a stone but instead I always manage to find a stone and lose a man. Joining a gym is out of the question because any time I’ve joined one, I only ever show my face at the Christmas party where well buffed folk
look at me blankly as if to say who the hell are you?

  One of my other resolutions is not to waste time on Facebook. If I haven’t spoken to you in a year or would rather cross the road rather than have to say hello to your face, you’re deleted. I’m also deleting anybody who updates their social status more than five times a day. This is information I do not need to fill my head with. ‘Mary is at the airport.’ So what? Anybody can go to the airport. I don’t see it as one of life’s great achievements. Off with you then!

  I have decided to steer clear of people who moan about the recession because quite frankly these are the people who always complain about everything. Even in the so-called boom they were moaning about money as an excuse not to get their round. Now they think it’s brilliant that, thanks to the recession, they can justify their meanness. I have one such friend. She never bought baby Gary a present when he was born and she still rings me to say how bad she feels about it. I told her where she could get a little pair of cute baby socks for two euro. She didn’t want to know. The same woman, mind you, has gone on four foreign trips this year and has just traded in her old car for spanking new one. She is also been deleted.

  All exes are being deleted. I don’t want to know how happy they are with the women they replaced me with. I don’t want to know that ‘John is happy.’ Honest to goodness, if somebody is that happy why do they feel the compulsion to tell everyone on the Internet? Delete! Good-bye and good riddance.

  I am also deleting anybody who invites me to clubs or quiz nights which I’ve never any intention in attending. Anywhere where ladies get in free before midnight, I have no interest in going to either. Anybody who invites me to become a fan of themselves also has to go. I just cannot believe how many narcissists are out there. I might sound callous but I yearn for a clutter free life. If I delete 1000 Facebook friends I’ll still have 200 left. They say on your deathbed if you’ve five friends you’re doing well. So even with my massive clear-out, I think I’m still doing exceptionally well. Happy 2010!