Author Archives: sarahfitzgerald1984

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About sarahfitzgerald1984

Hi there! My name is Sarah Fitzgerald. I'm a mother to a beautiful daughter and a wife. I've always loved writing and recently found the courage to start again. I'm nervous but excited and I hope I can create some interesting and thought-provoking posts here.

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A couple of weeks ago, John Paul and I finally got around to dropping in the enrolment forms for Alison for primary school, which she is due to start next year. We’ve spoken to lots of parents about their opinions of what school might be best, and based on this we have nearly decided which school would be suitable. I’m not telling, but needless to say, standards and class sizes are factors in this important decision. As long as Alison is happy, I don’t really mind. Her happiness is everything to me.

Enrolling Alison in primary school has brought back memories that I thought I’d long forgotten. I started school in September 1989 at the age of five. I obviously don’t remember this myself, but I know that my mother had to beg the principal to let me into the school. There was a ‘special class’ on site in prefabs, which would’ve been suitable for accessibility reasons but stood separate from the main school building. My mother wanted me to be integrated as much as possible and finally, after much coercion, the principal agreed that I could join Junior Infants, specifically Mrs. Dowling’s class.

Mrs Dowling was so kindhearted and soft that I couldn’t believe my luck. On my first day of school I sat beside a girl called Emma, who remained a close friend all through primary and secondary school. I was a novelty, but school was the first time that I felt any different from my peers. I had to be wheeled about in a buggy for my first year in primary school. Children would be told, both by teachers and parents that ‘Sarah is very delicate and walks differently from other people.’ Delicate, my hole. I was clumsy, but sturdy. Yes, I was easily knocked over, but I could pick myself up just as easily. After a while, it was more like ‘Get up off the floor Sarah, you look like a tool.’

Indeed, I don’t remember primary school as being one of the most dignified times of my life. I remember in Junior Infants there was a box of old trousers and underpants under the teacher’s desk, in case somebody had an accident. If ever there was an incentive not to soil yourself that was it. God only knew who had been wearing those pants beforehand.

As if being wobbly and misshapen wasn’t quite enough to separate me from the pack, I was awarded an electric typewriter, possibly a state-of-the-art machine at the time, that sounded like it was coughing every time a letter was pressed, and a machine gun every time the eraser was activated. Because my speech was seemingly unintelligible, the typewriter doubled up as a communication device. I think I ended up costing a fortune in ink! There were no laptops at the time, but there were Acorn Computers which needed lots of complicated codes to access. These were only available in the Resource room at first, but soon there was a computer per classroom.

It was in primary school that I started to develop a lazy work ethic, and I think being sternly corrected for my antics have left me with a phobia of being lazy or not reaching my potential. In third class, I told the substitute teacher that my parents had decided that I shouldn’t have to do homework because they were afraid that it would tire me out. I got away with playing computer games for a whole month because I acted as if I was so stupid in class that the sub evidently thought that there was no point in teaching me. Needless to say, that when my parents were confronted about my antics, they were so mortified that they couldn’t summon up a punishment severe enough. Actually, this is untrue; until the day she died, my mother would casually bring up this particular incident in order to frighten me into achieving my potential.

I also went through a delightful phase (that only ended towards the end of first year of secondary school) of wanting to write down everything by hand. I wanted to be like everyone else, and if my disability wasn’t enough to stop me getting homework, then at least I should be able to write with a lovely fountain pen just like my classmates. Problem was, of course, that teachers are not trained to read Ancient Greek. By the end of first year, I succumbed to using a laptop and computer for classwork, but only because it was a modern Windows 95 and not the ‘abomination’ with the illuminous green screen that had been donated by Dad’s work colleagues. I would have nightmares about pressing the wrong button and breaking it. Even now, my parents don’t believe me.

I wasn’t really allowed partake in mainstream PE, but I was given a gym mat in the corner where I could do my physio while the others played games. Hmmm, fun. Not. However, I did enjoy a few sessions of Irish dancing in my older years, and I was allowed on the trampoline a couple of times. Needless to say, however, I was not chosen for the basketball teams. As I got older, I was allowed to bring my tricycle into sports day at school and I would spend all day cycling around the town park, cheering on my friends.

Indeed, primary school wasn’t all ‘doom and gloom’ and I remember crying for days when I left sixth class. It was in primary school that I decided, with some conviction, that I wanted to be a writer. Primary school taught me that with equality comes responsibility, and that if I wanted to be respected and treated with dignity and credibility, I would have to prove that I was worthy of this. I also learned that being outside the ‘popular’ circle was not a bad thing, and I never felt pressured to be anyone but the needy social misfit that I was (am!)

And now, as my precious daughter grows older and nears her own primary school adventure, I hope that she makes her own memories that she can look back on with fondness. I hope that she won’t get teased in the yard for having ‘wobbly’ parents. Most of all, I hope she has fun. Though if she could find fun in activities that didn’t involve manipulating her teachers like her mother did, I’d be grateful.

The Sarah Fitzgerald Guide to Raising Toddlers

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I would like to reiterate that prior to having my beautiful daughter, I knew nothing about children. I didn’t know anything about pregnancy, childbirth (I now think this worked to my advantage) or caring for a newborn. In fact some evenings, when I tell my husband that I’m working or ‘studying’, my mind wanders and I somehow end up on Google looking up ridiculous things such as ‘normal three year old development’ and ‘how to encourage your toddler to read’. Yep, I’m a little crazy, but Ali didn’t come with a manual and I don’t always know what I’m doing. Do ye?

