Creating a positive body image for our toddler daughters

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What do our children see when they look in the mirror? How can we as parents ensure that they like what they see?

Anorexia and bulimia, disorders which are most associated with teenagers, are now being diagnosed in children as young as five. Therefore, it is crucial that we as parents encourage our children to love themselves and to define themselves by who they are and not how they look.

 

Being a parent in twenty-first century Ireland seems to be so much more difficult than it was twenty years ago. The media has become much more influential, with young children being exposed to thousands of advertisements relating to body image. However, it is all too easy to use the media as a scapegoat for the rise in eating disorders in young children. If we as parents want our children to develop a positive body image, we must ensure our children know how to love themselves.

My three year old daughter has been defined by her weight and her appearance from the moment she was born. At birth, Alison was 8lbs 4oz, ‘a fine weight’, and her skin was blemish- and eczema free. In the absence of a personality, this is how she was described. From about six months onwards, a phenomenon that psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan refers to as ‘The Mirror Stage’, Alison began to associate her reflection with herself. Henceforth, her appearance became an important part of her identity. She has been told by many people, including us her parents, that she is beautiful. Consequently, when Alison stands in front of the mirror, she likes what she sees.

Furthermore, Alison’s obsession with Disney princesses, especially the heroines of Frozen, Elsa and Anna, has greatly moulded her perception of what defines beauty. When she twirls around in Elsa’s trademark dress, her imagination allows her to become Elsa, Queen of Arrandale with flawless skin, perfectly groomed hair and ridiculously petite physique. Disney is renowned for their formulaic composition of the stereotypical princess, and despite the rise of feminism, Disney princesses continue to equate beauty with being painfully thin and blemish free.

Although USA Today reported in September 2013 that it is the mother who has the biggest influence over their daughters’ body image, responsibility for the development of positive body images lies with both parents. According to an article by Margarita Tartakovsky entitled ‘Dads, Daughters and Body Image’, daughters who have healthy relationships with their fathers ‘tend to be more self-reliant, self-confident […] and less likely to develop eating disorders’. One advantage of having mothers in the workplace is that fathers are spending more one-on-one time with their children. Tartakovsky recommends that fathers use this time to play with their young children, thus boosting their self-esteem, as well as teaching them to question the unrealistic body images presented to them by the media.

As a mother, my priority is to raise a daughter who is rounded, and who learns to love herself as a person, not just in terms of her appearance.  Sadly, not every mother shares my view. ‘Toddlers and Tiaras’ is a toddler beauty pageant show in the US, in which pushy mothers shamelessly dress up their daughters in over-the-top costumes, apply makeup and fake tan and train them to compete with other toddlers for a prize. Psychologist  Dr Allan Schwartz has criticised the show, saying that such shows ‘reinforce negative female body issues that result in eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia [among children].’ In addition, these pageants serve to sexualise our toddlers, which is unacceptable, argues Schwartz.

Thankfully, it seems that Ireland is not ready for toddler beauty pageants. Voicing her opinion in response to the cancellation of toddler beauty pageants in Belfast and Cork earlier this year, Minister for Children, Frances Fitzgerald agrees that the sanctity of childhood needs to be protected by the State. In March 2014, the Seanad unanimously passed a motion to ban all child beauty pageants in Ireland. Included in this motion was an appreciation of ‘the difficulties and pressures faced by children and parents as the distinct space between childhood and adulthood becomes increasingly blurred through media, advertising and popular culture’ as well as a belief ‘that every effort must be made to protect children and childhood against sexualisation’. While Ireland may not be ready to embrace the absurdity that is the toddler beauty pageant, it cannot be denied that we have become a society obsessed by external beauty, and if we fail to challenge this,  we run the risk of our children developing eating disorders in later life.

