Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother Page 7

  SINGLE MUMMIES AND THE CHURCH

  My grandmother was a single mum, just like me. My grandmother was forced to give her baby up for adoption. I kept mine. I saw my baby take his first step, I heard his utter his first word and I cried with joy the first time he shyly gave me a kiss. My grandmother’s son was sent away and she experienced none of those precious moments with him.

  It was a secret she took to the grave. My grandmother went onto have eight more children. She had a sad life. Her 10 and 11-year old children drowned on a family day out by the seaside. She developed cancer and passed away when my dad was twenty-one. I never met her. But I think about her all the time.

  I love being a single mum. My life is very different to my granny’s. Can you imagine me working in a laundry now, knowing that I was about to give my son Gary up for adoption? It’s almost unthinkable. Yet it’s not so long ago since that happened. The ‘fallen’ women went to live with the nuns and worked in the laundries until their hands bled. They breastfed their babies and then when the babies were weaned, the Catholic church arranged for the babies to be given, or should I say sold, to wealthy families in America or Canada.

  My uncle was sent to Canada. I found out about his existence only a few years ago. When he walked through the door of our family home it was a real shock. He was the image of my father. We’re very fond of each other. He is one of the nicest men I know. To think that my grandmother was banned from loving this gentle soul!

  It’s devastating to think of how single mothers were treated back in my grandmother’s day. It is so hypocritical that they were made to work in laundries while the babies’ fathers got off scot free.

  I never thought I’d be a single mother myself. After all, it’s not something you dream about when you’re little. You suppose you’re going to fall in love, get married and start a family with the man of your dreams. But that didn’t happen to me. Life isn’t a fairy tale. The prince doesn’t turn up on a white horse.

  But my little man has slotted nicely into my life. I used to be a real loner, spending weeks not talking to a single soul. If I were a man I surely would have toyed with the idea of becoming a monk. I’m a bit obsessed with silence and solitude. I even recently got my apartment soundproofed! I always used to think that being a mother wouldn’t suit me because I all I ever do it read, write and travel. How could you do that with a screaming baby? But Gary doesn’t make noise. He and I are completely comparable. He sleeps at least twelve hours a night and amuses himself when I’m working. He is my constant little companion. He will never be taken away. Or sold in the name of religion. Every day I count my blessings. I am extremely lucky to have my child, but my heart still breaks for my granny who had to kiss hers goodbye.

  MY INBOX

  How often are we being bombarded by ‘special offers’ in our inbox?

  Checking emails can be an expensive habit these days. In the last few months especially, my inbox is becoming clogged up with ‘great’ deals. Most are half-price deals which must be bought within 24 hours or else they’ll be gone forever.

  It’s like passing a shop window and seeing ‘LAST FEW DAYS’. You panic a bit and are afraid to walk past in case you’re missing the deal of the century.

  Most of the fantastic deals that I’ve been receiving recently are not for goods or services that I particularly need. Hot stone massages might sound lovely but they are not necessary. Neither is a night away in a country hotel with a free box of chocolates and a welcome glass of Prosecco on arrival. An Indian head massage sounds tempting but is it worth paying the babysitter so I can indulge? Hardly.

  Before the Internet, a good way to save money was to stay at home. If you weren’t out shopping you could not be tempted. Now you can be tempted 24 hours a day, even in bed wearing your pyjamas. Cyberspace has ensured that there is no longer a safe place for shopaholics.

  There was a time you couldn’t go shopping after 6 pm or indeed on a Sunday. Now you can shop even on Christmas Day. Shopping at irregular hours may be handy for time-poor folks, but rarely is shopping at 4.00 am a good idea. Especially if you’ve just come in from a night out and everything looks gorgeous, if a bit blurry, online.

  Some of the deals around can lure you in. But you can go a bit mad on it. Most deals are just a couple of clicks away, but if you were putting your hard-earned cash into a real human hand would you be so eager to sign up for that seaweed bath?