The best teacher, of course, has been Ali herself. Of course, it’s my job to teach her right from wrong and how to be a sensible, well-rounded person, but she has also taught me so much about the world around me and how to best respond to her needs. I’m not sure if any of the following skills can be applied beyond the privacy of our house, but for those of you with kids that are three or younger, you may/may not find the following advice useful:

*The following is copyright of yours truly and cannot be found on any internet site*

  • You will suddenly find yourself unashamedly fascinated by your child’s toileting behaviour. Pervy? A little, but unfortunately necessary. If you are lax it may result in a disgusting accident that I imagine my childless friends would have nightmares about. For parents of toddlers, it’s just another day at the office. My daughter won’t let me into the bathroom until she has done her business, but the conversation between her, and I standing patiently outside the door, usually goes like this:
    Me: What are you doing, wee or poo?
    Her: Wee
    Me: Did you wipe your bum?
    Her: I’m already dry.
    Me: WIPE YOUR BUM. I’m coming in to help.
    Her: Don’t look at my bum.

On a related note, the luxury of privacy is not afforded to me when I need to go for a piss.

Me: Can you wait outside please?
Her: Mummy, I love you.
Me: I know. I’ll be out in a sec.
Her: Wee or poo? Oh I hear a wee, good girl mummy!

On another related note, sniffing a stain to ascertain if it’s chocolate or poo. Without reservation.

  • Toddlers are particular. Sometimes Ali gets a notion that she can only drink out of a pink cup. She has to have a special pink teddy going to bed. And if you tell them to eat three more bites, they will only eat three more bites.
  • Toddlers don’t understand ‘Mummy’s tired/sore/too lazy to play with you’. Not only do they want you to play with them, they want you to become fully involved in their imaginative play. Now don’t get me wrong, kids are kids, but there is something degrading and plain wrong with crawling on your hands and knees around the garden and mewing like a cat/barking like a dog. What, don’t tell me I’m the only one that does that? Ye haven’t lived!
  • Young children tend to imitate what they see and hear. I was getting a little frustrated the other day and said to Ali, ‘Right, let’s swap places. I’m Ali, you’re mummy.’ Excited by this new game, Ali readily agreed. When ‘mummy’ asked ‘Ali’ to eat her dinner, I said ‘no, don’t like it,’ and pushed away the plate, and  ‘mummy’ responded by saying ‘right. No Jumping Jacks and no playschool any more’ and I just thought to myself,  ‘wow, I am so annoying.’
  • It’s against every rule in the book, but occasionally you will have to resort to bribery. Recently, I promised Ali a few Buttons when she ate all her dinner, and by God, the second the last morsel crossed her lips, she instantly asked for the Buttons. Sometimes, Ali can be disappointed. For example, just tonight I was encouraging her to put on her own PJs and hearing my hubby come into the house, I said, ‘I have a surprise for you’. she put her pyjamas on faster than lightening and her daddy came in, delighted to have made it home for bedtime. Ali looked at him and said ‘where’s the surprise?’ to which John Paul replied ‘I am the surprise’. Thinking we were joking, Ali smiled and said, ‘No, really.’ I felt the love. I know JP did too.
  • Toddlers/young children can be a little economical with the truth. A few months ago, I caught Ali drawing on the floor behind the couch in the sitting room. I of course hit the roof, but Ali said, ‘no mummy, it wasn’t me, it was my friend’. (Ali was holding the marker in question in her hand at the time, and her friend wasn’t in the house, at all). She also told an elaborate lie one evening about a cat who broke into the house and stole her good flowery jacket and carried it off to his family. Damn you, neighbour’s cat and your jacket-stealing tendencies.
  • Toddlers can also be very sensitive. Around the time of my mother’s anniversary, I was a bit teary and Ali discovered me crying in the kitchen. ‘Mummy, what’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘I miss my mummy’ I explained. ‘Oh, here’s a big hug and a magic kiss, and now you feel all better.’ Little hug. Silence. ‘Mummy, are you okay now?’ ‘Yes hon’. ‘Great, you’re Elsa, I’m Anna’. (on a bad day, I’m Olaf the snowman).

Ultimately, raising a toddler has been one of my most interesting and insightful experiences to date, and while I may not always get it right, we all have fun learning through our mistakes. And Alison has tremendous fun testing the boundaries. Well, they say kids learn when they’re enjoying themselves, right?

Alison has not only taught me how to be her mummy, but also how to be a better person. I’ve become more patient, more understanding, gentler (to Alison, anyway. JP may beg to differ). Most importantly of all, she gives me great hugs and superb writing material, so thanks hon. Love you! xxx

Why getting an English Degree was so absolutely Important

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I am very proud to say that I have a degree in English Studies from Trinity College Dublin. One of the most prestigious colleges in the world. This degree has become my trump card when telling people I don’t know about myself, especially with people who tend to dismiss me because (a) I’m blonde (b) I’m a woman and (c) I have a disability. I chose to do English because I was really good at it in school. I didn’t want to do computers or any course that was perceived as being ‘suitable’ or ‘useful’ for people with disabilities. (This is what my husband did instead of doing the courses he really wanted to do, primary teaching or accountancy). I was top of my English class, so it seemed like a logical move.

