Here’s the thing, pet, you are wasting far too much time worrying about something that you have no control over (you can’t change genetics). More importantly, you have no need to worry about your height. You are beautiful, just as you are. I’ll say that again, because I know that you have thrown your eyes up to the heavens in immediate disbelief when you read that sentence.
You are beautiful, just as you are.
Here’s the thing, did you know that you are not the only girl who hates putting on her gym gear in the communal changing rooms? In that room that makes you break out in hives every time you go into it, nearly everyone else has a hang-up about how they look too. They believe themselves to be too short, too fat, too thin, too ugly or too tall. It is unlikely that anyone in the group thinks that they are perfect.
I’d love to visit that locker room and ask all of your friends and classmates to sit down in a circle, facing each other. I would then ask everyone there to be brutally honest and to place in the centre of the circle all of their own particular insecurities about how they look. And I reckon that you and your classmates would be completely shell-shocked to hear how many of you are plagued with self-doubt.
And listen to this, as it’s going to make your head spin. Do you know that many of those same girls you have envied for years, those girls with the lovely curves and petite frames, in turn envy you? The girls with beautiful curves feel that they are too fat and look at your skinny frame and wish they could be the same. And the small girls, that you think are so perfectly pint-sized, in turn wish they were as tall as you as they are fed up being thought of as much younger than they actually are. Crazy, huh? I know you don’t believe me, but I know this to be true. How do I know? Well, I’m still friends with some of your classmates now. Like me, they are now older and wiser and they have shared with me how they felt as teenagers.
So my point is, Carmel, everyone has a different definition of what they think is perfect. It’s tough being fourteen years old and much easier to think there is something wrong with you than right with you but, honestly, you are going to be just fine. All five foot ten of you!
Do me a favour though – please try to stop worrying about what everyone else thinks about you and start believing in you.
Yes, you are tall. Facts are facts and you will continue to be among the tallest of the girls in your circle throughout your life. Is that such a bad thing though? Think about it for a second: isn’t it kind of wonderful to be tall?
As you get older and make your way around the world, you will soon see that height loses its significance very quickly. What’s far more important is being a good person, a kind person, someone who can make a difference to others and the world. So shoulders back, stand up proud and straight, and work on being the very best version of you that you can possibly be.
Remember, you are beautiful just as you are.
Keep dreaming (and writing!)
Lots of love,
Carmel x
Carmel Harrington is the bestselling author of the award-winning eBook Beyond Grace’s Rainbow, published by the HarperCollins digital imprint, HarperImpulse. She is also a popular freelance writer and a regular contributor to a number of magazines. She also loves playwriting and her first play A Dunganstown Romance was staged in 2013 by the New Line Theatre. Her second novel Sleep of Dreams is now completed and will be published later this year and she is currently working on a sequel to Beyond Grace’s Rainbow. Married to Roger with two small children Amelia and Nate, she lives in Wexford, Ireland, where life is pretty idyllic, full of stories, songs, hide-and-seek, Mickey Mouse, walks on the beach, tickles, kisses, chocolate treats and most of all love. For more information please find her at www.carmelharrington.com.
Story 20: Memories
Andrea Hayes
As I sat in my back garden reading a book in the shade, I heard something rare and exciting, something I suddenly realised I had never actually heard since I moved into our house: the sound of those chimes, once a familiar sound on the avenue in Dublin where I had spent so many happy summers as a child. Suddenly joyous memories of my childhood came flooding back. I felt that giddy feeling inside again, knowing that the tinkle of the traditional ice-cream van signalled a treat on the way, the magical unmistakable sound announcing ice cream!
It was still thrilling. I closed my eyes and allowed that quintessential sound of summer to bring me back to a wonderful time in my life. Suddenly I found myself thinking: I miss those long hot summer days when I had nothing to do but laze around, playing hopscotch, kick the can, hanging out, just playing and having fun with my friends . . . no responsibilities, no problems, no worries.
Then from nowhere I heard a big booming voice announce: “Do you, Andrea Hayes, hereby officially tender your resignation as an adult and accept the responsibility of a nine-year-old?”
“I do.”
“The terms of your contract are as follows:
You will have to spend hours doing nothing but building with Lego blocks. You will laugh, play, agree to be carefree and live in the moment. You will love getting up early on a Saturday morning to watch cartoons. You will want to be She-Ra (Princess of Power!). You will ask your parents about changing your name to that of your favourite cartoon character, Jem, because she’s in a band and, more importantly, She’s Truly Outrageous. You will believe your childhood friends will never leave your side because you exchanged handmade friendship bracelets. Your friends with friendship bracelets will be part of your secret club and you will all want to be Goonies. You will think that soggy sand-filled sandwiches and lemonade at the beach is better than the food in any gourmet restaurant. You will spend hours searching the garden for ladybirds, insects, bugs and bees. You will think that Smarties are better than money because you can eat them. You will want to spend hours rehearsing your “made-up” shows and plays with your friends on hot summer days so you can put on a final performance for your family and neighbours. You will accept that life is simple: multiplication tables will be the only stressful part of your day.
