Teenage kicks, oops I mean Monsters

AS an adult I have never been religious, or spiritual really, I suppose, well I know, there's more than an ample splash of the auld Catholic guilt in me than I'd like but from I was a child, I have always believed that one of the best mantras to have in life is 'do onto others and you would have others do onto you'. Also I suppose a couple of conversations I have had lately has led me to realise the real importance of 'honour thy father and mother'.


Harry Enfield’s Kevin

Right that's the religion over. But let's muse over that for a while, what does it mean? I can tell you that my Mum can push every button I have and I know from experience me hers.

But I know she would die for me, she told me often enough as a child. Joking aside, I do know that. And I would do the same for my daughter, no question.

Before any of you start on me with what comes next, I know I am lucky to have my daughter, I really do, but there are some good behaviours that I expect, though realising some of the things I have been told lately by other parents, I wonder how long my idyllic peace!!!!will last, such as it is.

I recently had a big fight with my daughter - afterwards we both knew it was one of those landmark moments which we will both remember forever and let's just say we both crossed lines.

I caught her out on a big lie, there's been too much of that lately but as I said in a previous post, at the moment and long may that continue (I feel like that phrase is becoming like an anti-curse), if I can't spot it immediately, which is generally-ish the norm, there are small alarm bells ringing other times to warn me to be on my guard.

So anyway, I pulled her up on it (the subject of which will be another post, in a while though as it's a toughie!) and she put the blame on others. But what she didn't expect was me to call her bluff, which is ridiculous because I have attempted to bring her up when she will stand up and be counted as it were, where she would face the consequences of her actions and well be courageous, no matter what so this bluff-calling shouldn't have been unexpected.

I think the message got diluted somewhere.

So as I said I called her bluff and she blocked me, literally. She fought me literally. She has never been so confrontational with me and I hated it, we both hated it and to be honest, I will not stand for it. Does that sound optimistic?

She never had a temper tantrum – not even during the terrible-twos (and I'm not exaggerating), she slept through regularly from she was seven-ish weeks old, she cut her first tooth at seven weeks too, she has always been a pleasure and delight to bring into company, she always had impeccable manners, she's smart, gorgeous and she's been a wee star, so is her teenagehood a payback now for all that?

Don't get me wrong; some of her good behaviours growing up have been down to our routine, my motherhood, how I was brought up and of course the kind of person she is.

But when did this teenage monster came and replaced my child?


Thanks to www.threadless.com (great tshirt site)

Funny or what just as I type this two awful teenager daughters has come onto my telly screen in the background on BBC1's 'Teen Angels' programme, what a bloody nightmare, in the last 30 seconds, I heard shut up scream about 15 times. They had absolutely no respect for their mother who gives them just far too much. Spoilt and selfish brats who just scream and scream demands, horrors!


"I am just so, like, misunderstood!!!"

We would never have dreamt of that as a teenager, don't get me wrong, we were brats, but there was a certain level of respect demanded in our house and I have to say I agree with it.

Children are a wonderful gift from where ever but you know what, so are parents (ignoring those who don't deserve the name just for this particular post you understand).

There was the door slamming, rolled up eyes, breaking of curfews, I was bad but one brother was a complete pr*ck looking back, but I don't ever remember shouting or screaming 'shut up', 'fuck off' or worse, 'I hate you'. It just didn't happen.

Course there was that time my brother at the age of 14/15 was caught smoking AND drinking in a bar where our Mum would go to once in a while, oh the madness that day.

It was one of the few times when our parents were actually speaking and both of them were speaking (ha) to the brother when he stormed off up the stairs with the retort of 'f*ck off', a big no no in our house.

He thought because my Dad's leg was broken and in plaster paris up to his hip at the time that he wouldn't follow him up the stairs, Jaysus what a bad decision.

I can laugh heartily about it now and I mean heartily, I even do a mean impression of it, but at the time, the tip of my Dad's nose went white as he lifted the good leg up one stair then followed by dragging the other one after, rather like that old black and white movie, The Mummy.

When my brother saw this he went the whitest shade I have ever seen before hightailing it out the first floor bedroom window, jumping onto the coalshed, jumping off that, running off down the street before hiding in the local priests house. (plonker and drama queen that he is)

In complete fairness to my daughter, (though she's only 13 and hopefully it'll never come, oh come one I really do live in hope) on a scale of one to 10, in comparison to these brats on the telly right now, she's a 0.1. I just would not allow that behaviour in our home or indeed allow her to speak to me in that fashion.

There's just so much take, take, take and gimme, gimme, gimme, with a lot of kids now and I am really frightened that we are beginning the start of something really awful to come with a nation of selfish, self-absorbed buck eejits.

How dare any child think it is okay to speak to their mother like that or indeed father but I do believe you have to have a certain and special respect for your mother.

Growing up my Mum would always sing this auld song 'No charge' in different situations, the one incident in particular I remember was if she had borrowed money (this maybe happened once) and you asked for it back she would sing 'for carrying you in my womb for nine months, no charge, for staying up with you all night when you were sick, no charge', etc, etc.

However annoying it was at the time there is an awful lot of truth there.