However, my choice to study English in College has been the subject of some very awkward conversations that usually go like this:

Randomer: So, what do you do?

Me: Well, I’m a PRO for a disability organisation. (Pause. Then wanting to sound intelligent, I say) But I also have an English Degree from Trinity.

Randomer: Wow, Trinity College. Well done you. You must be very intelligent.

Me: (bashfully) Oh I don’t know.

Randomer: (Impressed pause) That’s truly amazing. (Another pause, during which I can see a look of confusion creeping onto my companion’s face). So, what does that qualify you to do?

Me: Well, technically I’m a literary critic.

Randomer: A what?

Me: A literary critic. You know, like, I can read a book or a poem and tell you about the language, the intent of the author, and most importantly, if there is underlying sexual connotations. (Note to the uninitiated: there are always underlying sexual connotations. If you can’t see it, you are obviously not looking hard enough).

Randomer: Thank God you were born.

If you’re thinking that I should have been awarded a degree from the National College of Bullshit, you would be right. Because the English Studies course I read was amazing, a real ‘must-do’ for any lover of literature or aspiring writer. I was taught, and constantly surrounded by, geniuses who had written volumes of books and papers on topics such as Shakespeare, Post-Colonialism, Poetry, Irish Women writers and many more diverse and interesting topics. These were truly intelligent people and I felt like a dumbass. Here’s some examples of how this idiocy manifested itself during my college days:

  • My first tutorial: We were introduced to each other and then asked to name the last book we’d read. I panicked and, unable to lie, I dutifully revealed that the last book I’d read was Life of Pi. The lecturer proceeded to ask me what struck me about the book, to which I replied ‘The striking relationship between animal and human and the theme of interdependency’. Agreeing, she asked me to elaborate, to which I replied ‘you know, your man, and the tiger, on the boat together, not killing each other.’
  • We took a course called Old English. Old English is not like ‘hear ye’ stuff, it’s like ancient Greek, and we had to translate texts such as Beowolf (can’t remember the others, sorry). I spent hours translating them word by word, but it annoyed me when I read out my word-for-word translation while my classmate read out his/her translation, grammar and syntax perfect. I felt stupid until I discovered that my classmates had got their hands on the already translated version by Seamus Heaney (or some other translation). Then I felt ridiculously stupid.
  • We also read Chaucer and Marlowe, with their use of ‘u’ for ‘v’, ‘y’ for ‘I’, double Fs and all that stuff. But those texts were much easier than the dreaded Piers Plowman. I went to the lecture on Piers Plowman for clarification on the meaning of the book, only to hear something about sheep eating mud. Useful. Not.
  • It took me two years to figure out that rhetoric and discourse are just fancy-schmancy words for language. When someone spoke about post-colonial/feminist ‘discourse’, I would write in the margin, for the hundredth time that week, ‘look up “discourse”.’ Thankfully, I grasped these difficult concepts just before my final exams (and before writing a thesis on the subject of female discourse in Shakespeare’s plays).
  • In fact, the only time I failed an essay or exam was in second year, when I  thought I would  get away with using the same text for two questions, even though it specifically stated on the paper not to do this: ‘You must not substantially repeat material’. Well, according  to Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author, what matters most is what the reader interprets from the text, not what the author intended by writing it. I therefore read, ‘Go on. Use the same material for two questions. They’ll never notice. Plus you haven’t read any of the other texts so you don’t have much of a choice.’
  • I often bullshitted my way through tutorials using only the blurb on the back cover as a guide. Come on, where are you supposed to get time to read 6-8 novels a week in between one of your twelve one-hour lectures? The most memorable occasion was when I gave a presentation on H.G. Wells’ The Shape of Things to Come. I’d read the first 300 pages but didn’t have time (ah, elusive time) to read the ending. So I gave the presentation and I’d finished giving my general interpretations when the lecturer asked the class: ‘So who got to the end, apart from Sarah and I?’ Silence. ‘Okay Sarah, why don’t we enlighten them?’ ‘Of course! Er, why don’t you go first?’ Laughter. ‘Sarah, did you read the ending?’ ‘Er, not so much, no.’ Endings are apparently important in an apocalypse class. In my defence, I only had sixteen weeks to prepare for this presentation, in between these twelve one-hour lectures. Come on, I’m not Superwoman.

Laziness and fabrication aside, I’m glad I had the opportunity to go to Trinity and study English, which was taught some of the most intelligent and insightful academics in the field. And if nothing else, being able to say you have a degree from Trinity seems to be a significant achievement. Now that I’ve exposed my deepest secret, I’m off to hide my parchment somewhere before it is pried off me.

Feck off. It’s mine now. I’ve earned it.

Kind of. *This blog was inspired by a fellow classmate’s Facebook status today*

Equality for all

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It’s the night before the Marriage Referendum. I’ve read articles and stories from both sides and I’m ready, as the slogan urges us, to vote Yes for equality. But being who I am, I can’t turn off my thoughts about the word ‘equality’ and what it means in 2015. And here’s why.

