Learning to Fall

"When will it be Oscar's birthday Mummy?"

"When all the leaves are back on the trees Alannah".

"But I've been waiting ages" (mega sulky face)

This time last year I was as impatient as the blonde bombshell. Every twinge, every kick....is that it? Is that the baby coming?? So I can't fault the three year old for being impatient for his first birthday to come around, especially not at the prospect of cake with sprinkles and icing and jellies and smarties...and and and...and all the things important about birthdays for the single figures people. And then it came around and happened, and now we wait for something else to happen...with more sprinkles :) 

Daily Stumbling Ground

I guess I felt like I had been waiting ages too. Almost a year since the little man (not so little anymore, weighing the same as the threenager) came into the light of day, just over a year since I stepped off the threadmill of the day job and a full year since I surrendered to the world of full time mother/householder/domestic goddess (note to husband and children: all three role titles loosely applied and open to debate/reward negotiation). 

There's something magic that happens when you give birth to your baby, something magic that changes your heart and your mind and stays with you through the constant attention and devotion that a newborn requires and the challenging (some might say debilitatiing and soul crushing) broken sleeps and nighttime waking. Not forgetting the buckets of nappies and snot. The magic of course is nature's wonderful way of sustaining the mother through all of this, and endorphins are wonderful. Over time however, the magic gradually starts to fade and mother must learn to sustain herself through a sense of humour (preferably a good one) and quiet acceptance of the work at hand. Add a threenager that's going on sixty four, into the mix and that's when things really start to stretch and that seemingly benign word - challenging - takes on a new meaning entirely.

It's been an interesting year. And so many times I thought of my own mother and how I am in complete awe of her. And I tell her, even though she left us five weeks before Oscar was born. She would have fallen head over heels with him though, I know this.

What did I learn? Many things. Many things that I could never have imagined were there for the learning. Like, how much conversation a three year old can fit into the waking hours of any given day. Like, you can't reason with them either. Like, you can't expect to win an argument with them. Like, you are very likely to regress to their level of reasoning with lack of sleep and continued erosion of your inner calm (think: no inner calm). Like, you need to maintain perspective and get outside on your own every day. Like, be open to no planning other than manoeuvering between dawn and dusk with all bodies intact. Like, being grateful for each of those mornings and evenings that we are all together (even though we may/nay - probably -  spent the day squabbling over b***s**t - and that we are growing and changing together as part of our own unique, quirky and  family unit). Like, how getting an afternoon nap even just once a week can be the one thing that saves your soul. Like, how much I absolutely relish the precious, natural rhythm of it all.

I often thought that it was the right thing to try to 'find the balance' - the elusive, exclusive, evasive balance in life. Some seemed to have it. Shouldn't I be going for it? Find it and hold on to it smugly like it was the life bouy to my existence. Find it, grasp it and never, ever let it go, and then tell everyone else how to find it too.  

What fool was I? I wisely gave up on that. Now I stick with what works to stop me from falling over, as much as I possibly can.  I still fall over - for sure - daily. I lose my temper with the threenager, I wallow in self pity after I've had an epic night from hell with a teething baby. I lose heart.  I crumble. I feel lonely and isolated as I'm building lego houses with the threenager and the bouncing boy at 5.30am in the morning (an every-morning ritual - somehow strangely meditative in those silent times). I didn't get my annual performance rating, I got puked on instead. I fall down.

And then I find my way back up....crawling, hobbling, flying, powering forward, on good days maybe even straight into a headstand and a mind-bending scorpion pose. And then I fall, again. 

And then I just breathe. And then I am balanced. A walk in the woods, a hug from the man, a smile from the boyscar, a tummy rub from the blonde bombshell, time wangling with an overgrowing garden, a text from a friend - somehow it gets delivered. I don't find it or grasp it or cling to it, or stick my nails into it, it finds me. If I let it. 

So the last year has been interesting, to say the least. And I am grateful for all that the journey has given to me. Instead of finding balance I am learning how to fall, with grace. And how to pick myself back up again, and again, with humble gratitude and hopefully some more grace. Instead of that elusive 'finding of the balance', I am loving the realness of falling and I embrace it. 

Of course, if I need any reminding, I just watch the boy stepping his way from chair to fridge, and table to floor with the cutest and plumpest of un-shoed feet...and I bow to the immense beauty and fragility, and yet strength and steady force of it - his learning to walk, by learning to fall.

P.S. The Holly Cottage garden is amazing right now - as is the magnificent/awesome Irish countryside - some updates on the way, soon.

