Zoom zoom

Big screen at the concert with Paul Simon playing the guitar on itI got back from Ireland on the Tuesday evening of that week. On the Friday, B and I did something we haven’t done for years and years – we went to a concert. A real proper concert, not just a gig. We saw Paul Simon, and it was amazing.

There were moments during the evening when the long relationship I’ve had with Paul Simon’s music, and how it’s been intertwined with that other long relationship in my life – the one with my husband – made my brain do that expand-and-contract thing (imagine, if you will, a slidy trombone noise) as it tried to take in the expanse of time from my first experience of Paul Simon to where I am now. Timey wimey, wibbly wobbly indeed.

Sometimes all the points in my life seem to be laid out on a flat surface rather than along a timeline. The distance from any one to another might be near or far but bears no connection to such two-dimensional things as years and decades. I can vividly remember a moment when I was 20, but not necessarily last week.

The older I get, the more this will happen, I bet. It’s unnerving, this living in the world business, if you look at it from a height.

Though maybe it was the jetlag too. It was a very whiplashy week, going from filial responsibilities and reminders of inescapable mortality to pure selfish entertainment with a side of romantic nostalgia with little but a transatlantic flight and the graduation from elementary school of my elder child to buffer the two extremes.

That sort of enforced perspective can really mess with your mind. Maybe just as well we don’t manage to do it very often.View of the stage (from way back) with teeny tiny Paul Simon and his band

Notes from the airport

When I saw my mother on Thursday they told me she was a bit agitated. She was delighted to see me, of course, when I explained that I was me, but she didn’t really retain it. She kept saying she should go and check on the people in the other room, see if anyone needed anything, offer them some tea. She felt that she must be the hostess, but she wasn’t really sure who all these people were. She asked me where Dad was, and if he was looking after them. She told me the lovely nurse we’d been talking to was the new maid, that she was excellent and they were lucky to have found her. She was tailoring her narrative to her reality as well as she could, but it kept breaking down because she knew she was missing something. I’d sit her back down every time, telling her that the people were being looked after, that she could relax and just take her ease, but she didn’t really believe me. As I left I looked back into the room and saw her standing up again, a nurse heading over to settle her.

When I saw my mother on Saturday I brought my dad with me. I brought him in a wheelchair, because his knee is very dodgy and he can only progress very slowly with a walking frame. She was so happy to see him. She held his two hands in hers, all their knuckles knobbly, their skin blotched and stained by age. The staff watched in delight, teary, because they say she asks for him all the time, wants to know where he is and how he is and when he’s coming to see her. We stayed for some tea and biscuits and halfway through the conversation she rediscovered who I was and was delighted all over again. When we left she told him he’d been a lovely husband and the nurses all blinked back their tears again.

She’s a real lady, they all said to me.

He’s such a gent, they all say about my dad at the hospital.

When I saw my mother yesterday she was having breakfast in a pink dressing gown I’ve never seen before. She was calm and sensible and very much herself. She got all the news from me, anew – that Dad’s in hospital and will have to go into a nursing home and she will join him wherever he chooses, that I’m back off to America today because I can’t stay, that we’ll sell the house. That she lives in that nursing home, and has a lovely view of the sea from her window, just the same view as from our kitchen window but without the neighbours’ hedge in the way. I brought some pictures for her walls and some new toothpaste and socks because they’d told me she needed toothpaste and socks. We shared a whispered joke, because her hearing’s still fine and she’s as amusing as ever. ‘Well,’ she said philosophically as she looked around the breakfast table at her companions, mumbling their toast and picking at the tablecloth, ‘it’s all a new stage, isn’t it. I must remember that. Maybe I should take up a new hobby.’

She was so much herself that time, her real normal my-mum sensible self, that was the one that nearly broke me when I left and got into my little red rental car and drove down the hill for the last time. That’s what’s bringing the tears here in the chilly boarding area of the airport as I wait for a plane to take me far away, back to the other people who love me too, whom I love too.

Getting old sucks. Not getting old sucks as well. There’s no way around it; we can only forge on with whatever hand we’re dealt, and hope we have as much good humour and grace as my lovely mum.

A blown poppy, dropping its petals over grass.

I just missed the poppies. This was the last one.