I know that I use this blog to prattle on and on about the importance of disability rights. I am aware of how one-dimensional some of my posts may seem to those of you who know that I am more than my disability and am proud to know Sarah (this isn’t directed at any dads in particular by the way). But here’s the thing: despite being periodically frustrated by my limitations, I have embraced who I am. I know that I try to be understanding, accepting and tolerant of all others, simply because that’s how I expect to be treated, even though it is not always the case. I laugh off the insults, the condescension, the ignorance because at the end of the day, it shouldn’t really matter what people think of me. I am who I am, regardless of the labels people throw at me.

Over the last few months I have listened, watched and read arguments in favour of, and opposing same-sex marriage. You haven’t been able to avoid it unless you live under a rock; it was even on the front page of the Tullamore Tribune this week. Politicians, celebrities and ordinary citizens talking about which way they are voting in the Same-sex marriage referendum. People sharing their experiences of what it’s like to be gay in twenty-first century Ireland. It’s amazing how this referendum has forced people to face such a taboo subject head-on. To examine what it means for people living in shame of who they are. To explore people’s anxieties and deconstruct their misconceptions. To hear both sides argue their cases so passionately.

Ireland has progressed so much, people say. But allowing same-sex marriage won’t stop homophobia or hate crime. And although so much has been done to ensure that Ireland is becoming a more accepting and understanding society, I have to admit I still don’t feel it.

In the last two weeks two separate incidents involving people with disabilities made the headlines. The first was a man who was left on a train when the ramp was not provided to let him off the train. He was let off twenty minutes later, and he commented that never before had his disability made him feel so vulnerable. The second one was a woman who was denied access to a Dublin Bus because a buggy was occupying the wheelchair area. One wheelchair space for fifty-odd seats seems a bit discriminatory anyway. These are not isolated incidents, as I know only too well from working in the disability sector; everyone has a story to tell about public transport in Ireland.

How can Ireland be viewed as being progressive if there are still people in society who cannot even access basic services such as transport? Why are we still highlighting the same issues over and over again?

I thought I was being paranoid, so I decided to do some actual research. According to a report by the National Disability Authority in 2011 on attitudes towards people with disabilities, the number of people who believed that ‘it is society that disables people’ fell from 62% strongly agreeing and agreeing in 2006 to 57% in 2011. Not a significant drop, but a drop nonetheless. Furthermore, there was a decrease in the number of people who think that people with disabilities should be treated more favourably in certain circumstances (i.e. when their disabilities prevent them from doing things that a person without a disability could do) from 80% in 2006 to 68% in 2011.

It occurs to me as I read these statistics that the changes in the attitudes of those who partook in the study may be due to the onset of the recession. Since 2008, funding that was once earmarked for disability services has been restricted and the needs of people with disabilities have had to be prioritised. Every year disability organisations make pre-budget submissions, outlining how further cuts will have devastating consequences for their clients. When you have a disability, you become costly; a report launched by Inclusion Ireland in September 2014 estimates that the extra cost of disability is roughly €207 per week. That’s not even provided through our (means-tested) disability allowance. And because of this people with disabilities are more likely to live in poverty; many are caught in a welfare trap, afraid to move into employment in case they lose their secondary benefits such as medical cards and travel passes, and consequently they are either seen as spongers or dependent on the state.

How is this equality?

Tomorrow’s same-sex marriage referendum will come and go, and whatever the outcome, one thing is for certain: this referendum has given so many people a platform on which to relate their personal experiences, voice their opinions, and persuade the people around them of the merits and disadvantages of same-sex marriage. Giving the Irish people the opportunity to vote for same-sex marriage empowers the people and puts the potential of equality for same-sex couples in their hands.

Imagine, this time tomorrow, the right to marry your partner regardless of gender could be a reality.

Maybe, one day, equality for people with disabilities could be a given, too. But in order to achieve this, we need to be more vocal, more visible. We need to make sure that our voices are always heard. Not just around election time but every single day. Only when true equality exists should we fall silent.

PS Yes Equality!

Just a date

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It’s funny how the human mind can make associations, how a chill in the air or a familiar smell can wash over you and bring you back to a time and place that you thought you’d never have the good fortune/grave misfortune of experiencing again. For example, when I see my own breath fog up against the black sky for the first time every October, I know that Halloween is just around the corner, with Christmas nipping furiously at its heels. I know as I chomp on a contraband Easter egg after Alison has gone to bed at night that the slight red tinge in the sky is signalling the arrival of summer. I smell the barbecues, the freshly mown grass, the faint titter of laughter wafting gently through our windows.

And despite the improvement in the weather (well, normally. At the moment it is freeeeezing), I begin to feel cold, heavy, wary. Sometimes I feel sick with restlessness and anxiety as memories, good and bad, swoop in and strangle me until I can’t breathe. May used to be my favourite month of the year, and in many ways, it still is. For me, May signifies the beginning of the end of school and college. It reminds me of a photo that was taken of my brother and I when I was five, celebrating my brother’s ninth birthday on 18 May, just me and him, with an icecream log. Mum wasn’t there because she was recovering from her c-section; my sister had been born almost a fortnight beforehand, on 7 May 1989.

Exactly twenty years later mum closed her eyes for the last time.

I’m sure that it’s an absolute bitch for my sister to have to share her special day so selflessly. I’m sure that no-one wants to sit around moping on their birthday, getting all maudlin about the past. Birthdays should be happy days. Personally, though, I’ve always found birthdays to be a bit of an anti-climax (apart from my 21st when John Paul proposed in front of my family and friends. That was an awesome birthday), to the point where I would actually rather if the day came and went without being marked or acknowledged at all.

