Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother Page 4

  We looked like an unkempt pair that had been living rough for weeks. Cringe!

  MUMMY FASHION

  Women dress for other women. At least that’s what I firmly believe. Most of us don’t really dress for men because men usually like what we wear anyway. They’re unlikely to gasp ‘OMG, it’s McQueen!’ when they see you in your new designer dress that you paid a small fortune for. Nor are they ever going to think your new designer bag is worth even half the money you paid for it.

  Of course some women will insist that they dress ‘just for me’. Now, pull the other one. Say you are the only woman left in the whole world. Seriously, imagine it. It’s just you left. Are you going to spend ages doing your hair and make-up, decide which high heel shoes go best with which bag, and wear Spanx to suck you in, knowing that you will never see anyone ever again? No.

  Now, I am the type of woman who spends much more than I should on clothes. I have six wardrobes full of clothes and yet I can never find anything suitable to wear on a night out. I have a lot of clothes that I am keeping for when I slim, and a few dodgy items that have never suited me, but because they cost a lot of money I am loathe to discard. I have over twenty tracksuits. Yes, the shame! I think I have a tracksuit in every colour, although thankfully I don’t possess a single shiny one.

  You see, before I became a Mummy I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a tracksuit unless playing some kind of sport. But now that I’m home a lot I find them very comfy for lounging around the house and you can throw them in the washing machine when the baby pukes on them which is handy. Actually before I became a Mummy I considered the tracksuit one step up from pyjamas. I considered anyone who wore a tracksuit around town shopping to look slovenly. Now I am a fan. Of sorts. I will wear my tracksuit to post a letter or hang around the garden. I would not go to mass in one, and definitely wouldn’t meet a friend for coffee wearing one. It’s not that my tracksuits aren’t nice because I do tend to go for trendy ones, but I’m small and runners aren’t a good look for me.

  Anyway, the little lad was starting in playschool last week and I had him all hyped up about it. I got him a new outfit and a Bob the builder school bag. Then I started wondering what I should wear to drop him off. Now, I always swore I wouldn’t be like some of the yummy mummies that I see outside the local school in their 4x4s, wearing cashmere twin sets and pearls. I said I would never be like one of that lot. And yet I found myself fretting. I couldn’t wear a tracksuit. I couldn’t wear jeans. I couldn’t wear a dress because that would be OTT. So I opted for black trousers, black heeled boots and a belted red coat. Then when we got to the school it was closed. Nobody had told me it was shutting for mid-term. So there we were. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

  I used to spend all my money on my hair. Now it’s childcare. The roots on my hair are so bad now I’m considering going back to being a brunette. My hat is my saving grace. At least in winter I can wear my hat more often and save on getting my hair done so often.

  TOO MANY BILLS!

  After paying au-pairs and child minders more than I would care to tot up over the last three years, my son is now off to playschool. I got the bill the other day and I nearly cried. They say sending your child to playschool for the first time is an emotional experience. Well, there were certainly tears in my eyes. Never mind about being a brunette, I’ll be grey soon with all the bills coming in.

  People should be warned about how much children cost. A once seasoned globetrotter, I now haven’t had a holiday for over two years. The closest I’ve got to the sun is looking at nice pictures of resorts on the internet.

  The year before I became a mum I had seven holidays back to back. Of course now I’m horrified at my extravagance but at the time I didn’t see it that way at all. I remember my dad saying something like, ‘it’s well for you’ when I announced I was off to the sun yet again. I thought it was a mean thing to say. I didn’t think it was excessive at all. Most of my holidays were last minute deals so I actually was convincing myself that I was saving money.

  I look back on the person I used to be, once spending almost seven hundred euro on a pair of shoes in Brown Thomas and thinking nothing of it, and I shake my head in wonder. If I could meet that person now I would tell her to open a savings account for the rainy day. My grandfather, a very wise man who had lived through the wars and rationings, had always gone on about the rainy day. But in my world the sun was always shining. What rainy day? I could never even see as much as a cloud! But the rain, when it came, came down thick and fast. And none of us were prepared for it.