The perils of cauliflower, generous neighbours, and giving your children what they want

There’s a cauliflower in my fridge and it’s laughing at me. That’s what cauliflowers do. They simper in the supermarket, saying “Buy me, I’m healthy. You can make all sorts of nice things with me.” And then I bring it home and it sits in my fridge for two weeks laughing at me because I never really want to make any of those nice things. Not enough to actually do it.

My husband says this never happens to him. He’s cauliflower-resistant. I need to be more like him.

I do have several delicious recipes for cauliflower – this one, and this one, or this one if I had some chicken – but tonight, when I was finally determined to quash that vegetable once and for all, I went and sabotaged myself by making a dessert first, which then turned out to be taking up the oven for the entire time until dinner, at the wrong temperature for any roasting of any cauliflower. Also, I was tired of cooking because the dessert was more fiddly than I remembered.

It’s even a purple cauliflower, because I’m just that fancy. And it’s still there, in the fridge, laughing at me and living to see another day.

We are also suffering from a surfeit of fruit at the moment. I know this shouldn’t be a bad thing, but there you have it, I’m a bad person. We have blueberries because a friend bought a giant container of them at Costco and then gave me some because her family wouldn’t eat them all. (As if I thought my family would be any different.)

We had rhubarb because I’d been looking out for rhubarb and it finally appeared in the supermarket and I bought some and made strawberry and rhubarb crumble and that was lovely but there was still rhubarb left over (the dessert I made today was for that).

And then our neighbour appeared at the side door with a big bag of freshly picked strawberries, which he gets at work somehow or something, and of course I was very grateful and polite and said thank you and yes please, but now they’re sitting in the fridge looking at me too. I could freeze them but I did that before and we ended up never eating them. I thought I’d make smoothies. I didn’t. Nobody eats that stuff in this house. Healthy stuff that’s not bread. Nobody.

In cat news, you would think that now that we have pets, the constant whining for a pet would have stopped. But no! You would be mistaken. They both still want a dog – of course; Mabel still wants a pet that’s exclusively hers to take care of and love and squeeze and call George.

Then yesterday she solved this problem for herself (at least temporarily) by announcing that Birch was now hers and she alone was going to feed him and scoop his poop. ‘Okay,’ we said, not remonstrating nearly as much as she’d expected. Then Dash decided that Oak, of course, was now his. We looked forward to an easy retirement from feeding and scooping the kitties. This morning Mabel insisted on getting up at 6:30 to be the one who fed the cats. (She graciously agreed to feed both of them.) However, when I pointed out that one of the cats had pooped before she left for school she said that was definitely the other one.

Cat almost on keyboard

Helping cat

However, I’m still the one at home with the cats all day, and I’m the only one who can stand the smell of the wet cat food enough to give them some, so they know that really they’re my kitties, and I’m the one they’ll rescue when they have to choose a favourite family member.

Oh wait, they’re cats. They’ll run away and leave us to our fate.

Sik-ADE-ahs

Cicada was a word I’d only met in books for a long time. I wasn’t really sure what a cicada was, and I certainly wasn’t sure how to say it. SIK-ah-da? KIK-ah-da? It was a small animal, maybe. A bird? Some sort of a part of nature, anyway, that they had in warmer climes than Ireland.

(This reminds me of the katydid that was mentioned in the very beginning of What Katy Did. I’ve only recently learned that a katydid is a … quick look at wikipedia to remind myself … oh yeah, a cricket that looks like a leaf. I thought it was a frog or toad for a long time.)

Anyway, I thought I’d tell you about cicadas so you’d be better informed than I was. And because we have ’em. Lots of them but not as many as we’ll have in 2021 when brood X comes out and they’re ankle deep here … but I’m getting ahead of myself.

So you pronounce it [sik-ADE-ah] with the emphasis on the middle syllable there. And it’s a large winged insect related to the cricket. At the end of summer they sit in the trees and make this amazingly cacophonous electronic-sounding buzzing noise that rises to a peak and then tails off again. It’s the quintessential sound of summer nights in hot places – if you’re Irish it’s the sound of summer holidays somewhere really nice (i.e. warm).

So you can read about the life cycle of the cicada at places that will give you more accurate information and lots of other gross/cool photos (also this page is cute because the cursor turns into a cicada when you mouse over a link), but I’m here to be your reporter on the ground, if you like, with actual footage from actually where I live. A couple of evenings ago some local friends were remarking on Facebook that the cicadas were coming out. The next day I went on a field trip with the second grade and realised too late that I should have brushed up on my cicada facts because we were all full of questions. Today there are even more of them, with discarded shells around the base of many big trees, so I decided it was time to write the big cicada post.