And for years I felt the same about my mum’s anniversary, which I try in vain to separate from my beloved sister’s birthday. Can the two be separated? It’s a struggle every year to experience such happiness and sadness at once. How have I managed it? Trying to pretend that the anniversary didn’t bother me, that’s how! Oh so it’s mum’s anniversary today? Well, she was dead yesterday and she’ll still be dead tomorrow, so what difference does a date make? It’s Laura’s birthday, let’s not forget that!

Trying to deny the sadness didn’t work for me in the long run, and last year five years of suppressed emotions hit me suddenly like a freight train. I had to take a considerable length of time off work to feel normal again. Note to the readers: don’t bottle up your emotions. They will come back when you least expect and bite you on the ass. Hard.

For the first couple of years after mum died, I went through the motions. For the first anniversary, I insisted on holding lunch in our house after the anniversary mass for all my relatives so that I didn’t have to face my emotions. It worked; I was so busy in the lead up to the event that I barely had time to think. The second anniversary, I stood beside the grave with my aunt, husband, sisters and brother, then proceeded to go out that night and get wasted (in the name of celebrating Laura’s birthday of course). By the third anniversary, I had an almost three month old baby with terrible reflux and I spent the whole day crying because I felt like an inadequate mother. I had been so hard on my mother and yet, she managed to raise four of us. At that stage, I was seriously debating whether I had it in me to raise one.

Yet somehow mum was there, guiding me. Some days, it just wasn’t enough. I needed to hear her voice. I longed for the opportunity to ridicule her childraising advice. I wanted her to tell me I was doing something wrong, nagging me to the point where I’d lose it and ban her from seeing her only grandchild. I needed her to remind me that I was not alone. And she did, in her own way. I managed to push past the fear and the preconceptions I had of myself, and do the very best for my child, the way my mum did for me.

This year, I will try to embrace the date and try not to suppress my emotions. I promise to allow myself to feel the dread, the sadness, the emptiness. I will grieve for what we lost, as well as what we could’ve had. Most importantly, I will remember that the 7 May is a day of happiness and celebration, and acknowledge that people enter and leave our lives in the strangest of ways. And even though this day is tough, simply because of a date on a calendar, I will be thankful for the fact that I had such a wonderful mother who gave us a sibling who is intelligent, beautiful and loving. (Laura, I can hear your head exploding from here).

For me personally, 7 May will always be a strong reminder that good things happen, and bad things happen, and after they do, all that is left are memories, both beautiful and terrifying.

Rest in peace Mum, and thank you for bringing Laura into all of our lives. I think of you and miss you every single day. And happy birthday sis, make sure you fill your special day with lots of wonderful memories. xxxx

The scourge of the ‘Mummy Wars’

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It is the greatest privilege in the world to be a mummy, though there are days when I ponder why God (the higher power I believe in) would allow such a fickle, clueless woman such as myself to have children. I’ve said before that prior to having my daughter Alison, I did not have the slightest clue what raising children involved. My hesitancy to have children was directly related to my complete lack of knowledge of what was involved. I was certain that it was hard work; I had many a friend bemoan to me about how they had become social pariahs since having children.

I knew also that there would be sacrifices when having children. I was told that I would always be broke because the cost of nappies and formula is ridiculous. Children also tend to outgrow their clothes and shoes quickly. Then there’s the cost of childcare, school and, eventually, college. I mean, why bother? All the little brats seem to do is sap all of your financial resources!

If I was totally unprepared for the role of care-giver, then nothing could have prepared me for the phenomenon of the judgemental mother and the power that other mothers had to make me feel shit. Some say that there is no right way to parent, there are no rules. This is a lie: there are too many rules and the goalposts are constantly shifting. You can’t do right for doing wrong when you are a mummy.

The question mummies seem to get wound up about the most is whether or not they should be out working. Because women are choosing to delay having children until their careers are established, many are reluctant to leave the workplace when junior arrives. It wasn’t too long ago in Ireland that women had to leave their jobs once they get married. Now, despite having the option of staying at work, many mothers struggle with the guilt of missing out on precious moments with their children. This tug-of-war is compounded by the ridiculous cost of childcare, which leads many to question whether they are doing the right thing.

Alas, are mothers ever doing the right thing? Why do we, as mothers, judge each other so harshly? Is it mainly to validate our own choices? And unless these choices are adversely harming our children, why do we feel the need to justify them?

It seems that you can’t win in the mum world. If you are a working mum, you are judged as being selfish, farming your children out to be minded by other people while you pursue your career. If you’re a stay-at-home mum, you should have time to keep your house spick-and-span, your children spotless and a nutritious meal cooked from scratch every evening. If you wear comfortable clothes, such as trackies, you obviously don’t give a shit about your appearance. But if you decide to dress up, or ‘do’ your hair and makeup, you have too much time on your hands, time that could be otherwise invested in raising your children.