Cos the fact is, in the vast majority of cases, and it is the vast majority, there is no one at all in this earth, ever, who will love you like your mother loves you. There is no one who will encourage you like her, or try to advise and support you like your mother. And each does it in their own way.

And if we are on your cases it is generally because your behaviour is not becoming of you, is not worthy of you and because we want you to be the best you can be. But you need to meet us halfway, don't scream, shout and stamp your feet because you think we don't know what's going on, talk to us, let us know. How can we help otherwise? And that's what we are here for, to help you be the best you can be, not to be on your case. And never ever forget, the words of that song 'It's all be done before'. We did not come up the Lagan in a bubble.

I was once asked to describe my daughter after a bad bout of teenagedom nonsense and I said 'quietly stubborn', they thought it sounded like me! Maybe part of the worst clashes between mothers and daughters in particular is because we are more similar on a basic level than we would ever imagine.

In most cases, and I do know I have been wildly wrong on occasions, the awful rows have been because I need to know she's safe and it's such an awful world out there and it's a great one too but until she has the ammo to arm herself for that world, my rules apply. That's life and believe me this crazy malarkey of teenagedom is harder on the parent than the child, having done both.

I actually said that to my daughter tonight as it happens, there was a story in the papers here about the crazy, mad, dangerous and sexually promiscuous antics of teenagers from one of the more affluent areas in Dublin. Telling her about it, as a prelude to talking to her about it and to her I think I sounded like a fogey.

Me: "You wouldn't believe this story in the paper about the Wez disco (a teenage passage in Dublin for some kids from what I gather – but I
will speak about that again).

Daughter: Smiles a ridiculous knowing grin, rolls eyes up at daft and, like I mean, Like SO out of touch mother

Cue mother losing all rhyme and reason.



It was at that point all sensibilities went out the window before I raged, "I am not that out of touch with teenagers, I had barely left my teenage years when I had you". That shut her up and I think it was one of those moments, for maybe the first time, when she actually had a glimpse of me, as a person in my own right.

As CSN sang 'It's been a long time coming', only joking, it's only recently that my lost identity as me versus being her mother in her eyes has bothered me, it was part and parcel of what I choose years ago and that's been the way it is and should be to some extent. It's just that lately I feel that my efforts now, when she should have some kind of cop on as to the lengths I go to for her, are deemed, like WHATEVER.

B*ll*x to that, I know that this is going to be an ongoing issue, but I am a mother and so many other things too and I go to every length that I need to to make her happy, fulfilled and I worry constantly, like every other parent, that I fall short, I don't need my efforts to be taken for granted completely. That's fine for the two-year-old who believes, as they should, that the world revolves around them, and it is does. But for the teenager, your parent's world still revolves around you, but you need to start acknowledging what is being done, worried about, worked for, and all for you! No seriously, it's all done for you. We just want you to be happy.


thanks to www.honourlevel.com

I suppose a lot of what this comes down to is that you only ever have one set of parents, and I know some people have not been that lucky for whatever reason, but for most people they are safe in the knowledge that their parents have loved them from every cell in their body, that gives parents an ownership-ish, a belief in, and well dibs on you, get over it and honour your parents, because they're worth it.

(This post was requested by one of my visitors following a spat of huge proportions with their older teenager. Will this help? probably not, but sure I'll give it a try.)

Red tape and Redmum

IF there is an easy way and a hard way for something official to be done, then you can guarantee that, generally, through no fault of my own, I have a million layers of bureaucracyto wade through.

It’s that time of year so take for example passports. Can you believe that I am supposed to seek the permission of my daughter’s father before I can get a passport, the so-called father who hasn’t done anything to deserve such a title in nine years, she’s now 13! The man who hasn’t seen her or attempted to see her since way before she started school.



I first encountered this problem when we had our first sun holiday away when she was seven years old and she either needed her own passport or to be included on mine.

Firstly having gotten the forms, I had them filled out and signed by the appropriate witnesses, only to find out that I needed another form which would be signed by her father in the presence of a member of the Gardai or another assigned professional.

Firstly I couldn’t believe this, I mean, really, I am supposed to phone him up, or go see him and ask her permission to get a passport for my daughter, I don’t bloody think so.

This was about six weeks before we were due to fly as it had all been last minute. So I forged the so-called father’s signature and asked a work colleague (who knew the score) to ask her husband (a principal and legal signatory) to countersign it.

So the next day, she brought it back in and to my utter dismay he had signed the wrong place. At the time I felt it was a genuine mistake but looking back on it, why would a teacher get such a simple thing wrong? While I maybe-ish understand their reluctance to do it, well actually no I don’t. She knew my situation and it’s more than a little disheartening to think they believed our situation didn’t warrant their help or that I would do something to get them into trouble. But sure the bottom line and more pressing worry was that I was back to square one and beginning to imagine contacting the fecker who ceased contacting us those years before.

Poring over the small print in the passport form I discovered I could also complete the application with letter from a solicitor stating I was the sole guardian, or so I thought at the time. I called on a friend of my father’s and ask him to write me one knowing the situation with my ex.

