Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother

by Marisa Mackle

  MAD DOG

  My mother owns a magnificent looking Kerry Blue but he's so strong and not the brightest on the lead. He never fails to bark hysterically at other mutts and his eyesight isn't the best either. This means he barks at people wheeling little cases thinking they've got dogs on leads. I used to be the 'dog lady' as I'd walk the dog rain, hail or shine. That all changed when I was expecting however. He was far too big and I was terrified of falling.

  But the other day I decided to take dog for a walk, much to his astonishment. I have been dying to show off my pram for a while now. Having searched the country I eventually found the perfect one in a cute little shop. I felt like a kid let loose in Disneyworld. I even found myself heading for the brightly coloured maternity wear until I suddenly remembered I was no longer pregnant. In fact I often forget I'm not pregnant anymore and throw the odd dirty look at people who don't automatically get out of my way or hold doors open for me. Oops!

  My friend Avril Kelly joined me on the walk. I pushed my pram. She walked the dog. I don't know how tall my friend is but she's a model and not far off six foot I reckon. The other day she wore six inch heels.

  'Are you okay to walk in them?' I asked. She insisted she was.

  So we headed down Shrewsbury Road much to the delight of some construction workers who started to whistle.

  'That's for your benefit, not mine,' I told my tall blonde friend. 'Men don't whistle at women pushing prams.'

  We eventually reached the Merrion Shopping Centre and Avril kindly looked after the dog and the baby while I ran into the shops for some messages.

  When I came back out Avril was sitting in the sunshine chatting on her phone. My four week old baby was beside her, asleep in his trendy grey and red pram. Mum's show dog sat obediently by her high heels. The trio looked a vision.

  'Are we all set?' I asked Avril.

  She was. She also said lots of people had stopped to chat while I'd been gone.

  'Really?' I was so pleased. I mean, I just knew people would love the pram. Not to mention my cute baby boy all dressed in blue Ralph Lauren. No wonder people had admired him.

  'Yes,' she said. 'They all wanted to know what breed he was.'

  'Breed?' I frowned .'What do you mean?'

  'He's a Kerry Blue, isn't he?' Avril said enthusiastically. 'That's what I told them anyway. I said the dog was a Kerry Blue.'

  WHAT DAY IS IT TODAY?

  I got a call last Thursday from a radio station in Cork to see about having a chat on their late show,

  'What's the subject about?' I asked.

  World Book Day, I was told. The researcher asked if i could have a few words with Victor, the show host, about reading.

  'Is it really World Book Day?' I asked genuinely surprised.

  I wasn't being smart. It's just that these days I get confused about what day of the week it is at all. Monday rolls into Tuesday and then it's Thursday and the weekend. Not that my weekends are any different now. Small babies equal no lie-ins even on Sundays!

  Life now consists of four hour feeds, nappy changes and baths. Actually baby is too small for any bath so I wash him in the sink which he loves. But back to World Book Day. How was I supposed to remember when it was on? If I'd been told it was Christmas Day I would have taken their word for it and happily agreed to talk about Santa or whoever. If I'd been told it was Easter Sunday I'd have gladly spoken about Easter eggs etc. In fact, these days I'd talk about anything at all as long as it doesn't resolve around pregnancy as I feel I've just stopped being pregnant after about five long years.

  I agreed to come on air and talk about a book called A Thousand Splendid Suns. It's a fantastic book which I started reading the night I went into labour. I remember making my way to the delivery room when my mum handed me the book. 'Take this in with you,' she said. 'In case you want to read.'

  'Mum!' I said. 'I'm going to have a baby in the next hour. I'm NOT going to be reading.'

  But she insisted I should bring the book with me anyway. So I did. Just to please her. The epidural took several attempts because I couldn't stop moving due to the labour pains. Baby was born almost immediately while Mum sat in the operating room beside me, the book unopened on her lap.

  I've started to read again however. My main entertainment at the moment is reading. It's a recession proof activity and you can always borrow a book off a pal or join a library. Unlike the cinema which is usually a shared past-time, reading is something to do whenever you like. And wherever. I do strongly advise though, against reading while simultaneously trying to give birth. I know women are supposed to be able to multitask, but God you have to draw the line somewhere!