Letter to Alannah: Part 3

Dearest Alannah

You are sleeping now, curled up in the small double bed that all four of us bipedaled creatures of the Holly Cottage share since the arrival of Oscar four months ago. You are lost up in a ball of quilt, or maybe spreadeagled across the pillows where you especially love to be in the middle of the night - despite the protests and resistance of your dearest, loving parents. The rest of us will join you there in that space in just a little while, claiming corners and edges of bed space for the precious few hours of sleep that might be. 

You are a most beautiful child - picture perfect with white blonde kiss curls, striking blue eyes and perfect, clear skin that has been air brushed golden by summer's sun. But you barely let me touch, let alone brush your hair. You've worn a dress possibly twice in your life - and both those times probably lasted only a couple of hours. While you do crave adornment as any little princess might, you don't have the time or the patience for bobbins and slides. You are gone in a flash of blonde bombshell in your wellies and hoodie to explore and splash and run and hide. 

Goldilocks

You are a wild and a defiant spirit. You truly are. You thrive on the muddiest of puddles, you exalt in throwing your head back in deep, (and surprisingly) bellowing laughter as you are carried like "a sack of paytos" over your father's back around the garden. You torment the Holly dog and tease her with your brown bread and honey sandwiches. You love your brother fiercely, and so much so sometimes that I anguish in your breath-taking hugs to him. You love chips and sausages, and jelly and strawberries. You savour the home baked scones and bread that you help us to make. You run through the dark woods as we retell the antics of your hero, Peter Rabbit. You delight in movies like Rango and 101 Dalmations, again and again and again - strangely loving the most villainous of characters that are written off as the bad guys. Knowing every word of that ode to the infamous "Cruella, Cruella.."

You are three years old, plus about thirty six hours. You arrived as a bright eyed and startlingly alert baby girl and you have kept me on my toes ever since. We have journeyed together, you and I, through blissful babymoon and daily walks in the woods phase, all the way past wobbling toddler and determined twos. I can count on two hands the days we have been apart. We still breakfast together and share each breaking dawn. And while we tend to separate over the course of the day, we still end each day wrapped up together in a knot as we relive the highs and the lows in our own reflections - "Mumma, tell me the story of the day...". 

And everyday, as you oscillate through your own extreme peaks and definite lows, everyday you break my heart. You tear it right down to its bare threads and then you build it right back up again only to begin the cycle again and again, and yes, again and again. You are my joy and my pain. Your joy is intoxicating and your fierce spirit and defiance stare rudely in the face of my own. 

The Holly Cottage blonde bomb-shells

Three years on this Earth for you, and three years a mother for me. My greatest learning of life, yet. And we learn together. You - seeing, feeling, understanding - for the first time. Me - seeing, feeling, understanding, appreciating - for the second time. But this time, differently, this time with the sense of my own dear and stoic mother. 

What an amazing love, what amazing loves. And I continue - daily, hourly - to be humbled, astounded, and torn wide open.  

Three years ago, I thought I knew everything. I really knew nothing. 

All my love to you Alannah, and a happy happy birthday!

Your Mumma, forever xx

Because Life begins at...

Today life begins, again, at 41. Isn't it great?! The day started in the blurry regions of 5.30 am as the little princess snuggled in to say 'Can I rub your tummy Mumma?'. Poor thing thinks that there are more babies waiting in there to come out...mind you, it may appear a bit like that... And then the 10 week old wriggled on the other side and let a yelp out of him - cat like - not to be forgotten. A few doors away I could hear the rustle of Holly's tail, picking up on the waking sounds - ears pricked, waiting for the door of her sleeping quarters to open and her breakfast to arrive. 

Birthday bouquet

Morning is a strange time in our house, for me anyway. It kind of creeps in, steadily and stealthily from about four-ish when Oscar wakes for a feed. After that I don't really sleep...I generally just hold him in my arms or on my lap and lie back and enjoy the moment for it's immense peace and silence. He sleeps, in that blissful space that only a well fed newborn can sleep. Is he dreaming? And we sit or lie there for a couple of hours, until herself awakes around the six mark and then it's full steam ahead for the next fourteen hours, until she fades again back into the mess of quilt and pillows left over from the night before. 

Smile! And the whole world...

Today is my birthday. And what a lovely day it turned out to be. Instead of bemoaning the fact that I was another notch on the 40 decade, instead of freaking out about the three silver hairs that have invaded my fringe, instead of tainting the day with downbeat and defeatist thoughts I decided to go with the positive and run the risk of joy. Oh happy day! Cuddles and smiles abounded, only a few moments of angst with herself near bedtime and no sudden clothes changes where Oscar's nappies just couldn't take it. A precious shower early in the day, a sneaky coffee before 11am, a nap with cutsie newborn, baking with the princess, and candles blown out more than four times with small people, and dearest brother and father. And wildflowers on the window filling the room with heady scent Meadowsweet, every shade of green in the garden and a homegrown blackcurrant enlivened smoothie startling my tastebuds. Simple pleasures. But pleasures nonetheless. And a whole host of other birthday pleasures yet to be enjoyed with friends and family, not least of all when the man gets home. 