A campaign was launched in the US in late 2013 called ‘End the Mommy Wars’, which encourages mothers to be proud of their own parenting choices and not to judge the choices of other mothers. As part of the campaign, mothers were photographed holding placards such as ‘I breastfeed’, ‘I formula-feed’, ‘I work outside the home’, ‘I’m a stay-at-home mom’. These women are trying to remind us that each mother has their own value system, and try to do what is best for their children based on this belief system. None of these choices are ‘wrong’ but they are intensely personal. The campaign aims to deconstruct the ridiculously high standards mothers set for themselves and others and instead to support each other and to understand that our way of parenting isn’t the only way.

Pressure on mothers is both external and internal. Every day, we are bombarded by images of the glamorous mother in the media; the mother who has time to get her hair and nails done; the mother who juggles five bags of shopping and two smallies with her mobile phone; the mother who runs her own business in between baking organic cookies with her kids. Let me tell you that the stay-at-home mum in her trackies who is constantly wiping puke out her hair and spends the day cleaning after a mini hurricane and hoping to God that the brown smudge on her jeans is chocolate and not poo (again) is equally as deserving of our respect.  Other mothers are increasingly yardsticks for us to measure ourselves against, and invariably we either don’t meet the invisible, ambiguous standards, or we feel superior to others, as if others’ shoddy parenting somehow justifies the choices we make for our own children.

I often wonder how strong this tug-of-war was between mothers in the ‘eighties. My mother isn’t around to regale me with such tales, but I’ve read accounts on the Internet and from this I’ve devised an unrealistic utopian lifestyle: mummies from the same neighbourhood befriending each other and inviting each other for coffee; in the absence of work, mothers needed to meet each other to stay sane. I remember my mum exercising her intellect with our neighbour Patricia, over Scrabble and cups of coffee. I remember Alice and Maureen popping in for coffee or wine, depending on what time of the day it was (although sometimes the time of day didn’t really matter !). Mum’s not here to answer my questions but I wonder did she feel the pressure I and other of my generation feel now. (Anyone who would care to admit that they’re of mum’s generation are welcome to discuss this in the comments section).

As a child, I remember us three girls wandering the streets of our estate on our bikes, sometimes till 10pm on a summer’s night, with no mobile phones to let the folks know that we were okay. And yet, despite our mum not being a helicopter parent, we kids turned out okay. I’m not sure I’d have the confidence to let Alison have the same kind of freedom. Every day it seems a child is abducted or goes missing. God forbid, if a child were to be abducted, who is at fault? Do we sympathise with parents, or judge them for their carelessness? I know I would probably judge, so what does that say about me?

I have spent three years of my life trying to be perceived as a capable and worthy mother for my little girl. I went on television to talk about how acutely aware I was of how people judged me for being a disabled mother, because I was worried that people would think that my daughter would be deprived in some way. But deep down, I don’t think I was trying to prove anything to anybody other than Alison. She’s the only person who will ever be able to say whether or not I am a good enough mummy for her. At the end of the day, every mother wants to do the best by their child and hell, it’s difficult enough pandering to the every need of your children without constantly wondering what the woman across the street thinks.

Enough.

I may not be the perfect mummy, but I will always strive to be the best I can be. I know this applies to every single mummy I know.

(Psst, you, yes you, well done. You’re doing a great job. Let’s hold each other up instead of tearing each other down).

[S1]

Safety in an unsafe world

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Today, the sad news broke that 24 year old Karen Buckley was found dead after a three day search. At the time of writing this blog, a man has been arrested for her murder. Karen’s disappearance and subsequent death has saddened everybody: people who are in their twenties who know only too well that they are not immune from her fate; parents who worry about their children who have left the nest and are living in all corners of the world; parents of younger children such as myself despair at how we have brought our children into a world that is so dangerous that we become suspicious of our neighbours and sometimes even those we love.

I was talking to my aunt about this degeneration of modern society, how the world has somehow descended into utter chaos, a world where nobody bats an eyelid at reading about murders, rape, kidnapping, muggings. ‘I find it very sad and disheartening that Ali is growing up in such a horrible world where people don’t give a crap about who they hurt. Drugs and violence everywhere. Things are so much different nowadays.’ My aunt, having one or two more years’ life experience behind her than I do, smiled and said, ‘We have seen the atrocities of Northern Ireland, the muggings and the drug wars have raged on for decades. The only difference is that you now have a child. And when you have a child, the world seems to be a much scarier place, because you suddenly have to protect your child from it.’ These words came to mind as I read the news this morning.

Twenty-four is so young. I try and cast my mind back to what I was like in my twenties. I remember with more than a pang of guilt how I arrogantly screened my mum’s calls because we had fallen out over something trivial, and I didn’t care if she was worried. As a mum now, I’ve no doubt that she was sick with worry. What if something had happened to you? she’d said angrily, her face white from sleepless nights. ‘But nothing did, I’m fine, would you calm the fuck down’ was how I responded to her ‘ridiculous outbursts’. Yeah, I’m really not nice when someone tells me what to do.

As a college student, I went out on the town at every opportunity. I remember being in Blackpool and singing the Irish national anthem at the top of my lungs outside the most British pub I could find (I strongly believe my speech impairment saved my life that night. Incidentally – true story- a man was seriously injured in a fight a couple of yards from the pub, a few hours later. We were so lucky. And so stupid). I remember going to Mojos in Mullingar with a friend and walking/getting a lift on her knee through Mullingar while blind drunk, wading through the throngs leaving the nightclubs. Both of us were probably wearing short skirts at the time. And yet, if we had been attacked, would we have been blamed because we were in short skirts? Or because we had disabilities? Would it have been our fault?

