Category Archives: family

Grieving and healing

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‘They say time’s supposed to heal you, but I ain’t done much healing,’ are the lyrics that most struck me when I heard Adele’s new song ‘Hello’, for the first time. They certainly aptly describe how I feel about the fact that I, like so many other people across the country, didn’t manage to get tickets for her upcoming concerts in the O2 and in Belfast in spite of trying to phone Ticketmaster from 8.30am onwards on Friday 4th December (God loves a trier, right?) and reports later revealed that tickets had sold out within five minutes of going online. I won’t lie. I was gutted, but later made light of it when I offered my kidney in return for Adele tickets on Facebook (that offer’s still there, by the way. Message me here, on Facebook, on Twitter… whatever suits).

I’m just about over it now. If only real grief was so easy to deal with.

Today will be the seventh year I’ve marked mum’s birthday without her. Seven years. I’ve counted it up a few times because I still can’t believe she’s been dead for so long. She’s been dead for six and a half years. I haven’t had a proper conversation with her, touched her face or heard her voice in nearly seven years. Breaking it down like that fills me with panic, because when she first passed away I thought that I would be unable to function without her. I didn’t think I could. At the start, there were days when I would go to work in jeans and hoodies. There were other days when I couldn’t face going to work, or eating, or doing anything remotely productive. Then there were the constant thoughts. My last words to her were not ‘I love you’ or ‘Thank you’… (It annoys me that I can’t remember what they were, but I know they were nothing remarkable). If only I’d known how sick she was, I would’ve, could’ve, should’ve… What were her last thoughts, was she scared/happy/sad…? I was consumed by these pointless thoughts for nearly two years, and they nearly destroyed me. For my own wellbeing, I’ve learned to let them go.

In an attempt to ‘get my act together’, I reluctantly agreed after three months to go to the Parish Centre in Tullamore for counselling. Bless them, they were nice, but the lady I spoke to spent most of the time asking me about my disability. ‘Right, so, you feel guilty because you didn’t get to say goodbye to you mammy… here, tell me something, do you dress yourself in the morning? Aren’t you great?’ At the end of the session I lied and said that she had cured me of my grief and I didn’t need any more counselling sessions. In fairness, the bizarre experience did cheer me up for a while (purely because it was like it had happened in a parallel universe), but then I found myself facing my own feelings again, and I didn’t like that. So instead of dealing with them, or at least acknowledging that I had them, I decided it was my job to look after everyone else. (I genuinely love looking after others, don’t get me wrong). Is Laura okay? Is dad okay? Is Stephen okay? Is Alex okay? Is John Paul okay? Are the goldfish okay? I took on as much as I could in order to avoid coming face-to-face with the gut-wrenching pain that was losing my mother. This wasn’t their fault, and I was more than happy to do it, but my obsession with their well-being became a tad unhealthy to the point where I couldn’t decipher what I felt myself.

Even when it came to selling our family home, two years later, I remained steeled against falling into sentimentality. We had to sort through all of our mum’s stuff, which was the hardest thing I’ve ever done (you know, apart from losing those Adele tickets). I tried to be practical and sort everything into ‘valuable’ i.e. jewellery, handwritten books, her drawings and paintings, photos and ‘crap’ i.e. keyrings, pencilcases, receipts, empty notebooks. Us three girls did this together and Laura and Alex started reminiscing. ‘Aw, remember when mum wore this? And the day she bought that?’ I walked out on one particular occasion. I didn’t want to remember. As far as I was concerned, mum had been dead two years and grieving time was over. I had to move on with my life. I wasn’t going to get sucked into the past again. It was too painful. If I had to talk about mum in the past tense, it would mean that she was truly gone, and I wasn’t ready to acknowledge what that meant yet.

Fast-forward three years, to 2014. Much had changed. I had my own daughter. We lived in our own house. Everything was good, brilliant even, when suddenly I started to feel a grief so intense it felt like it was choking me. I’m not sure whether it was the passing of a family member in April 2014 that triggered my grief, but I felt the loss of my mother as strongly as the day she was buried. Every part of my body craved her, to see her, to hear her, to have her meet Alison. I felt lonely for her. I wanted to chat to her. This was nothing new, usually these feelings would pass as the days wore on. They didn’t this time; in fact they intensified. ‘To hell with this,’ I thought, annoyed, ‘I have a child to mind. Cop yourself on.’ But I couldn’t. Ignoring my grief wasn’t going to work, not this time. It got to a point where I could barely face getting out of bed. I forced myself to take time off work to recover and embrace these feelings. It was difficult but I learned so much about myself during this time. I learned that I tend to take on too much, that I become overwhelmed too easily, and that keeping things bottled up comes back to haunt you eventually. But equally I realised that I was stronger than I thought, that I had somehow managed to keep things together and that I would eventually regain the ability to do these things again once I took the time to take care of myself emotionally.