Life beings when you decide to live it. Usually only when you realise how easily it can be taken away. And that probably meant a painful experience and some serious soul searching. Well, the measure of pain only amplifies that of joy when it comes, and when joy comes in simple daily pleasures, well...then life surely has begun. 

"Just another little stretch baby brother..."

Celebrating Oscar

The Irish summer is truly upon us - glorious sunshine and thunderous showers interspersed with periods of intense heat and then sudden wintry temperatures. And all in the space of five minutes! This is Ireland. And this is why our winter wardrobe also doubles us as our summer one - albeit without the gloves and scarves. 

We do have to be grateful however for the summer we had in May, those fabulously Mediterranean like days that beckoned the arrival of the newest member of the Holly Cottage brigade, the little bundle that is Oscar. 

"You talking to me?"

And this tough little man is testament to the truth that every child is different. Where Alannah required hourly attention, he is more than content to sleep for periods of hours in the daytime while the rest of us are busied with blowing bubbles through the hollyhocks, and stalking the emerging fruits of the Holly Cottage summer garden as we wait impatiently for their juicy, sweet delivery. 

Alannah has adjusted, though she does have a tendency to shout loudly into his face while hanging clothes pegs off his ears. He just stares in meditative silence. And she doesn't quite understand why we have to bring him with us everywhere we go - "leave him here Daddy, Oscar doesn't want to come" - just as well the 31 month old isn't in charge. Or is she? More of that again.  

Oscar just watches on, watching all stoically - and what does he see? At this stage it's only what lies within arm's reach. And yet somehow it feels he can see through us all. 

Our 42 days of togetherness has come to an end, and he is officially out of the newborn stage - already??!! The rabbit sized sleep suits of the earliest days are now giving way to more robust and manly outfits be-decked with dinosaurs and the cutest lions and elephants. This time is going to ebb and flow too fast. 

The nights are long but I am rewarded with the sweetest of secret smiles and unlimited hugs. And mummy's recovery from the guts of a year of carrying this handsome little warrior has been thankfully smooth and uneventful. Sore shoulders and lower back pain have returned - a sharp reminder of the challenges of nourishing a ravenous, exponentially growing human. But funny how the immense pleasure and satisfaction in watching him grow and develop cause all these irksome side effects - and the memory of nine months of nauseous pregnancy and intense hours of birth - to fade in the shine of his smiles and the light of his eyes. Mammy's boy, eh?

This is a time to celebrate. So here's to Oscar and the life before him, here's to the people who have helped us on his journey into this life, here's to the Holly Cottage brigade who are humbled at the gift of him and here's to the joy that he has already given. 

We are celebrating Oscar, heartfelt and wildly.

Farewell 2014

Farewell 2014 and welcome 2015. Farewell sleepless nights and being shoved down to one corner of our small double bed by fierce, kicking, wriggling 16 month old beauty. Farewell to sitting through 9am meetings feeling like I'm living in a human experiment to see how one can exist without the fundamental sleep that so many take for granted. 

Ah...2014. It was a tough one. Not without it's beauty and it's joys mind, but nevertheless a tough one.  And it got to the stage where even I was fed up of hearing myself saying to everyone how tired I was. So I just stopped saying and realised that no-one really cared - except for me of course. I was the one struggling under the weight of exhaustion - martyr to the cause of child rearing - too soft to ignore the cries of the now just over 1 year old in the middle of the night and too scared to wonder at what might happen if I did ignore them .  

And so, two weeks ago when the world of work stood still at 12.30pm on the Friday before Christmas, I stopped all pieces of my life that I could stop, and I endeavoured to stop myself. That meant - no more hauling weary legs carried by weakened lower back over miles of soggy bogland, no more over-active mind, no more martyr, no more nothing. And I let the man take over the nighttime stuff - with a break every now and then of course (need to ease him into it). 

I pretty much took a minute to bury my 'schoolbag' in the closet and at the same time I consciously buried all associated thoughts of work with it. And surprisingly enough, I did. 

And I lay on my back on our little daughter's play mat. And I let it all happen and I've pretty much being doing that for two weeks ;) (until today). Sure we had to venture out to let families know that we were still alive, and sure there were the post-christmas bargains to be had...but just that was enough. 

Lying on that playmat, no pen, no laptop, no phone, no diary. Just sweet and full o'boldness Alannah climbing and jumping and crawling over us as we watched the saddest of Christmas movies - why are kids' movies the ones that always make you melt?!! - and ate the finest of food and shared the tastiest seasonal treats that you never, never feel guilty about at this time of year. 