You must agree to believe that the world is fair. That everyone is honest and good. You must believe in fairy tales and happy-ever-afters and trust that dreams do come true and anything is possible. You must believe in the power of smiles, hugs, and a kiss to make things better. You must believe that putting out your tongue will prove if you are or aren’t telling the truth! You must trust and believe in the power of imagination, making tents from blankets, knitting socks, making jewellery boxes with matchsticks, necklaces with beads, and making angels in the snow and sand.
Finally, if you are officially stepping down from adulthood, then close your eyes and count to 10 . . .”
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10!
Then I heard my brother’s voice calling, “Ready or not, here I come!”
I opened my eyes and realised we must be playing hide-and-seek. I was behind the couch in the living room. Instinct kicked in and I started to climb onto the top of the couch, then jumped from the couch to the armchair, blissfully unaware of any potential danger. I heard my brother shouting my name, then suddenly I was shouting, “Na-na-na-na-naaaa!You can’t catch me!” I jumped again to the dining-room table – this time I wasn’t so lucky as I lost balance and slipped and found myself on the ground.
Before I had time to cry, I heard . . . “Tag! You’re it!”
“No, that’s not fair!” I said, and then I heard my mother’s voice reminding me that I had a big day tomorrow.
Suddenly I remembered what tomorrow would bring and joy spread through every inch of my body. Tomorrow was my birthday, and this was a big birthday. I could not wait to be ten years old. For weeks I had thought about how great it must be to have double digits. A milestone in the life of any little girl. Ten. I don’t know why I imagined that everything would be different if I was a decade old but definitely my birthday could not come soon enough for me. Only one night’s sleep separated me from finally being big, finally ten
years old. Excitement, anticipation, and joy filled my heart.
I went to bed with a sense of wonder and expectation. I sat in front of my window and looked out. It was already dark outside and I waited impatiently for something special: I was waiting for the first star to appear in the sky so I could make a special wish, just in time for my birthday. I looked impatiently at the black sky.
Time passed and my disappointment grew as I still hadn’t spotted a star.
“I can’t go to bed yet! There are still no stars, Daddy!” I muttered as I sadly looked at my dad, as if he were to blame for the fact that not a single star had found its way to earth.
“You must have a little patience,” he said. “Your star is a very special star – it’s a special dream star. When you dream tonight you can dream for whatever you want and your special dream star will make all your wishes come true, just in time for your birthday.”
This sounded very promising. But I wondered what would happen if I didn’t see the star in my dreams.
I jumped into my bed and waited for my dad to tuck me in. Then, like every night, he told me a story. But on this evening the fantasy world that my father conjured up with his words was very exciting, a world where dreams come true and anything is possible, especially if you had a special birthday dream star that was sent to boys and girls on the eve of their tenth birthday. I tried again and again to look out my window through a narrow slit in the curtains, to see if finally a single star would appear. My dad reassured me that all I needed to do was sleep and when I woke up I would be ten and all my dreams would come true.
I drifted off to sleep and then I flew high into the clouds. I felt weightless as I twirled and tumbled through the sky, then suddenly I stopped at a bike shop and I could see the most beautiful shining red bike, with a beautiful basket and a shiny silver bell. I thought I would love that bike if I was big, and just as I had the thought the bike seemed to follow me, flying in the sky. I decided to jump on my new red bike and as I cycled I beeped my shiny silver bell so the clouds would disappear to let me through. Every time I rang the bell I found myself somewhere new. I stopped at Nana and Granda’s where they had a big brightly wrapped present for me. I opened it and smiled from ear to ear as I held my birthday present in my hands. I knew immediately what it was – inside the plastic bright-green cabbage, I knew I would have my very own Cabbage Patch Kid! How thrilling! Then my silver bell rang again and this time I was shopping with my big sisters and we were picking out a fancy new dress for my party with matching sparkly new shoes. I felt really special and big now – I knew I had grown as I needed to choose a size for ten-year-olds! There were more places to go as we needed to buy party treats and decorations so I set off on my bike with my sisters beside me. Everyone seemed to know it was my birthday and before long my basket was filled with goodies. I rang my bell for a final time and suddenly I was in the cake shop looking at a big, pretty, round cake with pink frosting and I could read the writing. It said: Happy 10th Birthday, Andrea. I was twirling around and around, giddy with excitement. All my dreams really had come true.
Then I woke up to the sound of all my family singing “Happy Birthday”. I was still a little tired but finally the big day had arrived . . .
“Close your eyes, Andrea, and count to ten . . .”
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10!
I opened my eyes and I could hear the magical sound of the ice-cream van. As the chime drifted into the distance I was reminded never to stop wishing on stars because dreams really do come true.