After a certain number of years underground – anything from 2 to 17 depending on the brood – the cicada comes out when the weather gets warm. It finds the nearest tree (probably the one it dropped out of as a baby), climbs up it, and sheds its exoskeleton. Near any given tree in the right area you’ll find a bunch of empties under the leaves or fallen on the ground below – I just went outside my house and hey presto, found this one for a photo.

Shed cicada exoskeleton attached to a tree trunk

You can see where it burst out, just like the creature in Alien. Only more slowly. More of that below. These are apparently Brood X stragglers, they’re not the whole big deluge we’re expecting in 2021. Washington Post is also on the story today. I’m so current.

When they come out they’re all white and grub-like, but after a while in the sun they colour up nicely.

Here’s one in the very act of emerging. Come on, buddy, you can do it. (It happens verrry slowly. I didn’t have to be quick to catch this. I went home, got my camera, and came out again.)

Here’s one proudly posing by his discarded exoskeleton. “That old thing? I don’t need it any more.” I’m not sure he realises the “tree” he’s on is actually a telegraph pole.

Here’s a finished product we found on a bush on our field trip. Look at his freaky red eyes. He’s about 3cm long.

Now look at the next picture and be a little freaked out, because there are suddenly more cicadas than you realised. I count six or seven here. There were more than that on the bush, and plenty more on the rest of the bushes too.

Then they go off into the trees to be eaten by birds and/or find the cicada of their dreams to make baby cicadas with, to grow up underground, possibly for another 17 years.

They don’t bite or sting, so they’re totally harmless to people – though I was just told to watch out for the giant brown hornets called “cicada killers” that go after them. Roger that.

The wonders of nature, eh?

Day of Mothers

I feel lucky today, because my husband isn’t merely smart enough to have a PhD in physics; he’s also smart enough to know that when I said I didn’t know what we were having for dinner today and I wasn’t planning to know, that meant dinner was in his hands. And that when I said “I don’t mind, you choose,” it wasn’t some sort of cruel test wherein I expect him to magically divine my wishes and conform to them: I just want someone else to make the decisions. Because it’s mother’s day, and this is what I get.

I also got a lie-in until after 9am (after getting up to feed the cats at 6.30 and having a small person crawl into bed with me an hour later, but who’s counting) and an opportunity to go and buy myself new knickers at Kohl’s on my own this afternoon, so it’s a good day.

But in general, for so many people, I think this day is awful. The assumptions, the expectations, the pressure, the impossibility of it all. Played out in full public view in brunch venues and on Facebook all over the country. Americans set a lot of store by Mother’s Day. I’m sure many Irish people put a bit more into it than my family used to – a home-made card, a flower picked out of the garden maybe, a hug; if we were doing something nice we’d ascribe it to the day, but we’d have done it anyway – but I don’t think it’s such a production as it is here.

And there’s the wishing. Wishing other people a happy mother’s day. Honestly, the only person I feel I should wish a happy Mother’s Day to is my own mother. The only people I think should wish it to me are my own children. (Maybe my husband, if he’d like to. I’m not fussy.) Of course, today, when other people have wished me a happy day I’ve said thank you, and wished them one back when they’re my mom friends. But random salespersons wishing every adult female a happy Mother’s Day? That way nervous breakdowns lie. (I’m happy to report that the cashier in Kohl’s today did not say it to me.)

Even if you have everything you ever wanted, and everything you ever wanted was a happy family with x number of children, you’ve still gotta set the bar of your expectations low today. (It’s okay, you’re a mother. You’ve learned to do that.) And somehow, how well your children behave or how loving and grateful they are to you, today of all days, is a direct consequence of how well you did your job of being their mother – so you’re well aware that if your day is ruined, you’ve only yourself to blame. It’s simply nature’s judgement on you. What sort of a cruel universe invented this day?

Another way I’m lucky is that I don’t have to split my day between being a daughter to a mother and being the mother of my own children, because Mother’s Day in Ireland and the UK is in March. This means that, at least in theory, I can relax and enjoy my own day without rushing around making the day special for someone else at the same time. I highly recommend this method to all of you who are wishing you could just stay at home with your own kids rather than having to host/attend/organize a brunch for your own mother today. Though I’m not sure how you can go about arranging it at this point. You could encourage your children to emigrate to the other side of the ocean, I suppose, so as not to face it in the future; but maybe there are reasons you’d rather not do that.