Oh sweet restful, decadent, lying on the floor in a heap doing nothing. I recommend it. Because now I actually feel near to normal. And when the 'schoolbag' was dusted off this morning on my return to work, I had the strength and the power to say - bring it on 2015. If 2014 didn't kill me, then don't you even bother trying. 

Happy 2015!

Holly racing into 2015

Letter to Alannah: Part II (a year of mothering)

This article first appeared in Elephant Journal, September 23rd 2014

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2014/09/on-our-first-birthday-a-letter-to-my-daughter-catherine-wilkie/

Dearest Alannah,

Today you are one year old, which really means you spent one of our calendar years breathing on your own.

This past year I’ve been bound to you, as mother and observer, often too immersed in being mother to even consider being observer. But now you have taken your first steps, now you are starting to pull away and I can see that whole year for some of what it has been.

Me—catapulted into the role of mother—and you, from soft and helpless bundle to warrior of infant-hood.

Before these thoughts that seem so urgent to me now fade in the tiredness of the working week, I want to share a few things with you from my journey this last year.

I want to share a few things with you—sure, you’re way too young and far too blissfully unaware to want to know or even want to understand—but in time, maybe.

If and when you might have your own little angel to shake you into the sudden and utter awareness of the fragility and wonder of creating, and then sustaining life…maybe then you might linger over some of these words.

Keeping up with the world

1. Nothing and no one can prepare you for being a mother.

Or a parent, a father, whatever.

Being of the female kind, I can only talk about being a mother and that’s more than enough for me. I thought I knew. I thought that by watching my brother and sisters, spending time with a few close friends, by looking on from the side-lines that I had it figured.

I thought that I knew what it would be like to be the one wiping the nose, changing the nappies, delivering the endless hugs and kisses and soothing the seemingly un-soothable cries when they came. And I thought that I knew how I would do it better. Wow. What an awakening.

Nothing, nothing…and I repeat nothing, can prepare you for being a mother.

So when you see a mother struggling with a cranky baby, or you find yourself saying—oh, I’d never do that, or the classic—Oh my god, did you see what that woman just did to that child?—slap yourself and please remember these words.

Until you are in it, never assume you know diddly squat about it. Instead, please watch and listen, empathise, help out where and when you can, and be ready to wait your turn, for when your turn comes.

2. Forget about your previous understanding/definition of a good night’s sleep

Ah, sleep. My old friend.

Get as much of it as you need, when you can, while you can. On those first two days of your life that we spent in the hospital, we (your father and I) wondered why you weren’t waking and wished that you would open those amazing bright blue eyes and share with us the story of your life so far—even though we knew more of that than you did, what with scan after scan and the solid kicking I was getting for the last month of our pregnancy.

Maybe we should have just slept as you slept instead. That first night home in the Holly Cottage was the first and only night I didn’t wake to your call. And that first night at home when I did eventually wake, I realised that my love affair with a good night’s sleep had been eternally dissolved.

You still wake at least once, if not three times, in the night—and you curl into me with your need for warmth and assurance and I am more than happy to respond and pull you into me. I know it won’t last forever, but I wish people would stop asking if you’re sleeping through the night, like it should be happening. Ah yes, there’s that word.

We’ll get back to the damming should later.

3. Be open to a greater awareness of your body

When you are pregnant and when you have a natural birth, your body is no longer your own.

It is working for two in those times and apart from the really important things day to day things like breathing, healing, self renewal, etc. etc., it is in the serious business of growing, forming, nurturing and stretching/squeezing to accommodate the smaller version of yourself—which is indeed a very precious cargo.

It’s absolutely amazing how it happens and for the most part you won’t be aware that you are doing anything. Life takes over. Stretching and squeezing can be alleviated—the body is more than capable.

My advice? Do pelvic floor exercises as often as you can. Do breathing exercises. Do yoga. Embrace the changes and embrace the challenges. Welcome every pain and moment of nausea. Go with it. There is no room for fear in this. This power, this magic—it is there in all of us, in you and in me. It’s been there since we started to walk upright.

Be in awe of the ability to grow life, deliver it into the world and the stupendous and miraculous healing power within you. And yes, you will want to do it all again. Even the bits you thought might never be possible again! But take your time. The body of a woman is a power house but it needs to recover. And maybe this power is the reason why in some cultures we are so feared and so repressed.

I repeat, your power is amazing. And to a small baby that is a wonderful thing. Rejoice in it. And if and when you feel tired of waking up for yet another late night feed, or changing a nappy from hell, try to remember that you are not alone. You are one of millions, and all power packs need recharging (see number 7).