  ARE YOU MISSING ME, SON?

  Little man,’ I said to my three week old son. ‘Since you gave me nothing but trouble since conception, I expect you to be a very good boy from now on.’

  He opened one eye tentatively but he mustn't have been listening because when the midwife from Holles Street called around she noticed that baby Gary was very jaundiced and had lost a significant amount of weight. As he is also tiny (only 5lbs 10 to start with) she was duly concerned so we immediately made our way into the National Maternity hospital to the baby clinic where we met the consultant. He said baby Gary was too thin and after a blood test my baby was admitted into ICU where he spent the next 48 hours naked except for his nappy and blindfolded to protect his eyes from the light therapy. I was distraught to leave him there and spent the next day, Valentine’s Day, staring at my precious little man in his incubator, the tears welling, because I wanted to so badly to take him home with me. I hated spending the following two nights alone beside his little Moses basket, empty except for a small teddy. I kept saying to my baby’s daddy, ‘do you think he’s missing me?’ The answer to that was simple. ‘No, Marisa, he’s only 5 days old.’

  VALENTINE BABY

  The funny thing was that the day baby Gary was born, a man from a radio station phoned me to ask me if I’d like to talk on air about Valentine’s Day. Remember I used to write a singles column before I got pregnant. Well, there was a time I was considered a kind of Irish Bridget Jones type. But as a brand new mummy, Valentines was really the last thing on my mind. ‘This isn’t a good time,’ I told the radio guy. ‘I’ve just given birth to a premature baby,’ I added in a whisper. The poor fellow nearly died!

  So last Valentine’s weekend, there were no romantic hotel getaways. And I didn’t get to celebrate in a fancy restaurant. But my present, although it was a bit late this year, was the best ever because after eight days in Intensive Care, I finally got to take my baby back home again.

  THE OPERATING TABLE

  It’s mad the stuff you start talking about on the operating table. Of course I have no recollection of the conversation I was having in Holles Street seconds after the effects of my epidural set in. My baby boy had inconveniently decided to interrupt my weekend by arriving exactly four weeks earlier than expected. But my mother who accompanied me to the delivery room to witness baby Gary being born, told me afterwards that I was explaining to the medical staff that I was supposed to be at the races that afternoon but that the racing had been cancelled because of the snow.

  ‘Not to worry,’ I apparently continued to inform the bemused doctors and nurses, ‘the racing has been rescheduled for next Sunday so I’ll be able to go then.’

  You see, the thing is, that last year I also missed the races due to pneumonia and my parents went instead and had a wonderful day. But I was so determined not to miss it again this year, that all I could think of was the great day out I was going to have when I should have been praying for a safe caesarean birth. Now, don’t get me wrong, I did pray, especially when I felt the big needle in my spine. I prayed to everyone I knew up in Heaven that the pain would soon go away. As it turned out it wasn’t too bad. I’d been in labour only for about five hours and the contractions were only really horrible for the last hour or so and even then, were manageable. I never once had to scream in pain and Rd. Dr Jenni
who delivered my son was a Trojan doctor whom I will be grateful to for the rest of my life. I’ll never forget her kindness and professionalism, but indeed that of the nursing staff and my anaesthetist who did an amazing job of calming me down.

  Of course I never got to go to the races and my social life is on hold now for six weeks after surgery but I want to spend all my time with my tot anyway. All any mother wants is a healthy baby, but for some fanciful reason, I thought my son would come along all cute and cuddly wrapped up in a bow or something. Instead he looked purple and had wrinkles on his face like an alien. He was so tiny at 5 lbs. 10 that he didn’t look like a proper member of the human race. Mum thought he looked like an old man. And he did look about 105 as if he knew he was being born into a recession, carrying the worries of the world on his shoulders.

  He looks like ET, I kept thinking. He doesn’t even look like a baby. But that was a week ago. Now he looks like a real baby boy. And like every single mother out there, I think my baby is the most gorgeous baby in the whole wide world.

  THE END

  Find out more about Marisa and her other books on www.marisamackle.ie

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