When I first read about the five stages of grief, I thought that the grieving process would be over once I’d entered and ‘completed’ each stage (the stages are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance). I imagined the ‘acceptance’ stage as some sort of finishing line where I would be able to think of my mother without bawling like an idiot. I thought that it would be like the ending of a Disney film – soppy and sentimental, but over. Some days I think I’ve conquered this grief, but in the last twenty-four hours I’ve heard ‘The Fairytale of New York’ twice and I’ve cried in public, twice. (Once was at an office party so hopefully my colleagues just thought I was pissed.) My mother once told me that ‘Fairytale’ was her favourite Christmas song, so every time I hear it my soul wells up with sadness that I try to suppress. Sometimes I can do it, other times I fail miserably.

I’m not an expert but from what I’ve experienced over the last six years, and from listening to others’ experiences of grief, it is a process that never ends. Although I’ve had to learn how to function without my mum, it doesn’t mean that I don’t miss her, and I still shed a tear or two at the most inappropriate times. And though it’s not convenient, it feels somehow liberating to acknowledge and embrace these feelings when they arise instead of trying to push them down all the time.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: mum, I love you. Some days I think of you more than others, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss you. I won’t be able to contain my grief all the time, but hey, I’m only human. All I can do is try my best to make you proud every day. Happy birthday. Big hugs. I’ll have a Knickerbocker Glory in your honour (I’ll do what I have to do).

 

PS Seriously lads – those Adele tickets – all prices considered. All unnecessary organs up for grabs.

A little bit of me.

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My dad and I almost came to blows yesterday. He loves my blogs, but thinks that many of them are too disability-focused. ‘It’s not all there is to you,’ he said  while I sat there with my lips pursed tightly. What kind of armchair disability activist would I be if I didn’t write about the discrimination facing people with disabilities on a daily basis? I asked defensively. After the urge to have an Ali-style tantrum (she’s three, I’m thirty-one) subsided, I decided to select a few random facts to divulge about myself to you, dear  reader. You can thank my dad.