Ultimately, our children are not princes and princesses. They are unique individuals, who need to be allowed to explore who they are, both inside and out. Here’s how we as parents can promote the development of a positive body image, according to Margarita Tartakovsky and Elizabeth Ward, who is a dietician in the US:

  • Be a good role model: refrain from saying things such as ‘I need to lose weight’ in front of your toddlers, and do not openly obsess about your toddler’s weight
  • Encourage a healthy diet;
  • Limit the amount of screen time. Discuss advertisements’ and programmes’ treatment of body image openly and honestly, and point out unrealistic portrayals of body image;
  • Teach your child that everyone is unique, including in their appearance;
  • Spend time playing with your child, which will boost their self-esteem. Exercise releases endorphins which promotes happiness.
  • Focus on other attributes and talents other than appearance.

National Eating Disorders Awareness Week runs from 23 February – 1 March 2015. For more information on eating disorders in children, visit www.bodywhys.ie.

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

Happy birthday, dear Ali!

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My daughter and my proudest achievement, Alison, turned three years old at 11.52am today. It feels weird to be typing that sentence for several reasons. Firstly because up until I had Alison, I was on a mission to prove that I  was severely allergic to small children. I mean, they were cute and all, but I would have bawked at the idea of changing nappies or mopping up vomit. I can’t face cleaning my own. Secondly, because three years of my daughter’s life have passed by so quickly, and although I am delighted to be rid of the nightmares that were colic and reflux (aka, the Spawn of the Exorcist), I know that all I have now are memories, good and bad. Thirdly, because I want to freeze her time right now. I want to always remember her as she is, right now.

Alison Mary is now three. We named her Alison after one of mum’s favourite singers, Alison Krauss, because mum had died in 2009 and I didn’t particularly want to call her Una, plus we liked the name. Depending on what mood we’re in, we call her Alison or Ali. Alison is freakishly tall, and there’s no doubt that she will be taller than me by the time she’s nine. Her hair is grand when it’s washed but turns into a  mat of knots within 48 hours. Cue detangler spray and a lot of cursing from whichever parent has pulled the short straw  to comb out said mat.

Ali is intelligent. Well, I think so, so it must be true. She said ‘hi’ at eight weeks, and could count to five at sixteen months. She knows most nursery rhymes, and she also knows that she can get around daddy easier than mummy. She can count to ten in Irish now, thanks to playschool. She can spell ‘Tesco’, and knows daddy works there. I don’t know much about kids but I do think this is amazing.

Alison is currently a ‘Frozen’ fanatic, and her note-perfect rendition of ‘Let it Go’, complete with actions is highly entertaining. She loves singing and dancing, although I find the bum-wiggling a little disturbing. She also loves costumes (we have a future actress on our hands, perhaps?) , and would be equally happy dressing up as Elsa or Bob the Builder. Ever the diva, Alison loves being rescued from burning buildings (aka overturned toy boxes); the trouble is once you rescue her once, you have to rescue her ten thousand times.  Sigh.

I could describe what it is about Ali that I love so much until I’ve bored myself, but instead I’ll let the following anecdotes give you a better insight into her world.

1. Ali accidently walked in on her daddy while he was using the loo the other day. Next time she went to the toilet, she pulled down her pants and stood beside the toilet.

2. Ali loves sucking her thumb. And the more you tell her not to, the more she does it.

3. Ali doesn’t go to sleep at night until she prays for every single person she knows. Including someone called cucumber. We have no sodding idea who that is. When we ask her, she just smiles. I’m always a little nervous at this point, waiting for somebody to hop out of the wardrobe.

  1. Ali loves teddy bear picnics, at which she is always the guest of honour. She probably sees a picnic fit for a queen; what I see is a pile of toys. ‘Surprise!’ she yells, delighted with herself.
  2. Ali is fascinated with eyebrows and their texture. She loves rubbing eyebrows, and if she rubs your eyebrows, it means she likes you!

I could go on, but don’t worry, I won’t. What I’m trying to illustrate here is that Ali is very much her own person, and each day I fall more helplessly in love with her. I am so grateful to have the opportunity to be her mum. She is so loving, patient (of me), understanding and kind that I sometimes wonder who is the mummy, her or me? Honestly, I think I need her more than she needs me.