  I know I wasn’t the only one to have been caught out in the whirlwind of spending. Nearly all of my friends were the same. None of us would wear the same dress twice to a function. We had designer shoes to match every outfit.

  Now I have reacquainted myself with a needle and thread. Buttons are sewn back on and hems are taken up myself rather than left into alterations services. Nights out drinking cocktails are a thing of the past. I shudder at the thought of spending seventeen euro on a cocktail now, something I used to do in the silly days of the Celtic tiger. But I’m happier now. Less well off, but happier. And the joy of taking my son to the playschool to meet the other boys and girls of his own age will be worth more than any pair of designer shoes. I don’t buy them anymore. They’re like handsome men. Lovely to look, but can cause a lot of pain.

  BABY’S GROWING UP

  My baby starts playschool in a fortnight’s time. Goodness, where has the time flown? It seems like only yesterday I was holding this tiny, wrinkled, premature creature in my arms, terrified about taking on such an enormous responsibility. I hadn’t gone to any parenting classes and had never had the sole charge of anything other than a cat. But we made it!

  People say it’s quite an emotional time for parents taking their eldest to playschool for the first time. And I too was wondering if I would shed a tear at the gates. After all, my Gary is an only child, I am a single mum, and we’re inseparable.

  But the time is right to send him to playschool. He’s got to learn how to mix with children of his own age because right now, unfortunately, he thinks he is the centre of the entire universe. He also needs to learn how to share because the word ‘mine’ is being used much more than it should be in our house right now.

  The staff in this playschool insist that all tots need to be potty trained before attending. So the rush was on over the last few weeks to hurry this training along. It takes time and patience – get a few good DVDs and place the potty in front of the player. Oh, and if you’re think of purchasing new carpets, this is definitely not a good time to do it! Potty training is a messy hit-and-miss affair but now that we have, save the odd little accident, mastered it, I love not to having to spend all my hard-earned cash on nappies and being able to treat myself again. Anyway, my point is that it’s best not to be too house proud during this transition and have the mop ready. The nice lady at the playschool said that I should take Gary up some morning so that he can see the school before he starts. I was worried that he might feel intimidated by the other kids as he is so young. I dressed him up in his best clothes to make a good impression and I dolled myself up a bit too.

  We arrived at the playschool which is the same one I went to myself when I was little. The same lady is running the school. She hugged me and told me that I had got so big since she last saw me. Well, I should hope so. It’s been over thirty years! I was about to introduce her to Gary but he was gone. Instead of clinging shyly to my coat-tails he had hurled himself towards the slide in the middle of the garden knocking off a little girl in a pretty pink dress. To say I was mortified was an understatement. To think I’d thought that it all might be a bit overwhelming for my little boy! I rushed over to help the little girl to her feet and then lifted Gary off the slide. He roared and he screamed.

  ‘Bye-bye Mummy,’ he yelled. ‘Bye-bye.’

  I literally had to drag him away.

  ‘We’ll see you in a fortnight’s time,’ said
the crèche owner as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

  ‘Yes, indeed, thanks.’

  I can safely say I won’t be needing the tissues.

  CINDERELLA

  I blame Cinderella. She married a prince and lived happily ever after. How convenient. As a result lots of little girls grew up thinking think they would end up with a prince too. But in real life, of course, unless you’re Kate Middleton, this option is a non-runner. There are just not enough handsome princes to go around.

  Having said that, I think reading, and especially reading to children, is terribly important. But fairy tales can be misleading. Especially for girls. Cinderella definitely got my hopes up when I was younger and I did believe in happily ever after. But as an adult I lost a fancy shoe on at least a couple of nights out, and not only did a prince on white horse not show up and rescue me, it was hard enough trying to get a taxi to take me home!