Despite thinking this was what I needed and one long wait in the passport office later, I was informed that I needed to legally do this, a letter wasn’t sufficient; I needed to go to the courts. I live in a different jurisdiction from my child’s father and this turns into a bit of a nightmare, not to mention that I just didn’t have the money to do it and the fact remained there was no compunction on him turning up. Bear in mind that this is the man who choose himself to leave our wonderful daughter out of his life.

So this is where things become really complicated, are you sure you are following this?

During the next lunchtime in work I visited a solicitor around the corner where I worked. I produced the letter which from my Dad’s pal and explained my dilemma and the urgency of getting the passport.

They signed the phone, charged me a fiver, stamped the form and did the same to my daughter’s birth certificate. Voila, as easy as that!!!

So back into the passport office and off we went on holiday.



For her first passport picture my daughter sported very fetchy and deadly cute ponytails at either side of her head.

As tempted as I was, and I REALLY, really was, I opted for a three-year passport. Much as I relished the thought of my beautiful daughter grimacing at the age of 18 handing over this 10-year portrait to custom officials or EEK, even worse, her mates, I couldn’t go through with it at the end of the day. (As an aside, the picture was so gorgeous that I had the passport framed when it expired).

If I knew then what I know now, I would have gotten the 10-year one, cos I had to go through the whole rigmarole again two years ago, the whole shibang.

Having obviously blotted all that nonsense, (that passport arrived the morning we were leaving, it couldn’t have been closer, tighter or more stressful) I this time thought ahead and phoned the passport office and said:

Me: I have this form, that form and oh this form, her old passport, can you tell me as a single parent, is there anything else I need?

Passport office: Nope that is everything you need.

Wouldn’t you think they’d know? Of course they didn’t. A morning off work taken out of my holiday entitlement later spent waiting in the passport office later and I was literally REDmum, frustrated, angry and seriously p*ssed off. After my long queue I was told that I needed to do the whole lot with the solicitor again.



One visit to the solicitor later and another fiver lighter I discovered that I should never have been given the passport in the first place, when the solicitor asked me some questions and concluded that they should not have signed the forms in the first place without a court order.

Sometimes you have to tell more to a stranger that you’d care to but I briefly explained the story and to my amazement, she signed it again. Hence another passport for another three years, at this point that is the limit for a child under 16 years old, worst luck for us, or should I say me, seeing as how I am going to have to traipse back to that solicitor when it’s needed again and I don’t work anywhere near there now. And whose to say they will do it the next time…

Sometimes as a parent, and sometimes as a single parent, you have to do what you have to do and I make absolutely no apologies for that. I make no apologies for having to break the law to do my job as a mother, particularly when the law is an ass, as they say. And I will not apologise for refusing to ask permission from yer man to plan things with my daughter.

These measures have been put in place to protect children but we know of cases where they haven’t worked, where children have been abducted by a parent. For the vast majority of parents this course of action would not enter their heads, but there are others who think differently and were they protected by these laws?

It’s a funny world when the laws put in place to protect you actually work against you.

But back to the end of the story, is there ever an end? My daughter lost her passport last year on holiday with her Nanny. AAarrrrggghhhh, thankfully though she is on my passport which doesn’t expire till 2009. What happens when school trips come up before her 16th birthday when she can do it herself with my permission (well I believe that to be the case)? I haven’t a foggy notion, but that’s a worry for another day.

With or without you...

With or Without You2

THERE was absolutely no way if you wanted to avoid U2 this weekend in Dublin to avoid U2, none at all. From having a pint with bar stereos playing the entire U2 back catalogue, to programmes on the telly, to the crazy traffic through town, to the phenomenal amount of pedestrians through town, to car stereos blasting U2, to the friends descending on the capital to crash on our floors cos they were lucky enough to be one of the quarter of a million people who managed to get a ticket considering the tickets for the first two concerts sold out in just 50 minutes.


Crazy traffic…


Crowds stretching right up O’Connell Street

There were impromptu car parks, packed hotels, special buses and travellers coming from as far afield as Australia.


All sorts of enterprising schemes hit Dublin during weekends such as this.

I heard of one Australian farmer who gets most of his work done when it rains which it is back home. So he flew over on Thursday night, caught Friday’s concert, and was back on the plane by Saturday for work, now that a crazy amount of money. And surely if you were paying that amount of money, you would make more of it and maybe pay someone to do the work for a couple of days… But that’s just me, I just cannot imagine spending that kind of money for two days away on the other side of the world for a concert.

Other people who had tickets weren’t able to get to Dublin due to a ridiculous mark up of plane tickets, a one-way ticket to Dublin from London was quoted to one person at €350 with no available flights back on Sunday or Monday.

One minor consolation for me without a ticket though concerns the rich feckers who managed to blag corporate tickets in that their view was obscured by the lip of the stadium, he he, don’t you just love the justice of it all?

Though in saying that I was really hoping that someone I have done a bit of work over the last year for had tickets for what would be among the best seats in the house and they weren’t sure on Friday afternoon if they would go.