So, happy birthday to a truly remarkable child and the best daughter any mother could possibly dream of. I promise to love you and be thankful for you every day, because

Baby, now that I’ve found you, I won’t let you go,

I’ve built my word around you, I need you so,

Baby even though,

You don’t need me, you don’t need me, oh no. (Alison Krauss)

Thank you for bringing so much happiness into all of our lives xxxx

Just take it easy…!

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I’ve been sitting here for the last half hour staring blankly at my laptop, opening website after website, reading dodgy articles on thejournal.ie. That’s not why I sat down. I sat down to finish off a journalism assignment that I started two months ago. This sounds like I’ve been dragging my heels, procrastinating this assignment. I have not. In fact, I have researched four thoroughly different articles, all half-written, because I couldn’t decide which one I wanted to write more. Don’t get me wrong: this information will undoubtedly come in handy on a later date. But this article was going to be amazing. I mean award-winning amazing. That’s not quite what I see when I read it back. I’m now afraid to open it in case I feel an uncontrollable urge to delete the whole lot (again). I’m a relentless perfectionist to the point of neuroticism: in other words, I think I am losing my sanity.

The first half of my life was dominated by people pushing me to achieve my potential. I’m not saying that this is a bad thing at all: if it wasn’t for these people (my parents, teachers, Occupational, physio and speech therapists, etc), there is no way that I would be sitting here in my own house writing this blog. Somewhere along the way, I took over, setting ridiculous standards for myself. I wrote a play in Transition Year and later helped to produce it when it was staged by my classmates, some of whom were less than thrilled when they landed male roles (it was an all-girls school). It took the best part of a month to recover from  the exhaustion and my mental health was in tatters. Did I take it easy that summer? Nah! I instead got a summer job with the Tullamore Tribune, where I worked until two weeks before fifth year started, putting aside the money for a holiday in a feckin respite centre in Roscommon (not Ibiza) a year later. I know what you’re thinking. I’m wild. Woo! Then fifth year saw me abandon all forms of human contact as I threw myself into studying for the Leaving Cert. Worried by the prospect of ending up permanently unemployed, I spent eight hours a night (4-12) studying in Fifth Year, much to the despair of my broken-hearted parents who were actually expecting me to collapse dead on the floor with exhaustion. I have  to do this, I would say to myself. I have to prove to everyone what I am capable of. I will not be defined by my disability.

Somehow, I managed to dodge a prolonged stay in a facility with padded walls and men in little white coats and I made it to Trinity College. Phew, I thought, I can relax now. And I did for the first two years, until my marks counted for something, and guess what? The  old Sarah  came back in third year, and so did that irritating voice. You got a scholarship to study here, for God’s sake. There’s no point in doing things by halves. And without the nagging of my parents and (then) fiancé (now husband) I was free to stay up  working till 2-3am on  essays, presentations and my dissertation. I lived off sugar and cereal like every other student. I would turn up for tutorials, bleary-eyed, wondering which book was being discussed today (I only read a selection of novels. Anyone on that course-and you know who you are- who read every prescribed novel/play please step forward for your gold medal). Although I let my hair down a little, I didn’t exactly have a roaring social life in college. I will admit that I did go on three foreign holidays during my college years with friends from home, but the details of those are a little hazy (though not nearly hazy enough)!!

Earlier this year, I was thirty. Like many, I looked back on the aims I  had set myself for when I reached the  big milestone: have a  Master’s degree in Journalism and be actively working in the field; maybe write a novel or a book of poetry;  do a Masters in Disability Studies. None of these were goals I ever reached, and sometimes I feel as if I’ve let myself slide into complacency. On the other hand, I have such a wonderful husband who supports everything I do and without whom I’d be lost, my daughter who makes me smile from the start of the  day to its end with her hilarious antics and a lovely place to call home. I am so lucky, and it wouldn’t hurt me to stand back and count my blessings every once in a while.