My dad follows this blog (often he’s the only one to leave comments here – hi dad *waves*) and he is probably furious at me for being so reckless and irresponsible. It’s a wonder how he gets any sleep. I’ve tucked my baby up in bed and although I will get up a few times during the night to check her (as you do), I’m reasonably confident she will be okay and not wander off anywhere. When she was younger, we baby-proofed the house, and we put everything sharp/dangerous out of reach and hid washing and dishwasher tablets. Now she is more independent, making friends and slowly moving away from the protective bubble wrap I envelop her in. I have to trust when I leave her with others, such as friends and family, that she will be safe. And I’ve always found that so difficult, but that’s more my problem than anyone else’s. It’s hard sometimes to believe that I’m the same person as that twenty-four year old I described above. How I’ve become so cynical, so untrusting, so guarded in everything I say and do (except for this blog of course).

I would like to end this blog entry with this thought. Karen Buckley (who I don’t know and have never met) did not ask for her fate, and neither did anybody else who may have experienced a similar fate. People, young and old, make mistakes, act foolishly, do things that they regret, but nobody deserves to be murdered or hurt for making these mistakes. There will probably never be a world where there will be no need to tell our children ‘Don’t trust strangers. Don’t walk alone or you will get hurt. Always tell somebody about your whereabouts.’ Whatever happened to Karen was not her fault, and we must remember that. Only by exonerating the victim of any responsibility can we ensure that we create a safer world for others, and especially our children.

Owning my limitations

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I have a confession, and anyone who knows me will appreciate how difficult it is for me to say these words. I think I may have some limitations. When they read this blog, my husband and my dad will probably read the italicised sentence a few times, just to make sure they read it correctly. I hate admitting I can’t do things. Quite frankly, failure makes me feel weak and pathetic, and instead of learning from these experiences and moving on, I persevere until I’m certain it can’t be done.

Alison has recently started nagging me to teach her how to use a skipping rope and hula hoop. As I have serious coordination issues, I can’t do either, and it makes me feel stupid. I fob her off with ‘someone else will teach you’, but sooner or later she will want a straight answer to these questions and just like that, I will be forced to once again accept my shortcomings while hating myself just a little inside.

There was, of course, a time when I was completely oblivious to what my limitations were. Here are some of these times. Rest assured that I am sitting here blushing behind the glow of my laptop screen.

  • I love writing, as in writing things down by hand. To feel the pen glide (or dart when you have involuntary movements) across the page is one of my guilty pleasures. Alas, my handwriting makes the doctor’s worst scribbles easily legible. As a child, I loved writing in notebooks and diaries (as all little girls do) and fought tirelessly with my parents because I couldn’t see why I couldn’t write like the other kids. I wrote all of my Leaving Cert notes by hand because that’s how I remember things best. My parents cruelly forced me to use a computer and laptop instead. Sure, doing so enabled me to go to university after doing my Leaving Cert, but that’s not the point. I will never admit they were right (pig-headed, moi)?
  • I spent about a month when I was eight trying to cycle a normal two-wheeled bike with stabilisers that Santa had brought me. It was only after about seven falls, countless bruises and a deep scrape that went from my thigh to my ankle that it dawned on me that this wasn’t going to work.
  • I tried both skipping and French skipping in the playground. These trials didn’t last long as I didn’t know how to jump. After a while, I gave up, but I wasn’t very happy about it.
  • I was never good at knitting or sewing, but I kick ass at weaving, as I discovered in second class. The teacher gave me a weaving loom, and with that I wove a scarf, a headband and a purse. However, when I took Home Economics in first year in school, I was given the task of making a collage while the other girls did their cross stitching and used the sewing machines. The experience scarred me to the extent that I can’t bring myself to make a collage with Ali.
  • I remember getting brochures in school about really cool summer camps that included activities such as skating, bungee jumping, Qazar, water fights, football, basketball and hurling. My parents would look at each other and my mother would say, in a suspiciously bright voice, ‘How would you like to go to a better summer camp, where you can even sleep over?’ This place was Clochan House, a respite centre for people with disabilities just like me. They couldn’t go skateboarding either, but once I overlooked the fact that I hadn’t gotten my own way, I enjoyed myself and even nabbed meself a husband! Best camp ever! (bet you’re sorry now, eh dad?)
  • I took guitar lessons in TY much to the amusement of my classmates. At the end of a three month course, I could play E minor. I’m ashamed to say that in my family, at least four of us can play the guitar. I am not one of them.
  • Much to my disappointment and relief, I will never be a slave to fashion. High heels and me = disaster. In an effort to look elegant I wore high –heeled shoes to my school grad. They came off within ten minutes as I fell over for the fiftieth time. I looked pissed, and I desperately wished I had been, but no.
  • I think my mum wet herself the day that I announced that I was going to try and get a weekend job in the Bridge House or something, as a waitress, to supplement my college income. ‘Er, your studies are far more important’, she insisted through her tittering. Hmmph.