4. Be grateful for the little things (they are not all that little)

Every breath you take is a blessing to me. Every day that you grow and change and develop and grow more is a miracle.

You have grown and changed so much in this last year I barely recognise you from the baby that tumbled out from me onto the labour-ward bed. From the first smile, to the first gurgles, the first steps and the first signs of growing awareness – pointing, recognising names and words—each moment has been a wonder, and I am grateful to still have one of the best seats in the house to watch you.

And when I think of all the things that might happen and could have happened I bow my head in humility and I give thanks. To the universe, for the wonder of it all. And these things may seem small to you now, but you will understand when you see it for yourself. As I watch you, you have this ability to scan the room and find the smallest grain of sand or dirt or rice cake or hair and you are enthralled by it. Enthralled by the smallest things of all.

5. Cherish the wonder of it all

Take stock as you go. Appreciate the moment as it happens. Time only goes one way—that I know of—and there’s no going back.

I look at pictures of myself at your age and it is a different person looking back. But that was me, the one who looked like you. The one in thumb sized socks and curls that mock gravity. The one who loved to be held in her father’s arms, to know the comfort of the smell of mother’s bread baking in the oven and the closeness of brother and sisters. Life is precious. If you ever doubt that, look at your own child and think on all the stars and planets and events and moments that had to align for that child to happen. And, sure, there were all the boyfriends and heartbreaks that had to be suffered, that you may suffer. But cherish even the most difficult of moments—those are the moments that you are most alive.

And so, I wish you joy and sorrow. May the depth of each be reflected in the depth of the other so that you understand and know the difference. Like when you lose someone you love—because that will happen.

6. Throw the word should out of your lexicon

I won’t bore you with examples, but when somebody—especially another member of the motherhood—even begins to form the word “should” with their mouth, close your ears, smile and nod if you have to, but don’t listen.

“Should” is the curse of well-meaning others. And just because they think they should, and they say you should, doesn’t mean it’s true. Close your eyes and think of a waterfall or a rose in bloom. Like the one that covers the back wall in autumn—the dusky pink rose that rambles there now—hat heralded your coming into the world this time last year.

7. When you’re exhausted, allow yourself to fall in a heap (preferably onto a soft bed)

Being mother, in my experience, is demanding. There are times when you’ll feel on top of the world, full of energy and full of readiness for what may come your way. This probably won’t happen often. Be prepared for being tired and be prepared to feel at sea from time to time, and by that I mean most of the time.

If, like me, you are somewhat used to being on top of your game,” please be kind to yourself. Having a baby changes the way we live and the way we used to live. Go with it. And when you need to rest, find the means to do that. Which brings me to the next bit.

8. Don’t forget those around you

My wish for you is that you are surrounded by love. But not just any love—the love that lasts.

The love that will carry you to the bathroom when you can’t carry yourself anymore, and hold you and mind you and take you for what you are, wherever you are. In the moments that matter. Don’t pretend to be too strong to need that sort of love, but don’t pretend to be weaker than you are to find it. That just leads to problems, and imbalance.

You have the strength of generations of women within you and you can move mountains if you have to. But in those times when you find yourself falling, don’t be too proud to call.

I will move the mountains to be there with you. And I am only your mother.

9. Follow your instinct

The more I live, the more I learn, the more I know that this is one of the strongest pieces in my daily armour. If you sense something is wrong, then you are probably right. This is something that you will have to learn to interpret and rely on for yourself. For instinct is very different from what you will see all around you, and what you will be told and what you will hear all around you. But remember, it is your movie, your experience. And everything is unique to you.

Learn from others but don’t underestimate your own understanding and knowledge. Everything you need is within you, you just need to learn your own language. To do this you need time alone, you need time in silence. Find the silence. Do yoga. Do meditation. Do breathing. Do hill walking. Do mountain climbing. Seek out inspirational people. Seek the ordinary. Find it in yourself first and then you will recognise it in others.

And when your small baby cries, trust that you will know what to do. And that may be as simple as a kiss and a cuddle, or a walk around the garden on a fine autumn day to watch the beech leaves fall, or a nursery rhyme sung for the 1000th time that never loses comfort.

10. Forever begin again

I would like to say that I will have the answers for you when you come—I wonder, will you come?—to ask me, and I would like to spare you some of the mistakes and tumbles that I’ve taken in my time of living, and my one precious year of mothering. But everyday you change and even though it may not be so obvious, I know that everyday I change with you. And for that reason, we must be ever ready to begin again.