Ugh, look at this blog. Look at the dust on the mantelpiece. Look at the laundry piling up in the back hall. Maybe I’ll do some dusting. Maybe I should fold more clothes. Or maybe I’ll just … take it easy and watch some TV and deal with it all tomorrow. It will be still there tomorrow, along with my unfinished assignment.

Maybe, one day I’ll learn that everyone has their limitations.

That nobody is perfect.

Sometimes I  need to take it easy, and hopefully one day, I’ll be okay with this.

‘DARE’ to go to College

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I will always remember my four years as a student of Trinity College with fondness. But I must admit, there were times when I felt like a giant imposter. I was studying with some of the most intelligent minds in the country, and I remember sitting in the tutorial groups, listening to my peers talking, thinking, ‘Wow, I have not got a clue what these people mean by “post-modern” and “post-colonialism”. I wonder if my parents would be mad if I just left and became this “madwoman in the attic” I’ve just read about’.

Part of the reason I felt like an imposter was that I had asked for special consideration for the English Studies course on my CAO Form. Applying for a course via the CAO is a daunting experience for any student, but when disability or a Specific Learning Difficulty puts you at an academic disadvantage, it can mean putting more time and effort into your studies. On the face of it, I was a straight-A student, but only because I spent eight hours a day studying for the points. Honestly. Ask my husband or my dad (I would say ask my friends but I don’t have any because I spent eight hours a day, i.e. 4pm-12am, studying for two years). Even this wasn’t enough to secure me the 525 points I needed to study in Trinity; I only got 475.

Thank goodness for DARE.

DARE, which stands for Disability Access Route to Education, is a supplementary application process which complements the traditional CAO application process, allowing the candidate with a disability to compete for their course of choice, even if they do not meet the points requirement for the course. Availing of DARE also allows the candidate to inform chosen colleges of any difficulties or obstacles he/she may have faced during secondary school.  In addition, it alerts the college to a student’s existence and to be prepared to offer any academic supports, including note takers, assistive technology and library assistants.

Applying for college via DARE was  hard work. As part of the supplementary application process, applicants are obliged to include evidence of disability from an appropriately qualified psychiatrist, psychologist, neurologist or paediatrician.  These reports must be less than three years old. You may also have to complete a personal statement, outlining the challenges you faced throughout your educational journey and the impact your disability had on your academic life.

I remember when I applied for DARE, I did not really understand how the process worked. When I got my Leaving Cert results, I was convinced that I would be offered my third choice (Maynooth) instead of Trinity, which were my first two choices. I don’t think my mother was prepared for my moving to Dublin; she certainly wasn’t as ecstatic about the prospect as I was (yay! freeedom in Dublin City Centre!)

As time passed by, I gained more self-confidence and really started to enjoy College. I lived on Campus in Botany Bay and every morning I woke to the gentle poc-poc of tennis balls outside and the not-so-subtle gonging of the clock in Front Square. I would meander aimlessly around Front Square for hours, looking a little lost and demented, taking it all in while my wheelchair shook my bones going over the cobbles. I was a bit of a loner, I didn’t join any clubs or societies, I’m not really a big drinker, but I used to frequent many a coffee shop between lectures (nobody told me that you are supposed to be in the library reading when not at one of your twelve one-hour lectures, but when it mattered. I figured it out).

Trinity was one of  the best experiences of my life. I studied literature under some of the finest writers and literary critics of our time, but more significantly, the sense of belonging and community was so strong that I never felt like a ‘student with a disability’. Yes, I felt intimidated at first by how much my peers seemed to know about literature, but once I gained confidence, I too found the courage to ramble on about the portrayal of women/feminism/use of language or ‘rhetoric’. Once I stopped perceiving myself as different, I suddenly wasn’t.