  1. I’m a Taurean, so by nature I’m a teeny weeny bit stubborn. I was also born in 1984, the Chinese year of the Rat. Incidentally, my biggest fear in the whole world is rats. I mean I would rather die than come face-to-face with a rat. The scariest book I’ve ever read is 1984 by George Orwell solely because Winston was tortured into submission by rats. (Freaky coincidence, no?) Mum fuelled my irrational fear of rats: one day she was taking me off the school bus and a rat darted across the garden, making mum scoop me up in her arms and sprint to the front door. We sat on the kitchen table until 10pm that night, when mum had installed the sonar system. But I’ve never felt safe since.
  2. I’ve always loved reading and writing. I started writing poetry when I was eight and decided that it was a sensible career choice. I imagined myself on the side of a mountain somewhere, hair blowing wildly in all directions, jotting furiously in a notebook. When I was ten I won a poetry competition for a poem I wrote called ‘The Conceited Man.’ I’d come across the word ‘conceited’ while trawling through the dictionary one day (as you do) and knew I had to use it somewhere special. On the night that I collected the award I had to read the poem aloud to an audience of four hundred odd people, and it included the line ‘My dad’s a boaster’. Neither of my parents had heard the poem before and I could see them in the audience with gritted teeth as I recited it. It’s unlikely that anyone else understood me, but the folks heard every word. I spent the next ten years fobbing off people who asked for copies of it.
  3. On a related note, I can often get away with cursing under my breath because people can’t make out my speech. Except with my husband. That man hears  like a bat. Well, I can’t get away with it anymore, now that I’ve told you all. Whoopsie.
  4. When you think ‘woman’, you might be inclined to automatically think ‘shoe shopping’. Not the case with me, shoe shopping is my worst nightmare. I can’t wear heels, pumps, uggs, open-toe or strappy sandals. Which means that I either have to buy really crappy shoes from Tesco or clumpy granny shoes #sexy. I wore heels to my school grad and everyone thought I was wasted. If only I had been but being supervised by teachers doesn’t really scream ‘relaxing drinking time’ to me.
  5. I have a large brown mole on my left shin which is a birthmark and the only time I remember it’s there is when we go on a sun holiday and I have to cover it up. I may get it removed…that’s what I’ve been saying for the last ten years. But if I ever get abducted, this birthmark could help to identify me and save my life.
  6. I’ve spent the last couple of months trying to establish a writing career, but I’ve decided if it doesn’t work out I am going to dedicate my life furthering my research into the long-term benefits of chocolate. Well, someone’s gotta do it, and I’m more than willing to volunteer. I’m selfless like that, me. And if there are clinical trials involved, well… count me in. Seriously, my addiction to chocolate is embarrassing. If there’s not at least two bars of it in the press I begin to hyperventilate.
  7. I got away with not buttoning the two top buttons on my school shirt for six years. Still, I’d rather do a hundred buttons than face a single rat.
  8. I don’t wear or own makeup. I tell people it’s a coordination thing, but actually I’m just  too lazy. Showering is effort enough. And time is a precious commodity, my friend. I’m so busy doing my high-powered job (writing) that being clean is more important. Plus there’s no point in expensive makeup when there’s a three year old in the house – this lesson was sorely learned when she got her hands on my expensive perfumes. She smelt like she was going on the pull to the Bridge House.
  9. I don’t drink anymore. All it does it make me sleepy. I’ve never done anything remotely funny when drunk, so what’s the point?
  10. When I was ten and in fourth class, I told everyone that I was going for a major, life-changing operation that  would possibly cure my Cerebral Palsy. Bless them, my classmates believed me and went to impressive efforts to make me a box of goodies to make sure that I wouldn’t get bored in the hospital when I was recovering. Of course, it wasn’t strictly true: I was booked in for a botox injection that would loosen the muscles in my right calf, thus helping me to walk better. The injection was administered within ten minutes and I was discharged on the same day and back in school two days later with no crutches, no wheelchair and no casts, not even a measly scar. And then I wonder why people think I’m overdramatic.
  11. When I was in Transition Year I wrote a play called ‘Waiting for Anna’ which was performed by my fellow classmates. I went to an all-girls school, so some girls were cast in male roles. They were not impressed but they managed to be true to their characters. When rehearsal began, most didn’t realise I’d written it which led to some interesting insights into what they really thought of it. To be fair, they were gentle, but it was then that I realised that having a fragile ego as a writer would work to my disadvantage.
  12. Every time I chide my beautiful daughter for not eating her dinner, I have to remember that I only ate sausages and Micro Chips for dinner for until I was ten. I refused spag bol, lasagne, pizza, potatoes, veg, boiled rice, sauces of any description and stews (except mum’s sausage stew). Now I can’t eat any dinner without veg. So any mummies with fussy eaters out there, don’t despair: there is hope. Your child will be  fine.
  13. Two foods that I will never ever eat are eggs and tomato ketchup. The egg aversion was the result of a dodgy breakfast when we were on holidays in Galway when I was about five and Laura was a baby. Dad had cooked eggs and you could smell the sulphur down the street, and the memory of the smell is still potent. I’m not sure why I hate ketchup, but the smell of it turns my stomach. So much so that on my communion day, when the waitress unwittingly lobbed it onto my plate, I had a shit fit in the middle of the Bridge House and refused to eat my dinner unless the hotel would provide me with a fresh dinner on a fresh plate, and a clean set of cutlery. Also crisps, of any description: I think it’s the fat and the saltiness. My parents are so proud of me.
  14. Finally, I’ve had stitches put into my head twice. The first time was when I was swinging around in the playroom with my friend Aoife and one of us let go and I whacked my head off the window ledge. The second time I was fourteen and in Lourdes singing with a group of people when I fell over and whacked my head. I barely remember being bundled into  a wheelchair and being brought back to the hotel. My poor mother back in Ireland was half-angry, half-hysterical. Actually I’ve taken a lot of whacks to the head. My poor, damaged brain.

So yeah, that’s me, warts and all – the face behind this blog. Please don’t unfollow this blog and I promise I will send you chocolate (you know, if I haven’t eaten it first).

Enough is enough

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I’ve decided to take a career break from work. Six months, to be exact. It’s something that I’d been toying with for a while but couldn’t quite bring myself to do. I work in the area of Independent Living and I’m passionate about the rights of people with disabilities. I love working with my fellow leaders. But I also love writing, and I want to have more time with my daughter, so I’m off. And it is blooming scary, I tell you. Not only because I’m not bringing in a wage, but because I’ve always worked, it’s a crucial part of my identity.