Every time you stumble and fall back on your cushioning nappy, you get straight back up and you don’t look back. And I watch you and I draw strength and inspiration from the determined spirit that refuses to recognise obstacles like chairs, tables, doors, mounds of toys and blocking (yet well intentioned), cushioning arms. Don’t lose that spirit. You have no idea how it lifts those around you and those who will come to know and love you. When you do encounter limits, be wise, choose your approach and your strategy carefully. But don’t let fear turn you back. It is up to you to turn fear around into something of use—a stepping stone to the next level. Take the fear as a sign that the comfort of the level you are in is starting to stifle and the experience is becoming stale.

And there I will stop, for this year. 

My dearest Alannah, there is so much to learn and I see it in you with every breath. When we sang your birthday song to you the other day I fought hard to hold back the tears, not wanting to appear too soft, too motherly, and too enthralled by your innocence and beauty, and blissful ignorance to what was going on. Only once around the sun and already a blazing star.

I stand in awe, and I am honoured.

Once around the sun

September is back. And stuff always seems to happen for us in the Holly Cottage in September. Maybe it's the palpable return of winter that makes us want to squeez one last drop of happiness out of the summer, or maybe it's just the way it is. But, as a rule of thumb, when I see blackberries I think of 'stuff happening'. Like far flung trips to Nawlins and Memphis, Barbados and Cuba; a whirlwind wedding (thankfully minus hurricane) under a Caribbean sky; a little one lost; and a not-so-little one gained. And then Holly and the man's birthday celebrations sitting on top of all that. Yep, stuff sure seems to happen in September.

...there's now.
Budding geologist.

Then...

And so it's once around the sun for our little star Alannah. She tumbled out a year ago, wide eyed and full of warmth and full of wonder. And we're still here, thankfully. If only I knew then what I know now, but where would the fun have been in that? I still can't believe that they let us out of the hospital that calm September afternoon. We couldn't even get the car seat working so I sat in the back seat with her held close to me all the way home - praying not to meet a garda - and the man driving at a snail's pace for fear of doing some harm to her. It took me at least three weeks before I would take her out on my own in the car - that damn car seat would challenge Houdini. 

Anyway, we made it. We spent most of the first six months walking back and forth between the Holly Cottage and the Charleville woods - Holly minding us as I took care not to slip in my specially purchased Hunter wellies (every city slicker wears them in Stockholm). I didn't know it then, but the baby phase is probably the easiest in so many ways, and for sure the hardest in others. The easiest in that she really just lay there, or sat there in her chair, or fed, or slept, or tried to sleep. Now that she's on the move....well, it's a different story. I have considered getting eyes in the back of my head but decided it might cause problems in our relationship in the future ;) She's into everything, and especially anything that may have dirt written all over it. Sigh. I have surrendered to her fascinations - within reason of course. And she has finally accepted that stones are not for eating. Holly is still going through that phase mind you. Oh well.  

'What you mean you don't
speak russian?'

Once we had hit the six months and emerged from the cloak of winter it was time for Mammy to step out of the slippers and wellies and well - um - back into the wellies full time. Thankfully the work of an ecologist is never done and instead of twiddling my thumbs and having time to miss her, I was back in the chase of building dams and making wetlands and making trouble before the man even had her pushed down the road to the childminders that first day. Amazing how we adapt. As the great bard wrote so eloquently 'the readiness is all' or perhaps the wild abandonment of worry is more appropriate. She is as happy as a pig in muck with her childminder and she is well on the way to becoming number one tomboy on the road. After her mother of course. 

Easter came and went and then it was time for hollydays and she ran into the waves on the shores of Donegal, she swallowed the sand on the beaches of Clare, caused a riot in Limerick before charming all the shopkeepers in Killarney and rolling off the bed in Kenmare. All with Holly in tow. Holly didn't make it to Latvia though, and we were sad about that at times. But we tested and tasted Rigan delights and lounged about in coffee shops and city centre parks, and Alannah loved every minute of it. I'm sure she knew everyone in Riga by the end of it, she certainly waved at most of them and even had a television encounter - part of the Latvian 25 years of freedom from Soviet tyranny celebrations. It was a good time to be there, and we were treated to some of the best open air classical and operatic music I have ever heard. Thank you Latvia. 

But now summer has come to an end and we are officially once around the sun, mother and daughter, father and loyal madra. I'd like to say I still had no gray hairs but from time to time I see the odd one poking out from a post pregnancy re-growth fringe (they don't tell you about that shit by the way). But hey, all those sleepless nights had to find their expression somewhere. To be honest, it feels like a lot more than one year but I guess that's because we packed so much in. I'd love to have captured every moment to play them back in the decades to come as we all grow together, but we have plenty of postcards and scars to remember. And sure we need to keep plenty of space for all our solar revolutions that have yet to come. 

Happy Birthday Alannah and here's to many more (eventful) trips around the sun.