And yet, the Student Disability Services, and in particular Orlaith O’Brien, Amy O’Shea (both have left), Trish Ferguson, Declan Treanor and Declan Reilly were always so supportive. I can’t speak for anyone else, but the support offered by these people (as well as many others) was second to none, and I was always listened to and treated with the utmost respect. There is no doubt that the provision of notetakers and library assistance enabled me to achieve an honours degree in English Studies.

If you are eligible for DARE, please answer ‘Yes’ to the relevant question on the CAO form. After 1 February, you will receive supplementary forms from colleges who are accepting DARE applications.

DARE is holding a number of application advice clinics in venues nationwide on Saturday 10th January 2015 from 10am-1pm, to allow students to ask questions and find out more about the scheme.  Further information is available on www.accesscollege.ie.

Why I’m writing again

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It would be incredibly pretentious of me, having started writing again only four months ago, to say that I would love to write full time. I’m certainly no JK Rowling or Marian Keyes or Cecelia Ahern. Yet, the more time I spend with my ridiculous thoughts, the more I find myself leaking them onto this page and, more specifically, this blog. And the more I feel that, Yes, this is what I want to do.

From a very early age, I have been acquainted with the written word. My mother, fearing that I would not be accepted into the local mainstream school, taught me to read at the age of three. I was reading before I was potty-trained at the ripe old age of five. When I was in Junior Infants, I had already read all of the class readers. I was bored, which the teacher was not expecting.

I have always been encouraged to write. At a basic level, I was given an electric typewriter at school, and it was through using it that I communicated my basic human needs, such as the need to go to the toilet. I had to type out all the answers to the teacher’s questions, as my speech was on a par with someone who was heavily inebriated. I remember, even at this age, thinking how degrading it was. As far as I was (and still am) concerned, I can talk, I do my best to be understood. It’s up to those to whom I’m talking to, to make an effort to listen.

Even now, however, this doesn’t always work in practice.

When we were making the RTE Documentary, ‘Somebody to Love’, I made it quite clear that my speech was the only part of my disability that I would change, because I feel that people tend to link my slurred, incoherent speech with my cognitive ability. For example, if I have to make a phone call to someone I don’t know, they tend to ask me to put my parents on the phone, or they hang up on me. ‘Call back when you’re sober’, ‘Is there anyone there with you’? ‘Listen, I’m hanging up because I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ are pretty standard responses when I call somebody who doesn’t know me. I dread phone calls, and firmly believe that every single person on the planet should have email or text. So. Much. Easier.

It’s been twenty-five years since I started primary school, and a lot has changed since then. I use a laptop instead of a typewriter, and I can make myself understood when needs be. I’m a wife and a mother; instead of being a dependent, I’m heavily depended upon. I’ve a degree in Trinity and relatively good experience of the working world. Yet, I’m still perceived by (some) people who don’t know me as a victim of unfortunate circumstances, who will never enjoy a decent quality of life; who is in some way inferior or lacking.  I endure the staring, the tutting, the ‘isn’t it terrible, the poor pet’, because to verbally object would be futile, like throwing petrol on a roaring fire.

And this is why I’ve started writing again. Admittedly, it would be a bonus if, one day, it became a way for me to put food on the table. For now, I’m just happy that the writer’s block is gone and I’m able to write once more, knowing that at least my words will be understood, even if I’ve nothing of importance to say.

Mama Mia!

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Since writing my last blog post, I feel somewhat lighter, happier, as if I have been freed from a horrible prison. And now I have the confidence to say that there are days when I, an amateur mummy, worry that I’m doing the wrong thing. Have I allowed Ali to eat too much chocolate today? Is that glue toxic? Where did she pick up  on that phrase?  and so on.

I was never under the illusion that motherhood was easy. In fact, I imagined it to be so much worse than it is. Until I had Ali, I didn’t ‘do’ kids. They were dirty, nosey, smelly creatures who pervaded every area of your life. However, no words could describe the love I felt when the nurse placed her in my arms. Suddenly, it felt as if I had changed. I was not Sarah any more, I was Alison’s mummy. And my own mummy was not there to tell me what to do or how to cope with this shift in identity.