  Stories for boys are more practical and their little heads aren’t filled with romantic notions. Take Bob the Builder for example. He his practical and very hard-working. Bob wears a hat and has a set of tools and no problem is every too big for him. He is such a positive role model too. No more than Barack Obama, yes, he can!

  Myself and my son, Gary, tend to meet Bob a lot. We live near a Spar shop which is full of Bob look-alikes every lunch-time, buying their rolls and wearing their workmen overalls. But we were even down the country the other day and Gary said hello to a Bob who was driving a tractor. Bob doesn’t wait around for somebody to give him a happy life. No way. He’s a down-to earth chap and somebody to aspire to.

  Fireman Sam is another fine fellow. He rescues people in need, and is always positive. My son spots Sam a lot up at the fire station in Donnybrook, and if he hears his siren on the street he gives the fire engine a wave. Postman Pat is another trouper. He’s always cheerful, rain hail or snow, and he’s in permanent good form. Even his cat is happy. I just think all these characters are great role models for little boys. When I was little I read Sleeping Beauty but I don’t think she was somebody to aspire to. In fact, looking back, she was a bit of a lay sod lying in bed all day. And ‘Beauty and the Beast’ was so misleading. In real life beasts don’t turn into handsome princess and neither do frogs. And anyway, even if a handsome prince did come along would he want a lazy freeloader who had spent all her life lying in bed waiting for him? I doubt it.

  No really, Sam, Bob and Pat are much more realistic creatures. Especially in this current climate. Sometimes I look at my friend’s daughter of the same age as my son, and hope she won’t be let down in life. Her mother recently bought her a pink and purple dress, a silver tiara, and a throne to sit in. The little girl told Gary that she might invite him over to her palace one day. Mind you, in his Bob-inspired yellow high viz jacket and his toy tools stuck in his belt, he might look very out of place.

  PLAY CENTRES FOR MEN

  All men should be locked up. For at least a couple of hours a week anyway. Preferably on a Saturday afternoon when their women are trying to do the essential shopping.

  When I read about a Manchester shopping centre offering crèche services for men, I thought it was simply a marvellous idea. My boyfriend is mad about trains and suddenly I imagined him whizzing around on Thomas the Tank with a balloon in one hand and a big sticky lollipop in the other. I melted at the thought of his happy face as he whizzed around in circles shouting ‘Choo-choo’, and wondered if they would have a funhouse big enough for him to fit into. Did they even have jigsaws suitable for aged 35 plus? But then I realised that this new play school wasn’t your normal run-of-the-mill one with teddies and bunnies and ball crawls, but more of a place of peace and tranquillity where long-suffering partners of shopaholics that ask endless unanswerable questions (ie are you sure I don’t look fat in this?) can retreat to and play electronic games or enjoy a neck massage by a professional masseur.

  Well, isn’t it about time somebody thought of something for the men to do while the women shopped? It’s not enough to put a ‘boyfriend’ chairs outside changing cubicles any more. Men look silly sitting in them, their legs and arms crossed defiantly and a look of pained boredom etched on their faces. Believe me I know a thing or two about these boyfriends/husbands who are dragged around stores on Saturday afternoons as I used to work as a manager in the Ladies wear section of a big department store. Men would wait outside the changing rooms in a coma-like status. I used to redirect them over to the homeware section to check out the duvets instead! And as for the men who used to spend hours in the ladies underwear department, sheepishly looking through rails upon rails of bras? Well, I never could understand it.

  I hope the crèche is a success and that the men are happy there. I wonder do they accept more mature men too? My dad is in his sixties and I would gladly lock him up rather than taking him shopping with me. The one time we did go shopping he told me everything was a ‘holy show’ on me and said that nearly everything made me fat. The shop assistant was so shocked I’m sure she too would have gladly bundled my dad into the nearest crèche and thrown away the key!