I practically leapt on him (not really-ish) saying ‘well givvus a call if you decide not to go’. Despite the heavy misty rain (I suppose that wouldn’t affect the soft seats he would be sitting on – sigh) and the fact that he is 60 (ok ok I know I am being ageist but I was soo hoping), I didn’t get a phonecall and *sigh* I can only assume that he went after all.

Heavy misty rain just in time for Friday night’s concert


Wisely putting on a rain coat before heading off to the concert…

And from those I know who went to either Friday or Saturday, it was all well worth it. Here’s hoping a ticket comes my way sometime over the day for tonight’s final concert.

Becoming a phone nazi

HAVE I ever mentioned that my child is a daughter? Ok ok that’s a defunct question cos I know I haven’t in some futile attempt to maintain my and her anonymity therefore protecting blushes all round.

However I realise as time goes on that I probably have given this little/big fact away without trying to because as we know some behaviour is very obviously boyish and other behaviour is obviously girly.

Which brings me to why I am posting this at all, it concerns phones and as the post goes on you will realise that some of the behaviour is very definitely that of a teenage girl.

My daughter is away with a pal for a week down in the wilds of county Kerry. She was given a friend’s old phone (thanks a million tetra) and off she went. Being slightly broke just before she went (understatement of the year) I sent her down credit a few days later so she could make calls.

This brings me to my first gripe about teenagers and phones and yes yes of course I did the same. Of course that was the days before mobile phones, so it wasn’t as expensive, back in those days myself and a pal would phone each other for hours despite having just left each other and even worse despite living seven houses apart (Jaysus what brats we were!!!).

Anyway I texted her yesterday to tell her to have a good time at the disco they were going to last night and received no reply, which leads me to the conclusion that she has managed to spend €10 in a day and a half, but sure that’s nothing! No really…

I decided to give her a call only to get her answering machine, and don’t start me on that, it is just loud, awful music and I constantly hang up before hearing the end, if indeed there is one.

So I phoned the pal only to get a message which went:

Pal: ‘Hi this is ‘such and such*’,
Daughter: ‘no this is ‘such and such’
P: ‘no I am ‘such and such’
D: ‘no I am’
(cue much pealing of laughter)

(*add name here)

This nonsense goes on for more than two and a half minutes, I hung up at this point having gotten more than fed up listening to teenage girlish nonsense.

I have tried to explain to them both that considering most of their pals would be pay as you go and won’t have bill phones (for all the difference that makes to money wasting) that they have to pay extra each time to hear this drivel. The previous drivel (much like the dialogue above but slightly different) was changed and replaced with an even longer, just as teenagey annoying drivel mark two.

There is also the matter of the landline and this is where the real problems come in. Despite rarely using my landline, my bills continued to soar and soar over the last year.

At first, some of it could be blamed on my mum and each two months when the bill came in, once again all hell would break loose at home.

A pal suggested I switch to monthly bills as these might be easier to handle. Maybe that would be true if the daughter hadn’t accordingly upped her phone usage due to meeting new pals in a new school.

So each time I would phone the house, the phone would be constantly engaged. When you would get through the standard lie would be ‘they phoned me’. So you’d shout and say ‘the bill is itemised, so I will know’.

Anyway over the last year I have attempted to find a phone lock, which incidentally proved impossible but I did find a phone last September, priced at €100, which would allow the user to bar numbers, bar all outgoing calls except for emergency numbers all with the help of a code but I baulked at the price.

What a big buck eejit I was, when earlier this year my monthly bill hit a staggering €200, I hit the roof. I did try to talk to her, shout, scream, pull my hair and worry incessantly about how I could not afford this at all, by any stretch of the imagination. It did not sink in with her and another €200 bill arrived.

If I was to think hard about it now, I would actually get upset at how much she spent on the phone.

For me the amount spent represented a foreign holiday for us both that we will not get, clothes for us both again that we won’t get, payments for the many bills I receive, or phone credit for her mobile. But she has screwed that up, hence she has only received about €40 in credit from me in the past six months, if that even. I don’t even think she fully comprehends what a complete and utter waste of money those bills have been, money we don’t have.

In fact I don’t think they care, other than not being able to phone willy nilly.

Anyway I wish I had bought the €100 euro landline phone last September, would you believe in the two weeks, it paid for itself. My average monthly bill over the last three months has been €25!!!!!!!

Now everyone has to phone her, which I think it is only fair. It is time that other parents bear the brunt of their children’s aimless ramblings on the phone and not me.

I suppose one of the things that has p*ssed me off most about this, is that I tried to talk to her, tried to explain how much of a blow losing that money each month was to us and our household and tried to reason with her about allowing her to call in the evenings when calls are cheaper.

None of that works, so I have become a phone nazi and I would recommend anyone else to do that too. It’s the only way. Feck talking to them, this is a teenager in a world of their own, so just do it.

ARRrrrggggggGGGGgggghhhHHH - it’s only dishes or is it?

WE have been having a wrangle for the last year, let’s be honest, it’s been much longer than that, about doing the bloody dishes.

Now that the young wan is 13, doing the dishes is one of their household jobs; the others being keeping their room tidy (impossible), tending to the doggie (done mostly by me), general gopher duties (many trips to the shops) and lifting up after themselves (never, never done).