It’s almost obligatory at Christmas to think of loved ones who have passed away. In my case, the feeling of loss is intensified by the fact that Mum’s birthday is this Monday 15th December. She would’ve been 57, only a ‘young wan’. It doesn’t help that her favourite Christmas song is ‘Fairytale of New York’ which so happens to be played everywhere about fifty times a day in the run up to Christmas. People look at me in shock when I don’t squeal in delight when it starts. Well, now you know why.

Becoming a mummy myself has been the greatest privilege of my life, but constantly wondering if I’m doing the right thing can sometimes be draining and isolating. Torturing myself by saying ‘I can’t even ask my mum’ doesn’t really help, all that does is send me into a self-pity fest. I find myself wondering how she did it with four; when sometimes I struggle with one, bearing in mind that I have Cerebral Palsy and wasn’t always the self-sufficient being I am now.

There was many a time when I truly resented my mum. Like all the times she made me attend physiotherapy and speech therapy after school when I really wanted to be at home writing poetry. Like the times she made me type out my homework on an old Sirius computer with an eerie green and black screen, when I wanted to write in my copybook like my classmates (to me it’s all the better if the teachers can’t read it). The final straw was when she sent me to the National Rehabilitation Hospital when I was sixteen, for intensive physio, speech and occupational therapy. I was livid because I was missing school, and the auditions for the class play (which I had written). Surely I, living with the disability day in, day out, know best what I need? Mum didn’t seem to see it this way.

Mum pushed me hard, often to the disgust of other parents. ‘Keep that foot straight’, ‘Speak slower’, ‘Look at what you’re doing’, she would bark at me. I would give her the doe-eyed look, the one that said, ‘You heartless bitch’. She seemed to find this hilarious. She revelled in this bitchiness. Often she and I would be about town and somebody would come up to her and say something like, ‘I feel sorry for the poor creatur.’ To which mum would respond, something along the  lines of, ‘You feel sorry for her? What about me, I have to put up with her all the time!’ or ‘My daughter doesn’t need your pity. She has more brains than the two of us put together!’

My mum was not just a mother. She was Una, a sister, a friend and a nurse to half of Tullamore at some stage. When I was pregnant, all of the nurses in the outpatients department had stories to tell about her, which usually ended in ‘well, I will never forget how your mother helped that man/woman that day.’ Mum used to tell me that nursing broke her heart. She listened to so many stories and carried them with her to the grave; to this day I couldn’t tell you any of them, but I know that some of them affected her deeply because she told me so.

Mum was elegant, witty and caring; she could also be forgetful and embarrassingly inappropriate. She spoke her mind at all times, which often had hilarious consequences. She wasn’t perfect by any means, but I couldn’t have asked for a better mother. She is the reason I am who I am today, and if I can do half a good a job with Ali as she did with me, then I would be a very happy camper.

So happy Christmas, I love ya baby, I can think of a better time, when all our dreams come true.

Happy birthday Mum. You may not be twenty-nine and a bit, but you will never have to use the purple rinse either. Thank God for small mercies.

Facing my demons

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It’s amazing what we as human beings are prepared to do to ourselves in order to avoid facing our feelings. It may be throwing ourselves into our work, in order to make every minute so busy with activity that we haven’t a moment to contemplate anything else, or it could be self-medication with whatever drink, drugs or substance we can lay our hands on. However, there comes a point where we can no longer do this and the only way to eradicate the demons that mercilessly control our lives is to face them and disempower them. And this is exactly what I am about to do.

Almost a year ago, my husband and I took part in a documentary ‘Somebody to Love’, which explored the challenges facing people with disabilities in finding love and forming romantic and sexual relationships. Partaking in that documentary was one of the most difficult things I have done in my life. The intimate nature of the recording and production meant that there was nowhere to hide from our feelings. We were in our own home,  our own environment, laying our private lives bare for Irish viewers to dissect.