  FRUGAL MUMMY

  Money is tight. We all know that. The last thing we want to do is fritter it away needlessly. And that includes wasting money paying a charge for excess baggage at the airport on your hand luggage. When I read this week that coats with pockets have jumped in sales recently I wasn’t surprised. I have a coat with very deep pockets and also with inside pockets. I always wear it when I’m flying and I make sure every single pocket is bulging with various items of clothing. I combine it sometimes with my combat trousers with pockets all the way down the legs - very handy for carrying cans of Coke or apples for the journey!

  I consider myself an expert packer. Six years working as an air hostess means I can literally pack and unpack in about five minutes. In the summer it’s easy enough to pack. Bikinis, kaftans and flip flops take up hardly any space and I wouldn’t dream of packing anything as cumbersome as a beach towel – I always buy one as soon as I arrive at a holiday destination and leave it there. But winters are far trickier. I mean, you could put a pair of boots and a hardback book in a small carry-on suitcase and have room for nothing else. So you need to be clever about. Buy a kindle from Amazon on which you can store thousands of e-books and the slim device will fit nicely in your coat pocket. Wear your heaviest shoes or boots. Put on layers and layers of clothes. I usually wear about three t-shirts, three jumpers, a cardigan and a couple of coats, making me look like the Michelin man in the airport queue. But as soon as I’m on board I take off all the layers and stuff them in a plastic bag. I don’t carry any lotions or potions such as shampoo or conditioner which are heavy, and can easily be bought when you arrive at your foreign destination.

  Travelling with a baby is a challenge. Don’t pack nappies and wipes as they are heavy. Bring a couple of toys for the plane journey but don’t pack any. Make sure the baby is wearing his heaviest item of clothing, such as a winter coat.

  I often compare the check-in staff at the boarding gates to rottweilers. They stand there glaring at you, teeth bared, as they try and fine as many passengers as possible. Really, wouldn’t you just hate their job?

  I was caught out just the once. I was only sixteen, travelling abroad for the first time alone and I was fined a huge amount in Heathrow by British Airways. I handed over the only money I had and vowed they would never get me again. They haven’t. I would wear a turban if I had to and smuggle all my clothes into it, or I would wear a fake pregnancy belly and fill it with my underwear if I was completely desperate. It’s such an unfair system anyway. I mean, my two and half year old’s fare costs the same as a man of twenty stone. How long until they start weighing passengers themselves at check-in? Will people start dieting furiously days before take-off? Oh maybe it's best not to be giving the airlines ideas. I wouldn’t put anything past them!

  I do think crèches are wonderful. My son, Gary, uses them. They are very strict, though, on insisting that the person
who signs him in is the same person signing him out again. I wonder will this rule does this apply to the men too? If I don’t fancy taking mine back, can I sign out somebody else’s man instead? And while we’re on the subject of crèches for adults, what about the women? Aren’t we getting left out here? I think the Aviva stadium should build an adjoining crèche for wives girlfriends. It would do well during the rugby. I’d love it. Just give me Vogue, a pair of fluffy slippers, Rom Coms, lots of sweeties and I promise to be as good as gold.

  KINDERGARTEN

  My son is starting crèche and I am all excited. I literally cannot wait to wander around town without a buggy, without constantly looking for changing rooms in shopping centres and without having a little terror trying to pop unwanted items off the supermarket aisle into my basket, or demanding to have a go on the Bob the Builder machine beside the escalator.

  There will be no tears when I drop my son off to his new environment. Well, not on my part anyway. To be honest I’ve been feeling sorry for him recently as he doesn’t have anybody his own age to play with, and there’s a limit to how excited I can become about Peppa Pig or Fireman Sam while I’m also trying to work and keep the house in order!

  NO PLACE LIKE HOME

  We didn’t have a foreign summer holiday this year. We didn’t have one last summer either. In fact, our most recent foreign holiday was over a year and a half ago. But I don’t have any regrets about not leaving Ireland. I enjoyed this summer immensely. The weather suited me, and I never go anywhere without my sunglasses and my umbrella.