When the dishes first became their domain, oh how they sparkled and shone, the young wan lapped up the praise and took pride in their work. Jaysus you should see the salmonella-ridden dishes and cups now.

It has become normal practice for me to start shouting (understatement of the year) about the state of the dishes prior to dishing out dinner when you find food hardened on plates or cutlery (yeuck) and that’s a good day cos at least the dishes are done.

Then there are the days that the dishes aren’t done… Bear in mind, generally the dishes are only what they have used that day, so it’s actually just cleaning after themselves.

On those days, all hell breaks loose and has a party in our living room. I have just reached a stage in this ongoing battle where if I come in and see the dishes still sitting by the sink, I lose all rhyme and reason, literally.

We live in a small flat, it’s one of those flats where the kitchen (ha, what a big description for such a small place) is in the living room. So while the rest of the flat is messy, with no storage, I NEED to come home after a day’s work to a reasonably tidy living room. It’s like my tidy sanctuary at the end of a busy day.

I have done the talking ‘make sure the dishes are done darlin by the time I get home’, to ‘if those dishes aren’t done, you are dead’ to the shouting, screaming, swearing… Meanwhile the child has grown into a quietly stubborn teenager who would appear to aspire to be the laziest person in Ireland.

So this problem has grown and grown.

Once (let’s not lie it was more than once but on one occasion) I came home to a seemingly tidy living room and the dishes appeared done. I went to get a spoon to make a cup of tea only to discover not one piece of cutlery in the drawer, where on earth were they? Then I noticed a pot was gone as were plates, cups and glasses. In fact there wasn’t one glass left in the cupboard.

Cue one harassed shout to the young wan ‘where’s all my crockery’ who comes in with the obligatory shrug and ‘dunno’.

Now any other parent will tell you, if you aren’t one yourself and then you’ll already know, that children and lying is generally wild easy to spot. I mean really easy and long may that continue. It’s funny though all those times growing up when we wondered how our parents knew when we were up to no good was actually because it really was written all over your face.

So one trip into the bastion of filth that is their bedroom and the hidden treasure hoard were discovered in a storage box…

Not the actual pile, but close…

What kind of foolish, stupid and not to mention loony behaviour is that? And why was my child doing it?

Not knowing at all the answers to any of these strange acts, but sure as we all know it is easier to hide the dishes rather than doing them (ha) and of course Mum won’t shout after finding that little crock of laziness (bigger HA)

That was about a year and a half ago and thankfully after about four episodes of ‘hide the dishes’; the young wan quickly (once again ha) learnt this wasn’t the way to go.

This would never work…

The main problem is that when they come home from school, they think they have all the time in the world to mess about. Don’t talk to me about homework or school, that’s another post entirely and definitely for another day. So the next thing I am calling saying I am two minutes away and panic descends in the RedMum household as one child tries to get the dishes done before I get back.

This generally means just wiping the plates with a tea towel, as if you wouldn’t notice. The young wan is still doing this and no amount of shouting, screaming, rewashing of the dishes by the offender has so far worked, but I plod on safe in the knowledge that the young wan will bend before I do… (Do I sound anyway confident there?)

I have compromised, very rarely is there a shed load of dishes to be done, I will generally try to do that before going to bed, or after dinner itself, so the young wan only has to keep the sink free from their own washing. Unfortunately I seem to have lost out big time in that deal.

It took me sitting down with them recently and explaining that I need their help, I need their contribution to the house, I need to not be wiping their nose at this stage (as you can guess I’m being polite there), that RedMum flies into a red rage now when they are not done and I need them to take a bit more responsibility and pride in our home, such as it is. That means, DO THE BLOODY DISHES.

Summer Sunday - it can only mean GAA

IT'S a summer Sunday in Dublin and that can only mean the usual build-up of GAA traffic on my road, mighty craic altogether.

For those visitors who don’t know what the GAA is it is an amateur sporting organisation founded to preserve Irish sports, such as hurling and football (not soccer). The games date back hundreds and hundreds of years, while hurling predates Christianity in Ireland.

Everyone should see a hurling match at least once in their lives, even the last five minutes alone which can be the most exciting, fast and furious when absolutely anything can happen.

But anyway back to why I am writing this piece. I live on one of the many routes to Croke Park where all the big matches and finals, etc are played and each Sunday for a couple of hours, the roads around my area are packed with slow moving vehicles. The current traffic jam started around about two and a half hours ago with no signs of stopping in the near future. Well not until the main matches start in Croker anyway.

But people don’t mind, it’s a lovely day, the traffic is moving (albeit slowly), the car stereos are on, elbows are out the window with the odd spot of friendly interaction with other supporters in other cars, as well as banter with supporters of the other team.

All the occupants in the cars, vans and minibuses are wearing their county colours, so far today I have seen Laois, Dublin and Kildare shirts, flags and those silly plaited wool thingies, haven’t a clue what you’d call them.

There is always a steady hum of conversations, shouting and laughing drifting up to my window, the occasional pop song and an hour ago the beeping of car horns, which can only mean one thing, one of the teams playing today is driving in their bus down the road.