 

Mabel's poem (spelling preserved): "Magnifacent Cakes / Orders things./ Treats are sweet./ Hevenly cookies. / Elegant cloths./ [...]'s Mom." And a picture of flowers.

Mabel wrote me a poem at school, which I had to go and root out of her backpack just now as she was not interested in giving it to me. But I’m happy that I have elegant cloths, so everything’s good. And my garlic naan bread is nearly here, so we will draw a veil over the less good parts of the day and move on optimistically towards days that are more regular and less fraught with ridiculous expectations.

I hope your day was nice, wherever you are, and whether it was just a regular Sunday for you or a special one. The sun came out here for the first time in about a week, so that was something for everyone to celebrate.

Books and bases

I am proofreading my book, which is a fairly soul-destroying job. It’s that point where you are only meant to make the smallest and most imperative of changes, but you decide it’s all crap and you want to rewrite it all. But you can’t, because otherwise this will Never End and you’ll never have a book out there at all, so you just have to put up with it, and keep believing that your perspective is not the most unbiased right now, and it’s probably fine.

Also, it’s really boring because I’ve read it a million times, so I keep not wanting to do it, but I have to do it or it will never be done, because the only person standing between me and publication right now is ME.

But when it’s done, then I will be a twice self-published author, which is maybe twice as legitimate as a once self-published author, and may help me feel less like I’m faking it and more like I’m really doing it, which I suppose is the aim. Also, then I can get back to finishing draft 1 of book 3 before all hell breaks loose – I mean, before the kids are finished school for summer.

Mabel walking a stuffed dog in the parade

In the baseball parade, back when it was sunny

The weather charged straight into summer, I pulled out all our summer clothes and switched out the down comforter for the summer bedspread, and now it’s done a u-turn back into cold and wet. This happens every year; I’m not even surprised. At least we managed to fit a nice weekend in for baseball opening day, and Dash got to play in the first game, and even though his team were thrashed he was front and centre and doing well the whole time.

I used to bring a book and happily ignore the games until he came up to bat once in a blue moon, but I don’t think I can do that any more – if he’s not pitching he’s catcher, or on a base, or at a base (very important distinction I didn’t know before – one is a fielder guarding that base and the other is running around on his way to (hopefully) score a point; but TBH I can’t tell you which is which) or something else important. The great thing about the sad fact that all his team’s star players aged out last year is that with another year to go after this, Dash is a senior member and will get a ton of experience this year Doing All The Things.

Meanwhile I will sit on a blanket on a ground under the shady tree and chat to the moms, and Mabel will bring a book and then ignore it to go have playground conferences with the other sisters of players (yes, girls do play and are welcomed in the league, but nonetheless it’s mostly boys) and then come back and demand my money for ice pops and packets of chips and ring pops, and I will give in or hold firm depending on the day.

That is, if the rain ever stops again.

 

Some birthdays are better than others

I don’t know whether I’ve documented every one of Dash’s birthday parties here, but I know I’ve done a lot of them. Last year, the big One-Oh, seemed like the culmination. Dash had been planning it since before he turned nine, all the kids I thought wouldn’t be able to come showed up, and it was a giant, crazy, over-the-top ball of mayhem.

“No more!” we said, spent, forgetting that Dash would continue to have birthdays every year. This April rolled around and we realised that we would not get out of hosting some sort of party, because he is the polar opposite of his sister who really only wants a trip to Build-a-Bear with one or two friends. I tried to convince him to do a destination event – the really cool climbing wall place, perhaps, that he’s wanted to go back to for ages – but no. It had to be a party at home.
“I’ve always had a party at home, except that one year when we went to Pump It Up and I didn’t like that. It has to be at home.” He was not for turning.
“But Daddy and I are exhausted. We can’t come up with more party games. Your friends don’t want to play lame party games made up by you and your parents. It’s chaos. It’s anarchy. And it’ll probably rain. We can’t do it,” we said. Impasse.

Then, salvation arrived in the shape someone who mentioned that they’d had a laser-tag birthday party at their house. A guy had come along with a van full of laser guns, showed the kids how to use them, and then run the games for two hours. All I’d have to do was feed ’em. (I can do that. Though I always underestimate how much other people’s boys can eat.)