Bye Bye Baby-moon

September's baby

Today marks a new beginning for all of us here in the Holly Cottage. And no, it's not just that the spuds have gone in. It's not just that the pea and bean seeds for 2014 are cosied up in their seed trays. It's not that the first daffodil has unfurled its golden locks for us in the front garden. No, none of that - though in any other year these events would be (and still are to a certain degree) the most telling and most significant way marks in the years as they unravel before us here in the Holly Cottage. No. It's the silence in the house that gives the game away. No hushed tones as the smallest of us sleeps. No banging out of baa baa black sheep on the 'play-station'. No audible, infant testing of sounds or screams from the play mat. No Alannah. The little boss has left the building. 

Six months have disappeared in the blink of bleary eyes. Somehow last September we managed to steer our way through the 'baby arrivals area' - bedazzled as we were by that new world of nappies, sleepless nights and squirrel-sized sleep suits. I fumbled through the bewilderment and completely unfathomable nature of the breastfeeding non-schedule. We marvelled at the changes and growth from week to week. We were spellbound by smiles and the new sounds that still come daily. And that first time that she pushed herself up on her  own two tiny arms on the changing table - well, it was just another one of those things that you never thought could be so important as you watched friends and families reacting to their own children's milestones. 

It's a fantastic and wonderfully fulfilling journey experiencing everything for the first time through her eyes, through her senses, through her infant perspective. And it's exhausting too. And challenging, and intense, and isolating, and frightening and the whole array of other emotions that you could easily go through in the space of an hour in the shoes a freshly born mother's/parent's life. it certainly ranks up there with the experiences that you thought you'd never be able for. But before you knew it you were immersed in it and somehow from that bottomless pit of primeval humanness, you were doing it. 

And when it comes to babies, you can certainly forget about self. Being the primary caregiver is a great leveller in that sense as you must (there is no choice) forego all those essential habits and routines that you thought were instrumental to your day. Like getting a full night's sleep. Like having more that two hours unbroken sleep. Like relaxing through your cup of favoured beverage undisturbed - it might happen but it's certainly not guaranteed ;) Like going for a run at the drop of a hat. Like wearing a clean top for more that five minutes.  Like your time being your own to do with as you so please. Like getting your pelvic floor muscles back in shape in an instant - the ladies will understand this one ;)

This morning I dropped Alannah Marie to her childminder. Just for a play date mind. Better to call it that instead of the dreaded first day at the childminder's. Not for her benefit of course, more for the benefit of the distraught mother that left her behind and that never really thought that this day would come. And the silence is deafening. And sure, I got to get those things done that had been screaming at me for an age but I physically couldn't get to because she was wanting or needing me. But it's not the same. Her chair is empty and there isn't even the need to tiptoe for fear of her waking. She'll be back in an hour so there's no need to panic or stress. But the question keeps popping into my head as I prepare to return to the old world that came before - what did we do before her? 

March's infant.. "lemme at 'em.."

Anyway. We'll be okay. We'll all adjust. Mammy must go back to being an ecologist and championing the plight of habitats that need to be restored and plants and animals that need to be given the freedom to live in sustainable populations. And that's important enough for me to want to go back to work, to make it feel necessary for me to hand over our tiny little baby bear to someone else to care for. And the 'childminder' is a not just a thing - she is a mother and has been there before herself with twins so she is doubly experienced ;) It doesn't make it easy though. And as I look out into a world and a business community that is largely the construct of men, for men and dominated by men, I don't have to wonder why the men wonder why so few women can join them. Not as I have to acknowledge the wrench that is of leaving your beloved offspring behind you. That unnatural feeling of leaving the ones that rely on you, the small people that trust you completely, with another - and usually another woman. It's a tough one. And one that feels more than slightly off balance. One that needs to evolve, along with all the other imbalances in our social and natural world. 

In the meantime...it's bye bye baby-moon here. Onward and upward, no looking back. Except of course to linger on the precious memories of my six months spent solely caring for the needs of our beautiful Alannah Marie. She will remain central of course, but now comes the task of piling back on the layers and layers of responsibilities that were put on hold as I focused on her for the last six months. I wonder how will all those layers sit on top of this new building frame? Interesting times ahead. 

One thing's for sure - there will be plenty of change and plenty of growth and  plenty of new experiences and ample amounts of heartache and exhaustion mixed with immeasurable quantities of joy. Sounds like just another day at the office ;) 

A Day in the Life

Run Holly Run!

Inspired by the idea of flooding social media with poetry, I decided to throw my own creation into the rising waters ;) Write what you know the wise ones say, so this one is a reflection of my current days 'bringing up baby'. I hope you enjoy.

A Day in the Life 

(working title)

We awaken

In the dark

Last stars fade

Daylight creeps

Get up stand up wake up sore back

Pull the blinds

Let day begin

Let dog out do her business

Wash my face and watch it fold

Lift the baby

Change the baby

Smile into her smiles

Warmth of joy at being

Mindful princess.