Watching the documentary back, I can see myself trying to stifle my husband’s words, trying to stop him from saying something ‘stupid’ or ‘dangerous’. By ‘stupid’ and ‘dangerous’, I mean the truth or, more specifically, our truth. Our truth is that we felt frightened and alone. We felt that we constantly had to prove ourselves, that we  knew what we were doing, when in fact we did not have a clue. We’d never cared for a newborn before, and we were terrified, but we couldn’t let it show. In short, we were denied the right to be first time  parents: to cremate the bottle, to hold the baby upside down, to make mistakes.(By the way, I am neither condoning nor encouraging this behaviour. Please read the instruction manual that comes with your child).

One of the worst moments of my life was the day my husband and I were supposed to take Alison from the hospital, It was a Monday, and I was recovering marvellously from my section. I was feeding Alison well, and she was thriving. I was even walking a little using a walker, having had to use a wheelchair for the last three weeks of the pregnancy. However, I felt emotional and like shit; my section scar was sore, I was missing my own mother like crazy, and it felt like fluid was leaking from every bodily orifice. And this was the moment that the  head midwife, ward manager or whoever she was told me that they had ‘concerns’ about my ability to take care of my daughter. My heart broke. In that moment, it felt like Alison had died. I rang my husband and told him to take  Ali with him and leave me behind, because it was me, not him, that they had the problem with. Reading it now, it seems like the rants of a crazy person, but in that moment, it made sense. After numerous phone calls to social workers, public health nurses and Offaly CIL, we were allowed home, on the condition that a Public Health Nurse could come to our home every day and monitor our ‘progress’.

Nearly three years have passed , and now one of my best friends, who also has Cerebral Palsy, is excited about welcoming her new arrival in January. But after witnessing what  we contended with, she is starting to worry about how she will be perceived after the birth of her c child.. She will be a mother, not just an object of care, and it’s vital that she is enabled, without fear of judgement, to care for her child, It makes me furious to think that she, that we, have to think this way about the most precious event in any mother’s life, when children are being neglected by their parents every day.

and so I would urge her: If you by gross misfortune have to contend with these obstacles and attitudes, please have the courage to speak out.  This is only the second time I have done so, but I feel so much better. Only through our honesty can we truly help others and deconstruct the negative attitudes that have the power to destroy us.

Is Ireland Ready to Address the Issue of Assisted Suicide?

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** This is a trigger warning. Please do not  read if you are triggered by the subject of Assisted Suicide **

 

Brittany Maynard from California was diagnosed with a Stage Four inoperable brain tumour in January 2014. Faced with the prospect of losing all cognitive function, Maynard moved from California to Oregon to avail of assisted suicide laws. Her death was announced on 2 November, mere hours after she announced that she had decided to postpone the original date 1 November. A fervent campaigner for the ‘Dying With Dignity’ movement in the US, Maynard’s death has once again forced us to examine the stance of assisted suicide in Ireland: is it ever acceptable to end your own life, or to ask a loved one to assist you in doing so?

The Oxford English Dictionary defines assisted suicide as ‘the suicide of a patient suffering from an incurable disease, effected by the taking of lethal drugs provided by a doctor for this purpose.’ Policymakers in the UK are on the verge of passing a law (the Assisted Dying Bill) that would allow those who assist a loved ones’ suicide to be granted immunity from prosecution. In Ireland, however, assisted suicide is still illegal under the Criminal Law Suicide Act. Although the act decriminalised suicide in 1993, abetting a suicide carries a punishment of approximately fourteen years in prison.

This controversial topic was explored in 2013 when the Supreme Court denied Marie Fleming, whose MS caused her constant pain and suffering, the right to end her life with the help of her partner Tom Curran. Fleming had argued that not being able to enlist help in taking her own life was in breach of her human rights, but according to the ruling, the Constitution acknowledges the right to life, but not the right to die. Also, had Tom Curran assisted his partner in committing suicide, he would not be immune from prosecution. Although Fleming died peacefully in her sleep on 21 December 2013, this was coincidental; it was still not the death of her choosing.