There are times when having so many limitations can be a real pain in the ass, and it does get me down sometimes, especially when Alison asks me to skip, climb and run after her. But then I think, no, I’m not exactly like every other mum in the playground, why should I be? Time to focus on the positive:

        • I have a handsome husband and beautiful daughter
        • I can work, write and spend time with my family (although I’m still working on the balance)
        • I have a degree from Trinity College, where I learned to live independently
        • I love, and am grateful for, my life at the moment.

Don’t get me wrong, the way I am wired means that I’ll probably always be pushing the boundaries, trying to achieve the most unrealistic goals. If I achieve them, I will be delighted, and if I don’t, I’ll come to terms with that too.

But I won’t know until I try.

Writing is torture. Where am I going wrong?

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Six months ago, I had a sudden epiphany. I’m a PRO for a disability organisation, and I used to really enjoy writing. I wrote a play when I was sixteen, and studied English for four years in Trinity College. I think the notion to write more was inspired by the fact that two (awesome) people I went to college with, Louise O’Neill and Ken Mooney (check out their work, it’s fab) have both had their books published in the last two years. Feeling more than a pang of envy, I decide to knuckle down and take writing seriously. I have an English Degree, how hard can it be, right? And yet, every night, I sit at my laptop and somehow no work gets done.

I’ve decided I’m sick of this cycle of unproductivity and that it’s time to pin down where I’m going wrong, in the hope of having some miraculous breakthrough and becoming the best writer in the world. Let’s study my writing routine.

9.45pm: Little one’s in bed. Time to knuckle down and maybe finish the journalism assignment I started three months ago.

9.55pm: There’s some really good stuff on thejournal.ie. ‘Five ways to tell if you are truly Irish’ and ’20 expressions only  the Irish know about’ is riveting reading. I’m sure it will come in handy for my upcoming article/blog about International Women’s Day, which took place a week ago.

10.10pm: Okay, stop messing around now. Close off Internet Explorer  and open Microsoft Word. I write/freewrite for about ten minutes every night, to get the proverbial juices flowing. I look at what I wrote the night before and think, God, was I drunk or something? Type more random shit in the hope that the good stuff is yet to come.

10.35pm: The Eastenders theme tune thuds behind the closed kitchen door. Feeling smug because I don’t watch it any more. I just annoy my husband afterwards by asking a million questions about it before bedtime. I know, deep down, he doesn’t mind (much)

10.45pm: Do we have any chocolate? It might give me the energy to concentrate.

10.50pm: I have eaten too much chocolate. Think a toilet break may be in order. That way I can wash my face and regroup.

11.00pm: I seriously need to lie down, but I can’t. I will persevere, even if it kills me. I shall not be defeated. People with disabilities do ‘triumph over adversty’ best, right?

11.10pm: Look over the ramble I did an hour ago, in the hope that I can pull something out of it. Yes, there might be, if my audience skim-read, or are incredibly interested in my to-do list for the week.

11.20pm: Yay! I am actually doing my assignment now! I am in the zone, I am truly a genius. I am finally waking up. I will persevere until this assignment is done. I pulled all nighters in college and I’m still here. Sure I had a baby three years ago and was able to push through sleep deprivation and night feeds. And all I have to do is either finish my assignment, or write a blog: something, anything. It should be easy in comparison to what I’ve had to achieve in the past. (I take a moment to admire the many times I’ve triumphed over adversity. Gosh, I’m just great)

11.35pm: Is the dryer finished now? *checks* No. It’s okay though, it gives more time to do some work and finish things off. Time really is a gift, hidden in the least obvious of packages.

12.00am: Are the clothes dry now? *checks again*. Yup! Thank God. I am bloody exhausted. I can’t feel my arms, but that’s okay. I’m just shattered from all the great work I’ve been doing for the last two and a half hours. I’m pretty great, when I think about it. I wonder would they cast a genuine person with a disability in the cinematic depiction of my life story. If not, I think Cate Blanchett might be an adequate substitute. (ahem, I haven’t given this any thought, honest). Oh well, time for sleep. Ahhhh.

1.30am: *wakes in a sweaty panic* Aggghhh! My assignment is still overdue! I haven’t written anything at all! What was I doing for two and a half hours?!

JP: (beside me when I wake with a start and probably kick him): You okay? What’s wrong?

Me: (deciding my husband deals with enough crazy from me without adding to it) Er,  spasm…

So, people, this is my writing routine. Where am I going wrong? Answers on a postcard please.

When no words are coming, what do you do? Write a poem about it!

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No. Words. Are. Coming. Lately.

As I sit at my laptop, waiting for the words to come,

Thoughts crash together in my brain, becoming mangled and broken;

I try to stay calm and serene, but the right words elude me,

I feel they are watching me from a comfortable distance

Laughing and mocking me. I feel the frustration rising within.

It burns my soul and crushes my being. The words must come,

Without them I am nothing. I can say nothing, I can’t be defined

And if this is the case, can I really exist? So I persevere

Writing bullshit and nonsense and shaking my head,

This is not good enough. Who will this offend? Who can I impress?

Writing is not a choice, it’s a terrible infliction

That follows the victim forever, strangles them, drags them down.

And yet I can’t fight the urge to keep trying

To create something special, something small, in a world

Where the search for perfection threatens to destroy our humanity.

I take a deep breath and say,

I am not perfect; I am shattered and broken,

But I will continue to try, to search for the unattainable,

Because the search for the right words is as important as the finding,

And when they are found, there will be nothing more to say.