That said, I will never regret all of the time I’m enjoying with my daughter, who is now three-and-a-half and great fun to be around. She’s energetic, imaginative, cheeky, and growing up all too fast. I admit that there was a time when depression clouded my time with Ali; everything seemed hard, an effort; I didn’t think that I was enough for her. But now that I feel more like my old bubbly self again I intend to enjoy every second with her.

Since Alison was born, I’d always been afraid that I’d never be good enough for her. I was overly conscious of how I was perceived as a parent with a disability. I worried that Ali would resent me for having her, that I would become a burden on her. I’m not at all afraid of this now. Today, Ali and I walked to the shop alone together for the first time, me in the wheelchair holding her hand, her on the inside of the path. It was the best feeling in the world, because heretofore I wouldn’t have trusted myself to do this. I am finally starting to see myself through my own eyes again, not through the eyes of others.

It’s amazing how we expect so much of ourselves, but we never step back to admire what we have done. We don’t have time, we are too busy, it’s not enough. For example, I told myself that I would be an established journalist with my first novel written by the time I was thirty. I wanted to be fit and able to walk everywhere unaided so that I could keep up with Ali. Since turning thirty, I’ve been bitterly disappointed in myself that I’ve done neither of these things. It was more than disappointment, it was pure disgust, self-abhorrence. It sounds dramatic, but for months I could barely look at myself in the mirror without this disappointment washing over me.

Recently, however, something changed. And for all the things I teach my daughter on a daily basis, a month ago, she taught me the most important lesson of all.

It was evening-time. Ali and I were watching telly and I said to her, ‘I love you,’ to which she replied, ‘ I love you too mummy’. I thought for a moment. Lately, I’d been feeling grossly inadequate: I’d been in too much pain to play football, too tired to play chasing and I’d say she would have baulked at the sight of another defrosted spag-bol, cooked in bulk about a week before. ‘Ali,’ I said, ‘how would you like a new mummy?’

Ali was intrigued. ‘A new mummy? Is she nice? Who is it?’

I replied, ‘I don’t know yet. But this mummy would be super cool and play football and basketball and chasing and tie up your hair and do your buttons and go for walks. Well, what do you think?’

Ali shook her head and looked at me, placing her small hand gently on my shoulder. ‘I don’t want a new mummy. I just want you.’

Pathetic that I should need such reassurance from a three year old, but little does she know that those four words, ‘I just want you’, have changed my life so dramatically. Physically, the aches and pains seem to have faded significantly. I have more energy and a new positive outlook on life. I feel I can do anything because this little person looks up to me. I just want you.

And being so happy has made me realise that my fantastic husband is still my best friend. He has been incredibly supportive and just wants to see me happy. He is more than happy to see me tapping away on the laptop, trying to come up with literary masterpieces. He never tells me that I am crazy or deluded, though I am probably both!

From an early age, we are encouraged to compete against each other. In school, we are encouraged to study hard in order to be the best. Even under-tens partake in handwriting competitions, poetry competitions and art competitions, we have sports competitions. When we are eighteen, we sit the most competitive exam invented, the Leaving Cert, in order to get high points, to be accepted into a course so that we can pursue a challenging career. We push ourselves to be the best employees, the best friends, the best partners, the best parents, often to the detriment of our physical and emotional health.

And now, I’m saying enough, or more specifically, that I believe that I am enough. I will still give my all to everything I do, but I won’t be beating myself up if I don’t succeed. Today, at least, I feel happy and free, and if my daughter and husband still love me in spite of the self-berating and toing and froing I’ve been doing over the last few years, then I must be doing something right.

Schooldays

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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

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.

A Marriage of Minds

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Today, I will celebrate my thirteenth Valentine’s Day with the same person I spent my first Valentine’s Day with. I was eighteen and a complete introvert. I wasn’t in the ‘popular’ group in school, I kept very much to myself, and the only makeup I had was a stick of concealer I’d bought when I was sixteen (in fact, I think I may still have it somewhere). As I smeared it on my face in anticipation of my first ever Valentine’s date, I remember thinking that it would probably be my last, and crying silently in front of the mirror.

Why? Because I had done the unthinkable.

I had fallen in love. This made me feel extremely vulnerable.