Alannah to play-station now

Radio on classical

Boil the kettle

Feed the dog

Sweep the floor

Do few jobs

Wake the house

Pour the milk

Oats swell up to meet banana

Eat over-looking winter’s garden

Robin’s work is never done

Alannah cries time for feeding

And then she sleeps

Tea for me

And I pretend to be a writer

For half an hour

And work on a novel too old to be called novel.

Sun is shining

When she wakes again

Illuminating cottage kitchen

Change the baby

Happy smiling chatty

Then I feed her

Tiny toes wriggling as she latches on

All casual like

And then she’s not interested

Down on her mat on the floor

And I do a few things more

And then I play with her because she’s bored

Get the keys and lock her up

Lock her up, lock her up

Until heart-breaking cry that only we know

Mammy, Mammy I’m falling - help me!

Holding my hand holding hers

Mother’s best to soothe her

Fall into that darkest space

Where she won’t see me feel me need me

Losing mind to sleep.

And then I pretend to be a writer

Check my email, FB, Twitter

Anticipate the weather

Turning cold and misting sky

A solid roof of grey.

Holly prowls

Time for walkies

Dog leads our circus to the wood

Three musketeers

Together breathing

In the cold

Alannah’s face to heaven

Discovering sounds - ooos aaas

Delivered up to twigs and branching

Beech and towering oaks

Hovering over

Seeing through the canopy now

A tired head falls on my chest

This time peaceful

No telling signs

And I fall into my stride

And I wish that this would never end

This special time

Being mother and best friend

Her cold bare hands in mine

I stare into giant oaks that live

In timeless mystical world.

Holly staying close

Sniffing out woodland clues to

Reddest squirrels

Other musketeers

She looks to tell me with most

Honest of her trickster eyes

We must go back

Home through big open field

For that is where she gets best runs

From over top of hill

Rounding fence and back to me.

And so we go home through big field

Holly reaches for her peak

Run Holly run!

Helicopter ears -

Woosh woosh

Tongue bouncing

Mind rushing

Happiness pulsing

And then we must cross the fence

And Holly waits to go back under

Lead fastened.

Around the bend through castle gates 
Holly pulling us along

Meeting friendly faces

Everybody wants to talk

Or catch the eye of brave a leanbh

Who might gift unto them

Four and a half month baby’s wisdom and the smile

Emperors would bleed for.

Home in gentle raindrops

We walk around the garden

Blackbird following in robin’s steps

I wonder is it time to dig again

Heaving off wellies and coats

Carrying Alannah

Quick change quick feed

She sits and thinks in bouncy chair

Time maybe for another little sleep

I look to evening sky to say

Prize-winning story comes tomorrow

But I will think on it today.

Yogi salutes the sun, and Ted ;) 
yogi bears

Coffee time for me now

Savour last forbidden drops

Hope she sleeps until

Coffee has been drunk

And mother’s milk is cleansed

And then she wakes all smiles again

And then it’s one more time upon the mat

Watching me salute the sun

And I might contemplate a run

As skirts and leggings become less fun

Blinds pulled now

January’s sun is set

Heating on ‘til fire is lit

Dinner preparation at its get

And he asks, what would you like?

And I say, oh I don’t mind

And he says no - what would you like?

And that is when I must decide

And I watch as spice man cometh

And daily bread begins to fold

Aromas revealed

Cinnamon, fennel, cumin, cloves

And I am hungrier than ever I was.

Eating now

Silence mostly

She watches on

From buggy first and then my knee

And I don’t know what she sees or

What she thinks

This and every time.

Eating done

Coffee for him green tea for me

Baby feeds and cries until

Nighttime is too heavy to hold

And she is tumbled down

To summoning sleep

Our time now

We sit and watch until

Tiredness kicks in

My turn now to fight the sleep

One more time she drinks

Half awake then back to sleep

A tender hook in

Rudolph pajamas too cute for her not to wear

This late in January.

Mother lies beside

Trusting bundle of the softest sighs

Wondering

What was it like before she began?

Doors open and close

As he lets Holly out

Sound of his toothbrush

Before we wrap together

Musing to the weather

Tired comfort whispers

Glad for

Silences between

Precious in absentia dramatic

That everything is as it is.

And then it happens

At a time

To us unknown

Only silence of sleeping

For there is no-one now to listen

Three have journeyed past the hearing

Surrendering helplessly unto

Heavy weight of day and night

We fall our separate ways

Back into darkness of light

Back to where it all began

To where it all begins again

For this is all there is

We three are one

Of billions

One

This is all there is.

Catherine Wilkie

26/01/2014