The night before a match, the team will stay in a hotel close to Croker and then they will be bused in under Garda escort sometime before the match. And you can feel the excitement in the air as people realise the bus is coming up beside them, hence the shouting and horn blowing.

The players are all heroes and stars in their home county, as well they should be. Playing hurling or football for your county is an honour and is treated as such by most. Many will hold down full time jobs and will train so many times a week, probably for a club as well as their county team.

While the traffic makes it way down, those who have decided to park up all make the final leg of their journey with a half hour-ish walk to Croke Park. You’ll see families, fathers holding the hands of their youngsters, young lovers (both clad in their county colours), gangs of lads, gangs of girls, gangs, everyone loves to see their county play. You’ll also see families sitting on foldaway chairs eating a picnic out of the boot of their car before setting off to the park.

Then the road goes quiet again, the traffic returns to normal and cars are parked everywhere. Sometimes the clampers have a field day and other times they obviously decide to leave it alone for now anyway.

I wouldn't park there like that if I were you...

Later this afternoon, the calm will be broken by the deluges of people walking back to their cars. This starts with a few stragglers of people from the losing team who have had enough of seeing their team fare badly or those who want to hit the road before the traffic gets bad.

The stragglers become a steady stream of people walking back up the road, some cheering and laughing, others depressed and not to mention the knackered children being dragged with the lucky younger ones riding their shoulders of one of the adults.

Many people also stay to have a few drinks in one of the many pubs in the wider area surrounding Croker. By 8pm tonight they will be in some state…

To find out more about the GAA and the sports mentioned, go to www.gaa.ie

The last time I saw you

IT'S Father's Day this weekend and I suppose its got me thinking, the last time I saw you was at the end of that summer two years ago which I spent travelling up and down the 100 miles to come and see you in hospital. I had no idea you were so ill.

That summer was the first time in a while that all your children would be together at the one time in the one place. Up until that Friday evening, bar one or two occasions, if I was up to see you, the others were away and if the others were with you, I was away. Looking back on it, something was very different that weekend and I will always be thankful for that.

For a start, I took the afternoon off so I could get presents for my nieces and nephews whom I hadn’t seen in a while and who would be there to see you too. After shopping, with arms full of teddy bears and toys, I ran to catch a bus into town to begin my journey home.

Dublin isn’t an easy city to get across on a Friday afternoon and getting close to town, I got anxious thinking I would miss the bus, so I stood up and talked to the bus driver about the mad, crazy traffic and how I would miss my bus home. Astonishingly the driver decided to drop off all the passengers in town and then divert from his normal route along a one-way traffic system to drop me off at the bus station.

I caught my bus and three hours later I was practically skipping into the hospital, delighted to be seeing you, delighted to be seeing other members of our family whom I hadn’t seen in a while. However their faces stopped me in my tracks.

They told me how bad you were, how you had gone down very quickly and things were looking bad. Up to that afternoon, the hospital said you were making progress, things were going well. They advised me to let you rest but I wanted to let you know I was here and ran up to see you. I will never ever forget seeing you lying on the bed, with an oxygen mask on your face, your laboured breathing and how you had gone downhill since the weekend before.

Shocked and shaken by the sight of you in the hospital bed, I went over and caressed your face, kissed your head and my voice cracking told you that I loved you and I would be back to see you later. “Okay pet”, you said. Tears streaming down my face (then as now) and that was the last thing you said to me, after I left, things got worse – you got worse.

We were advised to go home and let you rest and we did. When I phoned later that evening, I was told that we should come back to the hospital. That 11pm taxi-ride was one of the most horrible journeys of my life.

We got to the hospital, no one talking as we travelled up the six floors to where you were. You looked even worse, more uncomfortable and more laboured. We sat with you all night, all worried and unsure of what we could do, the reality was we were doing all we could by being with you.

I remember holding your hand, you knew it was me and held my hand back. We all spoke quietly and then it was time for the priest to come and deliver the last rites to you. He was only new to the hospital and very nervous making smalltalk with people who just didn’t want to know but were trying to be polite.

At one point during the sacrament you appeared to come too and looked shocked and scared to see the priest and us praying over you but you prayed too, mumbling the words with us.

At different points you spoke to people who were over our head. Your eldest child, ever Mr Sensible, said it could be due to a lack of oxygen but I know what I know and that is that people whom you loved and whom loved you were coming by to welcome you. Not being a spiritual person and not knowing what I believe in that way, this is somewhat hard for me to grasp, but I saw you smile and chat away (though we didn’t know what you were saying) to them all. Your gaze was direct when looking at them, not the way you looked at us with obvious discomfort and pain, your expressions clear, others besides us were there and it was comforting to see and know that.

At one point, I went for a cigarette with my aunt where we ended up helping some lost girl get a taxi and get out of the maze of the hospital. We went back up to the ward where you were and on the way we stopped to watch a beautiful sun rise behind the steeple of a nearby church.