I now know that it’s not a bad thing to fall in love with someone, but that wasn’t part of my original plan. When I was sixteen, I had no intention in getting involved in a long term relationship. My dream was, and still is, to become a writer, only I had envisioned a grottier existence with yellowing paperwork and a couple of cats thrown in for good measure. (Think crazy cat lady from The Simpsons). This is what I was working towards. A relationship would be nice, but probably unlikely, given that I was the biggest nerd/introvert in the world, ever. And believe it or not, the words ‘disability’ and ‘sexy’ are not together in the thesaurus.

The story of how JP and I met is embarrassingly cliché, in the disability world at least. I met my husband in a place called Clochan House. For those of you who don’t know where that is, it’s an uber-cool holiday centre with swimming pools, in the centre of Tullamore. (It is not, er, an extension of Tullamore hospital). When I walked in, there he was, quite simply the most handsome thing I had ever seen. He had the widest blue eyes and the gentlest features. And he was approachable, chatty and good-humoured. I knew then, that even if we did not get together, that my life would never be the same.­

It took nearly two years for me to gather the courage to ask him out. We were on a group holiday in another, more aesthetically pleasing respite centre. Having never asked someone out before, I poured my heart out to him like a gobshite. It was something like you’d see in a Disney movie if, after the princess declared her love for her prince, her beloved said ‘okay, let’s give that a go and see what happens’. Sooo romantic. I never wanted the ground to open up and swallow me as much as I did that day. But I’m still glad that I didn’t say something like ‘I want to get off with you’ as one friend suggested (though I’m pretty sure that’s what he heard).

The months that followed were awkward. On our fourth date to the cinema, my mum dropped me off. I had hoped she would stay in the car and do her embarrassing wave and then it’d be over, but no. Instead she walked up to JP outside the cinema, no hellos, no ‘I’m Sarah’s mum’, and said, ‘If you ever touch one hair on my daughter’s head I will hunt you down like a dog and kill you’ and walked off. JP had been holding my hand and he quickly withdrew it. Then we sat in the cinema, side by side, not touching or talking. We didn’t have a date again until before Christmas 2002. This was October. We didn’t even talk over the phone at this stage; all communication was via text. One Saturday, the toe-rag had the balls to come over from Laois to Tullamore after cancelling yet another date, and he later confessed by text! ‘I’m sorry, I’m nervous’, he said. My reaction did nothing to calm these nerves!

After Christmas 2002, the casual relationship turned serious very quickly. It was the year of my Leaving Cert, and from the outside it may seem like the worst time for a teenager to be in a super-serious relationship, but for me, it couldn’t have come at a better time. I was studying relentlessly, killing myself physically and emotionally, and were it not for JP coming down every weekend, I would have ended up in a hospital. We made each other laugh, we liked the same music, we would talk long into the night/morning (sometimes these were like Ross/Rachel style conversations, the ‘where are we?’ conversations). He told me in these early days that he could see us getting married. The closeted cat-lady in me was looking for the nearest exit. In the strangest of twists, he’s the loving, dedicated partner while I’m the commitaphobe.

JP and I did a lot of growing up together. We went out a lot, as young ones do, especially when in the company of mutual friends. My favourite memory is our first holiday alone together to Blackpool, where we stayed in a B and B around the corner from the beach. Of course we totally underestimated how much money we’d need (plus the bank robbed us for each ATM transaction), meaning that we had £10 by the Monday of our holiday. And we weren’t going home till the Wednesday. To my disappointment, I found kicking the wall beside the ATM didn’t help.

So, let me tell you about my husband. JP is quite possibly the most generous guy I’ve ever met, not just financially but in terms in thoughtfulness too. I remember for our first Christmas together, he got me a white gold chain, a beanie teddy and a couple of CDs. I had got him a digital alarm clock. I don’t think he was impressed.

JP is (well, was) a serious Garth Brooks fan. ‘Unanswered Prayers’ is his favourite song. He always wanted to see GB live in Dublin. I’m sure the irony that this particular song is his favourite did not escape him in July 2014.

JP is anal about two things. Firstly, the ‘Coffee-sugar-tea’ containers must be in that order and facing out. Secondly, the dining chairs must be pushed in neatly when not in use. Sometimes, I deliberately leave them out or swap the containers around to mess with his head.

Working sometimes late hours means that JP sometime ends up watching crap on telly to unwind, such as ‘Judge Judy’ and ‘Road Wars’. Well, that’s his excuse for watching them anyway.

JP is the romantic one in the relationship, and I’m the one who laughs at any clichéd attempts at romance.