  The other thing I don’t like is being a ‘voucher’ customer. In other words you are not as important as a ‘regular’ customer. For example I bought a skin treatment in one of these discount deals last November. I rang the salon wishing to make an appointment before Christmas. The girl on the other phone sighed when she heard the word ‘voucher’ and said that due to phenomenal demand the voucher could not be used until January. Then when I phoned in January I was greeted with another sigh. I was told I could not make an appointment for Saturday as it was a peak time. So I was forced to make an appointment for a time that wasn’t really convenient to me at all. A bargain? Hmm. Not if I’m supposed to grateful to be fitted in somewhere, into a slot that a ‘normal’ customer doesn’t want. I don’t like being treated like I got the deal for free. I paid for it. I didn’t really want it but I gave in after you tempted me in my inbox. Now, please, a little respect.

  OUCH!

  I was bitten on my thigh the other day. It really hurt. Baby Gary even left teeth marks. He is now two and it’s true about all they say about the terrible twos. Where do I begin? My only child’s favourite word is ‘no!’ He just can’t say it enough. No matter what I ask the answer is ‘no’. Ever since he was born I’ve been looking forward to having cute little conversations with him. Hmm. Be careful what you wish for!

  He won’t eat either. Unless he’s ravenous, he will either throw his food at the wall or mash it into his hair. He shook his bottle of milk so hard the other day that it exploded over our nice new living-room carpet. And that’s not all. He has dismantled a CD player, fax machine and a mobile phone in a matter of weeks, and when he fights he plays dirty. I ended up with a black eye the other day when he head-butted me for no reason.

  The other night when I was half-asleep my toe hit off something hard in the bed. I yelled in fright and turned on the light. A rolling-pin was under the duvet. Yes a rolling pin and a weighing scales!

  I find all kinds of things now in places they’re not supposed to be. I discovered my favourite new lipstick down the loo, a set of house keys in the bath and Gary ’s wellies in the washing machine. I’ve found Bob the Builder in the microwave and Peppa Pig in the oven. Gary has tried to murder all of his toys one by one.

  The naughty step doesn’t work. Well, not for me anyway. I know other parents sing the praises of the naughty step and it certainly seems to work for Supernanny. But my son finds the naughty step great fun. He sits there and hums away to himself. He thinks it’s his special place and he’s very happy there.

  The only punishment that works is when I firmly say, ‘No cake’. He doesn’t like that at all. Gary adores cake and when he’s good he gets a piece and when he’s bold he’s told ‘No cake’.

  Of course my two-year-old terror does have a softer side too. He tries to help me sometimes by putting on his coat himself, fetching his own nappy out of the packet, and tidying away his belongings before going to bed. He’ll occasionally rest his head on my lap, or else he’ll hug me and say ‘mama’ which of course is music to my ears.

  He has me wrapped around his little finger and he knows it. On the one occasion when I lost my temper and shouted at him he threw his head back and roared with laughter. I suddenly forgot why I was angry.

  What I’ve learned is that there are no hard and fast rules for raising children as they are all different. I remember as a kid, my neighbour’s mum always used to threaten him with ‘wait till your dad comes home’. I used to wonder why she always said that. Surely it should have been a good thing to look forward to your father coming home? I remember
another child on our road being constantly locked in her room. She became extremely disruptive and as a teen gave her parents plenty of grief.

  I don’t know how long the ‘No cake’ line will work. I doubt I can keep that up right through his teens when he wants to go to discos and stay out late. But for now it’s a million times more effective than time-out on a step.

  MISS RIGHT, ARE YOU OUT THERE?

  I am looking for Miss Right. And it’s not easy. Like most working mothers I’m fairly obsessed with childcare. Currently the search is on for our third au-pair. Gary is two and we’ve had two great live-in minders already. I was hoping to strike third time lucky but I have to say it seems a bit trickier this time around. There is no shortage of applications for the job, of course. If anything, I am worn out reading through all the CVs. But I am amazed at the amount of candidates who don’t read ads properly. I quite clearly stress that I am looking for a female. So why do I get so many applications from males?