Fleming’s high-profile case forced Ireland to confront the prospect of assisted suicide, a subject which has gained much media attention in both the UK and Ireland in the last two years. On 17 October 2014, veteran presenter Gay Byrne, speaking about the proposed UK Assisted Dying Bill to Stephen Nolan on BBC Ulster, said: ‘My dread would be that I would lie a long time in awful pain and disability. I’d rather it happened very, very quickly’. Byrne is not the first Irish celebrity to openly share his views on the subject of assisted suicide; in 2013, Derek Mooney stated that he wants to take his own life if his health deteriorates in old age, and because he is afraid of loneliness.

The attention given by the Irish media to assisted suicide has been intensified by plans to legalise it in the UK. In May 2014, British chat show hosts Richard Madeley and Judy Finnegan revealed that they have made plans to assist each other’s suicide should the need arise. On 13 May 2014, Madeley told The Guardian ‘If Judy was ill and in illogical pain, I wouldn’t give a tuppenny if there was a risk of being prosecuted. I’d do what was right for my wife.’

This exact scenario was played out in Coronation Street last year, when the character of Hayley Cropper had a brain tumour, which failed to respond to chemo. She decided that she wanted to end her life on her own terms, much to the bewilderment of her husband Roy, who adored her. It was this love that enabled him to assist Hayley in her dying wish, even though Roy consequently suffered from anguish and despair long after her death. While Hayley was passionate about the right to die, Roy was insistent that his wife’s life should end naturally, which is representative of how emotive the subject of assisted suicide can be.

Furthermore, the history and circumstances surrounding assisted suicide means that the issue is complicated and will always be surrounded in controversy. Mooney’s reasons for contemplating assisted suicide are potentially damaging to the psyche of our society. Many of us have had to watch an elderly relative or friend suffer from dementia or Alzheimer’s and die a painful death. Often, it may seem like the kinder option to ‘put them out of their misery’.

However, it is difficult to forget that, less than a century ago, the Nazi regime ordered the involuntary euthanasia of thousands of children and later adults with disabilities across Europe during the Second World War. Those against the ‘right to die’ movement, which often include disability activists and supporters of rights for the elderly, worry that promoting the right to die will shift the focus from the provision of proper support services and palliative care, and start a descent down a ‘slippery slope’ that could be difficult to come back from. Dutch ethicist and former euthanasia supporter Theo Boer argues that ‘euthanasia is on the way to becoming a “default” way of dying for cancer patients’ and observes that doctors may come under pressure to grant access to lethal drugs on the basis of being ‘aged, lonely or bereaved’.

Assisted suicide has been legalised in five countries in the EU, including Switzerland, Belgium, Germany, Albania and Japan. Dignitas, an organisation based in Switzerland, performs voluntary euthanasia procedures, namely in the form of a lethal overdose, which induces a coma and, subsequently, death. Eight people have travelled from Ireland since 1998 to end their lives, one of which was in January 2014. Dignitas has been nicknamed a ‘suicide tourism destination’ by the media, and it is argued by many ‘right to die’ supporters that having to go abroad in order to avail of these services renders them inaccessible for those who are too far along in their illness to travel, or who simply cannot afford to do so.

It is interesting to note, however, that 70% of people who visit Dignitas clinics for an initial consultation never return to their clinics, which suggests that once faced with the reality of death, many people either change their minds or take their own lives. For many, it seems that the right to choose how and when they die may be more important than the ending of life itself.

Whether it is perceived as a religious, human rights or a medical issue, it is clear that the introduction of assisted suicide in Ireland is currently being explored, and it is an issue that will not magically disappear. Should this law ever be enacted, it is the responsibility of our lawmakers to ensure that safeguards are in place to prevent abuse. However, before we do this, we need to take it upon ourselves to ensure that our medical and community services are equipped to meet the needs of our elderly, disabled and ill citizens, so that assisted suicide can be offered in addition to, and not instead of, a comfortable quality of life.