As we headed back down the corridor to your ward, we were told to 'hurry in this is it’. Nothing could have prepared me…

We went in and as we did you just passed on, I could tell by your face. Everyone was standing stunned around your bed, unsure. That was the last time I hugged you. It was strange, horrible, heartbreaking to say goodbye and I did. We all did and then were taken to a room where we all sat looking at each other. One of the hardest was leaving the hospital at 5am and leaving you there too.

Since growing up, we have had a strange and strained relationship, we both know why but we healed many, many things over that summer and I will always be so grateful for that. I am so grateful for the many precious memories from that summer in the hospital. Sitting with your friends, chatting and laughing. Watching you squirm as your friends told me stories of your youth that you thought inappropriate but nevertheless hilarious. I will always be grateful that the last words I said to you that you responded to were ‘I love you Daddy’. After all, at one point, I was Daddy’s girl; I believed that I would marry you when I grew up.

I will always be indebted to that bus driver for getting me to my bus in time to tell you that I love you before you became too ill to know what was happening around you. I will always be so grateful for that act of kindness, sometimes we have no idea how a small gesture can have a profound effect on someone. I will also be forever indebted to the powers that be that ensured we all there together with you.

Despite initially feeling guilty about dragging my aunt away when I did, I now am of the belief that you wanted it that way. Why did I sit all night, not once going out for a ciggie until that moment? I tend to believe that you thought it better for us to be away for that one moment, both of us. I don’t know why but you did.

There was so much more and bigger than us working then, probably working throughout that summer. How else can I explain everything?

I’ve been waiting a long time to write this, I haven’t been able to before now though much of this has been screaming around my head waiting to be released. I think about you often. On my first day in my new job I started after you died, I thought about you as I walked in, I thought about you laughing at my job but I know you would have been, well are, proud of me, of that I am very certain. You were a gentleman and I miss you Daddy. Happy Father's Day.

Galway Abú

I’ve just spent a wonderful couple of days with an old pal in the west of Ireland with the most magnificent weather so far this year.

Spending time with my pal reminded me how it is so important to spend time with friends, how important it is to recharge the auld batteries, not to mention the soul and no where better than the west of Ireland with someone wonderful and their family. Life can be soo busy that we forget all this and before you know it too much time has passed since spending time with important people.

Between magnificent sunsets, stunning sandy beaches, old friendly company, laughing and crying babies, beautiful food, we all had a ball – the teenager, the doggie and me.

During one of our leisurely afternoons on one of the many beaches, we discovered that doggies do not know instinctively how to swim. The young wan headed off to the water with a very excited and delighted doggie and the dog’s squeaky bottle. Once the bottle was hurled into the sea, off the dog bounded and I mean bounded.

bounding…

But once in the water up to her neck, she just froze looking absolutely petrified and no amount of cajoling would budge her, none at all. She hadn’t a clue what to make of all this water and looked absolutely petrified.

After much shouting at the doggie, hearty laughs, clapping (don’t know why we thought that would work) laughing some more, the young wan went in to rescue the dog (I was wearing linen and had no intention of trying to hitch them up my legs). After a futile attempt to jump up on the young wan, the doggie was pushed by the bum back onto dry land.

I don’t think that the doggie was traumatised…. well much anyway.

And just because I have nothing left to say, I’ll let these pix taken from the weekend do all the talking.

Ouch, body piercings...

BEING a bank holiday here today in Ireland, I decided to give the young wan a bit of responsibility and for the first time allow them to go into town with their pal.

In fairness to them, they were back well before the 6.30pm deadline… and spent their six euro on posters of Kurt Kobain. Little did I know along with the Kurt Kobain poster to hang alongside Marilyn Manson, they also brought home a leaflet about body piercing, Holy Jaysus.

Finding the leaflet later on sitting on the table I decided have a read and it made my eyes water, no seriously!

The leaflet was a glossy A3 sheet, folded into 6 parts, printed back and front and almost promised a particular lifestyle, a cool lifestyle and just the type of thing to widen a teenager’s eyes.

Along with 4 columns of body piercing, (in my day we all went to the local chemist for ear piercing) there was information about piercing merchandise, after care products, healing times and FAQ (frequently asked questions).

The body piercing list is something else, with things I have never heard of before and I can only imagine, things like guice (healing time 3 – 5 months, apparently) costing (with ring) 60 euro and others…

Or maybe you could try the hafada with only 2 – 4 months healing time, easy to heal simple piercing the brochure says, a snip at 60 euro also with bar.

These ‘procedures’ were found under the male and female genital piercing sections and I don’t even want to imagine… unfortunately I did having read the leaflet and I wish I hadn’t.

I don’t really understand why a responsible business would let kids near the premises, let alone pierce them and I suppose I am annoyed that they were able to get this leaflet for ideas to be put into their head.

I have heard so many times about kids going off and getting their tongues, bellybuttons, etc pierced without parental permission. Do I trust my child not to be that impressionable? you bet your arse I don’t. And I really would prefer that they wouldn’t have anything done whether it’s the septum with keeper or the conch bar. And don’t get me started on tattoos, oh god no.