A well-known face and voice in the world of television and radio in Ireland, Andrea is best known for presenting TV3’s hugely successful series Ireland’s Animal A&E which recently aired on Channel 5 in the UK and on a number of other channels worldwide, including the Discovery Channel across Europe. She also presented Dublin Airport: Life Stories on TV3, a six-part TV3 series following the broad range of stories which are part of daily life at Dublin Airport. She is a regular on the sofa on Ireland AM and has hosted Midday on many occasions. She has been working for TV3 since 2005. Her voice is familiar to the TV3 audience as she has been the voice of the station for the last eight years. In addition to her work with TV3, Andrea keeps busy with radio and voice-over work. She has been working for Dublin’s Sunshine 106.8 since 2009, and currently presents a talk show called Saturday Live on Saturdays. She is well-known on the hosting circuit and recently hosted The Wedding Fair at the RDS. She also enjoys writing and has written articles for Woman’s Way, Oh Baby magazine and The Waiting Room magazine.
Story 21: One More Day
Emma Heatherington
If I was a child again, I would ask God for one more day with her. Just one day to warn us, one day to say goodbye.
The day in question will live with me forever, even though it was spelt out in death in an ill-prepared, no-nonsense, no-time-for-digesting-what-was-going-on way – and no time for an innocent mind to interpret why it was to happen. I still can’t . . .
My mother Geraldine was the life and soul the party, the life and soul of our lives and of everyone who was lucky enough to know her.
I remember her taste in music. She was an accomplished singer and was into everyone from James Taylor to Leonard Cohen to The Police. She even liked Barry Manilow, much to my teenage disgust.
I remember the day she recognised my love for music. When I wrote my first musical aged only twelve, I remember how she advised me on structure and story, how she talked to me and helped me choose the right songs. She let me stay off school one day because she knew how much I loved one band in particular and didn’t want to miss them on Pebble Mill at One. (Video recorders? I didn’t trust those for one second and she knew it!)
I remember her smell, I remember her voice as she spoke as well as sang, but most of all I remember her laughter, and she laughed a lot.
I remember how she loved Levi’s jeans, the discovery of MTV and Elton John’s “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues”, the angst of Angie in EastEnders, the way she would chuckle at John Cleese in Fawlty Towers and how she looked forward to a night out on the weekends when she could find a baby-sitter to look after us all.
She had a laugh that could stay in your heart forever and a smile with the most perfect white teeth I ever did see. She was proud, fiercely proud, and loyal beyond belief. If you were her child, her partner, her sister or her friend she loved you until the end. She adored her children and her family so much that she thought each and every person who came our way should adore them in equal measure. In fact, it’s a lasting joke that if someone on the street admired one of us, she would make sure they complimented the other five individually, even if they couldn’t tell one of us from another.
She had an ear for a tune, an eye for detail and good taste, a way with the written and spoken word and a humour that would light up a room no matter how many people were in it.
She was the baby of seven girls, was thought the world of by her sisters and was the apple of her father’s eye. Photos show her as a petite, beautiful blonde standing with pride beside the tall, dark and handsome man she married.
We had moved into our new house a few months before it happened. We got the keys on a Wednesday night and she was so excited that she moved us into it in darkness, with no electricity, and lit the fire for light and warmth and we talked and sang through the night. She had colour schemes chosen for every room. She had plans for French windows, for a patio, for a place where the little ones could play. She had plans for everything.
I was fifteen years old when it happened. I had been out ten-pin bowling with friends the night before – a Friday – and just as I was leaving the house she asked me to wash up after our evening meal. I was in a rush to see my friends.
I said no.
Typical teenager, I guess, but nonetheless her words have stayed with me ever since.
“One day you will realise why I appreciate a bit of help,” she told me as I slammed the door in full
tantrum, which wasn’t really true to my form. She wasn’t angry, she barely raised her voice. She was just tired and weary of all the chores and daily necessities her life entailed.
I was the eldest – she was a thirty-six-year-old mum of six children in steps and stairs right down to the age of eight months. As a mum myself now, I can see clearly how the simple task of someone else washing-up would have meant so much to her.
I came home that night and peeped into her bedroom as she slept. The baby was in the cot, sleeping sound, her tiny hands laid back by her cheeks and the sound of her soft breathing made the house sound so peaceful.
I heard my father rise for work the next morning and then shortly afterwards I heard the baby cry and the sound of Mummy tending to her downstairs and then doing what all the experts told her: to go back to bed and sleep when the baby slept.
She asked for some help later that morning and again I was reluctant to expand from my own little world. I was tired, it was a Saturday, I had my own things to do. By eleven a.m., she was asking for the doctor, for her sisters, for anyone to relieve her of this strange pain that had overcome her. Indigestion, the doctor said, but he handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it to call him in case things became worse.
My Aunt Eithna arrived and rubbed her back, telling her she would be okay and tried to soothe her younger sister as she writhed around the bed in pain, with no clue what was going on within her young body.
Another sister called and then panic set in. The doctor came back, and then my ten-year-old brother ran to the end of the road and guided an ambulance to our new house.
We were in the sitting room, our new sitting room where she had lit that first fire only months before, kneeling in a circle and saying words of the Rosary with an elderly neighbour – words of religion that none of us were old enough to recognise.
If I Was a Child Again Page 12