Once upon a long ago, I used to get the Dart into work every now and then – back in the pre-kid, pre-crèche, pre-car-space days. It was not so much an adventure as a trial by fire back then, and as I wait now (12 minutes!) for my rush hour
There it is. Where it’s not supposed to be. A purple lunchbox on the kitchen table at 9.12am, separated from its owner who must have decided to tidy her schoolbag this morning after everything had been packed already. And I didn’t notice. Slippage. “Are we late mum?” she asked me
Long, long ago, when we first moved from the heady heights of our 4th floor apartment in Dublin 2 to a rather more serious semi-detached house in Swords, we discovered the joys of flooring and dishwashers and spending Saturday afternoons looking at bathroom tiles. We were catapulted from city centre easy living to
I could post an update on how not-swimmingly settling into school is going – I could tell you about all the imaginary conversations I’ve had with the imaginary play therapists and agony aunts I’ve had this week, and all the imaginary answers they’ve given me (“He’ll get there, keep doing
Well. That was a long week. Somehow back to school has been more challenging than ever – I suppose logically that’s how it goes – more kids in school, and more homework because everyone has moved up a class. But I don’t think I realised that having three in school
I know this is supposed to be an emotional time. My smallest; my baby; my last baby is off to school. I am meant to be in floods of tears. I should have pockets stuffed with tissues. I’m supposed to just about hold it in when I drop him to
I like things to have a theme; I like to be able to look back and easily sum things up in three words or a couple of sentences. Like the golden autumn when everything was shiny and sparkling and brilliant. Followed by literal and metaphorical November rain. Or the summer holiday
Sometimes I hide my phone from myself for an hour, so that I can concentrate on the kids without being distracted. And I have some reasonably strict self-imposed rules about not browsing mindlessly when they’re around. But one major weakness is taking photos – and it’s for that purpose more
Dublin, August 2016 Dear Universe, I’d like a little word about something. You see, we had this deal – I do the right thing, and you don’t punish me. A very straight-forward agreement. But you don’t seem to be holding up your side of the bargain these days, and I
Long, long ago, on a campsite far, far away, I met a holiday friend called Claire. She had long brown hair and was from Ireland or England – I wasn’t old enough to distinguish accents. I had spent two days sitting on the steps of our mobile home looking across
The voice in my ear gives me the go ahead – I’ve completed my self-imposed time running on roads and forest paths, now Runkeeper says I can go onto the beach. I turn and run towards the gate. “Buongiorno,” says the security guard. “Buongiorno,” I reply, in my Irish accent. I
When my third child was born, and when unlike his sisters, he was not a girl, great plans were immediately afoot (pardon the pun) to turn him into a footballer. You see my husband has been playing football since before he could walk, and after all the many, many girl
White faces because Factor 50 never quite rubs in. Short-sleeves on the school run. Homework in the garden. Lunch in the garden. Dinner in the garden. A tidy kitchen because we’ve almost entirely relocated to the garden. Ice-cream every day – and twice on Sunday. There’s nothing quite like the drop-everything wonder
My name is Andrea, I’m a yeller, and it’s been 163 days since I last shouted at my kids. By no coincidence, it’s precisely 163 days since I had a blow-out shouting match with my six-year-old. She is a chilled out child – my easy one. But unlike her siblings, who are
Once upon a time, when I worked a lot more hours than I do now, I felt like I never had quality time with my kids. Each night when they went to bed, I thought about how another day had slipped by without me noticing. I would try to think
This is Pineky: His name is pronounced Pine-key. My four-year-old adopted him in March. He’s originally from Killiney Hill. Against the odds, he has survived for two months without getting lost; minded carefully by his self-appointed ‘owner-parent-friend’. Until this week, when he disappeared for 24 hours. We knew he was in the car
Bank holiday Monday morning. I checked the weather on my phone. Cloudy, rainy, and real-feel 5 degrees. I checked the weather through my window. Bright, sunny, and the illusion of warmth. Window trumps phone. Day-trip weather. I suggested Glendalough, everyone agreed. We’d need to be quick though. The last time
Two things happened yesterday within ten minutes that stopped me in my tracks – not in a world news, earth shattering way, just little things that made me stop and think. We were out on the green (that is where I live now) and my eight-year-old was running up and down the
Long, long ago, when I had two-under-two, I wondered if my girls would ever be friends. At twenty months, my eldest was little more than a baby herself when her small sister was born, and she was understandably confused. I remember a work colleague who’d had a second child around
I’ve just told the kids that I’m taking a coffee break. I opened my lap top, and said I have a bit of work to catch up on. I’m on Twitter. I am a bad mother. The coffee break is because I just spent the last forty-five minutes making toast and