  One man rang the other day. I sighed when I heard his voice. After all, it was the third man to phone in the space of a few hours. It didn’t help that it was Valentine’s Day either.

  ‘I’m phoning about the ad,’ he said.

  ‘I see,’ I answered. I was about to tell him that I was only looking for females when he abruptly asked, ‘What age are you?’

  Well, I thought, that was a bit cheeky of him. What business was it of his anyway?

  I paused a moment, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he continued. ‘Where are you from? When can you move in? Do you like children?’

  ‘Listen, here, I said firmly. ‘I’m from Dublin and I love children but I’m not looking to move in with anybody. I’ve my own house and I’m looking for somebody to mind my son.’

  ‘Oh. I see. So you don’t want to move in then?’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t think you read my ad properly.’

  ‘You mean, you’re looking for an au-pair too? Okay, sorry about that.’

  ‘No worries. Good luck with your search.’

  He wished me luck with my search too. The Lord knows I needed it. I’ve been looking for about three weeks now. It’s worse than dating. At least on a date, if you get on well with somebody, you arrange to go on another date. Interviewing an au-pair however is a lot more stressful. I you like them you expect them to move in right away. There’s no playing hard to get or anything like that. They have to become part of the family immediately. Talk about pressure!

  I’ve held a few interviews. One girl came armed with a list of questions. What was the time off? How much was the pay? Did she have wireless broadband in her room? She didn’t even ask my son’s name. Clearly she had no interest in children whatsoever.

  I met a couple of other girls. Nobody was quite right. I believe in trusting your instincts. I believe that when you meet the right person you just know, no matter what their CV is like.

  Finally a friendly Irish voice answered my ad. The girl was well-spoken and I was very impressed with her childcare experience. I offered her the job and she arrived two days later at my door with her suitcase. I showed her to her room and then asked her if she’d like a cup of tea. She said she couldn’t as she had to go out.

  ‘Go out where?’ I asked, astonished.

  ‘I have an interview,’ she said. ‘I have job interviews in Dublin all week so I thought I’d stay here and then I’ll let you know at the end of the week which job I decide to take.’

  I actually wondered if she was joking but her face was deadly serious. I couldn’t remember anything in my ad about running a free hotel. I told her that it wasn’t possible for her to stay with me unless she was working.

  ‘Oh. Well, there must have been a misunderstanding,’ she said, looking baffled.

  ‘A misunderstanding?’ Ah come, on!

  THE RICH ARE THE NEW POOR

  Everybody is cutting back. And I mean everyone. Even the rich are cutting back. Mind you, rich people never spent much anyway. That’s how they got their money in the first place and how they tend to keep it. I remember once doing a charter flight to an exclusive ski resort in the French Alps and the passengers being outraged about having to pay for the champagne. Almost all of them decided to opt for the wine instead for which there was no charge. Now I’m sure they’d smuggle in their own wine if they could. From Lidl.

  Last year at the races, the girl at the champagne stand told me she was struggling to sell bottles. A few years ago the ladies in the fancy hats wouldn’t have been seen dead drinking anything else. It’s a real sign of the times when the ladies who lunch now order sparkling wine and get the bus home afterwards.

  Most people don’t mind tightening their belts. Anybody with a shred of sense shops around for a good deal these days. I used to feel a tad sorry people who made lists of what they wanted to buy, and who fussed at the top of the check-out queue with cut- out coupons. I wasn’t one of those people holding up the rest of the line. God, no, I was the same as those care-free folk who threw things in the trolley without looking at the price as long as they looked nice and tasty. I was prepared to pay a lot more for olives if there were in a plastic container rather than in a tin. But parenthood changed all that. I know now the price of a pint of milk and a loaf of bread. And I couldn’t tell you the price of a cocktail in any Dublin bar.