I discovered the leaflet with a pal and we looked over them all and I suppose it struck me that its not that I don’t like piercings, I do on others. Despite having my own ears pierced twice ( I grew up in the 80s – so no explanation necessary) and by the end of my teens, I found earrings to be a complete pain in the arse, banging off your ears, catching your hair and getting lost, so I barely, if ever, wear them now.

As I said, I like piercings but I suppose its one of those things that I can like in others but it’s just not for me and definitely not for my child. So the thought of my child having any of these things at this age is too much. It’s not like getting your ears done anymore, a naval ring, or Jaysus lip ring, bar, whatever, is marking your body for life.

But this is where I sound old – so what and so be it! I just do not want child to mar their beautiful face or ‘noooooooooooo’ body with a permanent piercing. I have tried talking about the fickleness of fashion but despite being among the younger mums of all the kids in their year, I allegedly haven’t a clue.

My child found the leaflet funny particularly all the places you can have pierced, maybe that will be enough to put them off, what do you think?

Excuse me, my child and I need a chat…

Chuffed to bits I am

I GET the Sunday Tribune each week but somehow today with all the happenings of an Irish bank holiday, I haven't yet finished reading it yet and in doing that nearly missed something wonderful...

In between the normal Sunday routine in my house, I decided to log on this evening and have a look at the visitor stats on the site and was amazed to see the number of hits from Ireland today.

I found this a bit strange, blog explosion is great and I generally find the vast majority of my visitors are from America so curiosity aroused I clicked into one of the referring pages that brought someone to my site and found a reference to redmum in the Sunday Tribune printed today.

So I checked it out and found an article where someone is talking about my post, amongst others, entitled 'Don't talk to me about U2'.

I was so delighted, I phoned one friend only she was in bed (sorry bout that Jordie) and then phoned the lovely man who didn't know about the site at all and so one hasty explanation ensued. (I haven't really told anyone about the site yet, in case they think I should stick to the day job). The call was all the sweeter because he had the Tribune to hand and could see the article in all it's glory.

If you'd like to see( ah go on, go on, go on, go ON...) you can check it out here (chest swells with pride).

Sure I'm wildly chuffed... Thanks Joe Bloggs! And hopefully the ticketloser doesn't read the Tribune...

My little doggie has a stalker…

WE have our little bundle of joy for just more than a year now and our new doggie, cos she is still new-ish, is the baby of the house. She is more demanding than my own child ever was, except of course now that they are a teenage monster, and to say we spoil the dog probably doesn’t go far enough. Well due to the cost I haven’t brought her to be fixed and had planned to go any day now to have her ‘done’ and get her booster shots.

Unfortunately she has come into heat again before I could do that and this will be the second time. The first time wasn’t so bad, apart from a bit of a mess, we weren’t hassled by dogs, we were able to take her for her walks without the fear of little puppies – but not this time, my little baby is now a woman… dog.

She has been in heat now for about two and a half weeks, and over the last three days a neighbouring dog has taken to whining and camping out the front of our house; my poor baby has a stalker and a very determined one at that.

At first it wasn’t so bad, you could sneaky our doggie out, let her do her business, have a quick run-a-round before heading back in, not now… Everytime I look out my window, he is there, sniffing around and whining. I have lost count of the amount of people who have checked this dog’s collar to see where it comes from and who it belongs to because it looks to them to be lost and dejected. Dejected maybe, lost certainly not, and definitely a little too amorous for my liking. People have rang my doorbell to say ‘yer dog wants in, he’s whining!’. So much for me hiding the dog from the landlord! If he calls by this weekend, he will find this border collie encamped on our front step...

In the morning, the young wan will bring the doggie out for a quickie run when the friends call to walk to school and then again when home from school. But at the moment, the other dog has been stalking, hiding and ready, really ready to pounce. Bear in mind, my doggie is a mixed-breed miniature snauzzer, she is really a cute terrier look to her and this mutt is a big dirty, hairy collie. And not that I have any intention of letting her get with puppy, I am annoyed with myself that she has come into heat before we visited the vet, the mix of those two wouldn’t be pretty at all. And not to mention that my doggie could nearly comfortably walk right under this dog without touching its underbelly – and I mean that figuratively.

Then once the young wan has gone to bed I keep a lookout to see if the dog is about before bringing her out again. I can’t tell you how many times I have been just about to head out the door when I notice the big swishy, bushy tail of this collie-in-waiting. In fact last night, I couldn’t see the collie, took out the lead, was followed round the flat by a prancing and delighted doggie. I brought her down to the front door only to have the collie leap into the garden with much delightedness, he nearly went ‘welllll hellllllloooooo…’ only to have to bring the poor baby back into the house having only had half a pee.

Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Running down the road with his big bushy tail between his legs, that’s where!

Back upstairs I went to the flat with the doggie, dejectedly walking behind me, not at all happy. I kept watch for another 20 minutes before deciding that I wanted to go to bed and opened the window and threw a teapot full of cold water down over the step and over the dog. Wow, did he run fast, back down the road and away. So back out we went and a delighted puppy got to do her business.

I tested out this theory again this morning and yet again it worked, off the collie ran down the road, never looking back. I told the puppy ‘see, that’s men for ya! one spot of bad weather and off they run’. She understood as well.