I am very thankful that John Paul Fitzgerald came into my life and I know how lucky I am to have someone to share all of life’s adventures with. While I’m particularly grateful that he has given us our beautiful daughter, I will always love him for who he is and will always admire him for his blunt honesty and his dedication to me, our marriage and our family.

Happy Valentine’s Day, honey. Sorry about the embarrassing blog but I couldn’t fit all of this into a card XXXXXX

Toddler TV Addict

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Ugh. Today did not go quite as planned. What I had planned was to spend the day writing brilliant masterpieces while Alison was at playschool. Unfortunately I realised that this wasn’t going to happen as I sat looking at the blinking cursor, two hours later. If I didn’t know better, I would swear it was mocking me.

My evening proved slightly more productive as I played with Ali in the garden, then it was off to the playroom for a game of princesses and puppies. However, I must confess that there are some evenings where I just slump on the couch and turn on Disney Junior. Even though I sit and watch the programmes with Ali, I still feel that I’m letting her down by not being a ‘hands-on, 24/7’ mammy. Yesterday was one such evening, and after I’d put her to bed, I could still hear the theme tune of ‘Sheriff Callie’s Wild West’ (Ali’s current favourite cartoon) coming from the sitting room.

When Ali was small, I was determined to make sure that she would rarely watch TV, particularly cartoons. I read to her, I did puppet shows, we always had books and toys strewn across the living room floor. My husband was amused by my mistrust of cartoons. I’m not a big telly fan, and I detested the notion of Ali being glued to the screen all day, when she could be learning through play.

And then the inevitable happened – my body went on strike. I was waking up every morning in extreme pain, every inch of me aching from the effort of getting on and off the floor, spending hours crawling around playing with Ali. One particular morning, I was in so much pain that I just plonked Ali in front of Peppa for a whole hour. She loved it but I felt like the worst mother in the world.

At just over two-and-a-half, Ali has outgrown Peppa Pig and now her favourite cartoons are Sofia the First, Doc McStuffins and Sheriff Callie’s Wild West. Many parents note that their children’s behaviour is worsened by watching television, but I’ve noticed the opposite with Ali. For example, Sofia the First, who becomes a Princess when her mother marries King Roland, is constantly learning that being a true princess is all about how you treat other people. Sofia’s kindness and compassion towards others is often contrasted with her stepsister Amber’s selfishness and superficiality. In one particular episode, she risks missing ‘The Princess Test’ to help old librarian Mrs Higgins home with her books. As it transpires, Mrs Higgins is Fauna the Fairy in disguise, who tested all the princesses’ generosity. Sofia also learns that it’s important to be loyal to your friends and to consider the feelings of others.

When Ali’s not twirling around like a lunatic, pretending to be a princess, she’s a Doctor just like her other idol, Doc McStuffins (doctor for stuffed animals and toys). Doc has a magic stethoscope that enables her to talk to her toys, which in turn helps her to diagnose her toys with illness such as ‘stickiosis’ ‘mysterypox’ and ‘novrooma-tosis’. Doc teaches us invaluable lessons (often through song), such as the importance of staying hydrated, washing our hands, brushing our teeth and staying safe in the sun. And the most important lesson of all – everyone gets hurt sometimes!

Ali’s favourite at the moment is definitely ‘Sheriff Callie’s Wild West’. Through Sheriff Callie and her companions, toddlers learn how to be nice and friendly (Callie is the Sheriff of ‘Nice and Friendly Corners’), that telling the truth is better than lying, that it’s okay to ask for help and that there is no need to be jealous of others, because each and every one of us is special and talented… in our own way. Deputy Sheriff Peck and his best friend Toby often need guidance from Callie; for example, Toby learns that pretending to be sick is not the best way to get attention in ‘Toby’s Untrue Achoo’ and Peck learns that appearances can be deceiving when Dr Wolf comes to visit him in ‘Peck’s Bent Beak’. Ultimately, the message is to be fair to others and to treat them as you would like to be treated.

I fear that this article illustrates that both my daughter and I are shameless telly addicts, and that indeed may be the truth. Yet I have to say that I really enjoy cuddling up on the couch with Ali, laughing with her and commenting on each programme. And every night, before Ali goes to bed, I sing her this little song, as sung to a teddy bear called Pickles by Doc McStuffins:

‘It doesn’t matter what you say or do,
It doesn’t matter if your eyes are brown or blue,
I’m gonna love you, because you’re you.’

I’m off to watch a little adult TV now, at last.
How boring.