  Mind you, most people don’t scrimp and save when it comes to their kiddies. They can cut back on their own luxuries but it seems very unfair to take the recession out in kids. After all, they didn’t live it up for the last few years, or think that an apartment in Bulgaria was a wonderful investment, or put their name down on a waiting list for a ‘must-have’ designer bag. And sure, what’s the point in having kids if you can’t give them stuff? It’s so lovely to see the joy on their faces when they get something new. Even if that joy lasts no longer than ten seconds. And they’re then yelling for something else.

  Baby Gary ’s bedroom is like a mini Disneyworld . It’s full of planes, trains, tents and automobiles. Sometimes I can’t find him in there amidst all the stuff. I could change his clothes hourly his wardrobe is so jammed with clothes.

  I cannot pass a baby shop without buying something little like a pair of mittens with a teddy on them. Time is running out though. You see, Gary is almost two and clothes for older boys aren’t my cup of tea really. The teddies, puppies and bunnies are soon to be replaced by ugly JCBs and tractors. I went looking for pyjamas for him recently and all of them had scary monsters on the front of them. Why? Do they want kids to have nightmares?

  Anyway, as a shopaholic, I can’t possibly cut back on shopping for my child. But I can cut back in other ways. Or can I? Gary’s hair had got very long recently and was in his eyes. I thought I’d cut it myself instead of going to the barber. Big mistake. Gary now has a pudding bowl cut. And there’s a bit of unflattering zig zagging going on with the fringe. Yes it’s the same awful hairdo that we never forgave our own parents for giving us back in the day. So sorry, my son. It’ll never happen again.

  THE SLEEP EXPERT

  I’d run away with him,’ well-meaning friends say about my son Gary.

  Well, why don’t you? I think. Why don’t you run away with him for a few days and then come back when I’m feeling nicely rested? Of course my friends think Gary is super cute. He greets them with a big toothy infectious smile. He’s always clean and well-dressed, fed and changed when they call around. They see him at his best. They’re not around at bedtime when he becomes an absolute rascal and protests much louder than can possibly be good for a toddler’s vocal cords. They may think they’d like to run away with him but I could safely say they wouldn’t run far.

  Baby Gary just got a new bed. He’s almost two so I thought it was high time he had a bed of his own. The cot was put away safely into storage.

  Gary seemed pleased as punch in his new bed. He was so proud of the Thomas the Tank Engine duvet and pillow and got straight into the bed. The only problem was he wouldn�
��t stay in it. I started to miss the cot. At least with the cot, you could put him in it knowing he couldn’t get out. Now he has free reign to roam at his leisure. And I have precious little peace.

  It has taken time and patience to get Gary to stay in his bed at night. It wasn’t as simple as putting him down, reading a little teddy story and switching off the light. No, I had to pretend I was going to sleep too. I’d lie in the bed humming Hush a bye baby (actually, it’s the only lullaby I know) and then try and sneak out of the room without him noticing. The problem was that he always did notice. Then he’d come barging into my room when I was trying to watch Vincent Browne and try and get me to do a jigsaw with him. At midnight? This couldn’t go on, I thought. I mean who on earth has their children still up at that time of night? You’d go insane keeping that up.

  Gary, like myself, is a bit of a night owl. It’s near on impossible trying to rouse him in the mornings, but at night he comes alive. I heard a sleep expert on the radio the other day. My ears pricked up. The words ‘baby’ and ‘sleep’ uttered together are music to my ears. I listened carefully. The expert advised that whenever your toddler wakes up and gets out of bed you calmly pick him up and put him down again until he eventually settles down. It doesn’t matter if you have to do it 300 times, she said. What? I hoped she was joking. Who has that type of patience? But I tried it anyway. It took eight attempts to put him down. At first he seemed to think it was a game. Baby Gary was laughing. I certainly wasn’t. The second night was a bit better. It only took three attempts. Then last night he went straight down. Result.