I was sold. I got the contact details and booked it. We capped the invitees at a smaller number than last year. Everyone was happy. I forgot to obsessively monitor the weather forecast because I was busy being busy with other things, and we just threw a party two weeks ago (for B’s birthday). Suddenly, the day before the day was upon us, and I had to plan the party food, shop for the party food, make the party food, clean the house (a very little bit), and make sure the sun was going to shine.

The weather forecast was not good. In fact, there was a 65 to 85% chance of rain during the time of the party. Dash and I went to the supermarket on Friday after dinner and bought everything we could possibly need – except butter and chocolate chips, which I had to send B out for as soon as we got back – and I made the cake.

On the morning of the party my luck was in and Mabel’s soccer game was cancelled because of all the rain on Friday. Dash went to baseball practice and I sandwiched the three layers of chocolate cake (as requested) together with lovely chocolate buttercream, and dredged some icing sugar on top. As, I thought, requested. Then Dash got home (practice cut short due to rain) and announced that it was meant to be vanilla icing, and it was supposed to be on top as well. It was ruined. I was the worst party mom ever, he said sadly. I always get something wrong, he told me, neglecting to remember all the things I got right that he didn’t even notice. I felt somewhat under-appreciated, though it was true that he’d said vanilla and I’d forgotten.

Three-layer chocolate cake with chocolate icing in between

Cake: first incarnation

We both retreated for a little while to lick our wounds, and then I suggested we could make some vanilla icing and put it on the top, since the icing sugar that was there already wouldn’t hinder that. He agreed it would be better than nothing. (I thought it would be just that bit more cloying, but it wasn’t my cake.) He helped, and did all the spreading. (Exhibit B, below.) Then he helped make lemon scones too, since there was still plenty of time. He’s a man of tradition, and if a party doesn’t have chocolate cornflake buns and lemon scones and pigs in blankets, it’s not a party. (Actually, he just likes plain blankets, with no pigs.)

Triple-layer cake with white icing on top and some smeared messily down the sides

Cake: second incarnation. I didn’t know he was planning to put the vanilla on the sides as well, but then he did, and here we are.

The rain had been coming and going all morning, but mostly coming. I thought it might let up in time for the party. The guests were a little late and the laser-tag guy was late too, because the Beltway was chockablock of people driving to or from or to avoid the March for Science in DC. It didn’t matter. He got them all fitted out with their guns and they ran around playing various games of team-based laser tag for an hour and a half, mostly in the pouring rain. I looked out the window and was mildly concerned, hoped their mothers wouldn’t hold the weather against me, and went to find a pile of towels.

Four boys with laser tag guns in front of houses

Trying out the guns. Once they started playing there was a lot more running and hiding. Also more rain.

Eventually they all came in, shedding muddy shoes and towelling off their wet hair at the door, and descended on the table like the proverbial locusts. Dash got to light his candles – at least the first few – and blew them out in one go. Parents arrived and removed their damp progeny, leaving behind nothing but tumbleweeds of tossed-aside wrapping paper, the tracks of wet socks, and tortilla-chip crumbs on the floor, and everyone said they’d had a good time.

Dash blowing out his candles

Eleven candles.

I would have liked some wine at that point, but first I had to take Dash down to the urgent care, because he’d managed to bump his chin off the laser-tag gun right at the start and give himself an oddly deep cut. It needed three stitches, which was a first for both of us, but there was no wait and the tetanus shot was much better than he was anticipating. The doctor asked me about my brogue, which is never a good word to use to a suburban Dubliner, but she didn’t know any better. I distracted us all with stories of Dash’s birth in Texas eleven years ago tomorrow, and if he does have a scar it’ll be a handsome one that makes him look like Kirk Douglas (if you like that sort of thing; my mother would frown and say “Oh, he was never my cup of tea”).

The doctor said he can’t do gym or sports and has to stay away from situations where balls might fly at his face (yes, she actually said that, but I didn’t point out that she was quoting Clueless). He’s very miffed that he’ll miss baseball all week, including his team’s first two games – but on the bright side, all the rain also caused them to postpone today’s season opening day ceremonies, and the big game between the winning and runner-up teams from last year, until next week, so he’ll be able to play in that.

I got my wine when I got home, but it wasn’t very nice and it gave me a headache this morning anyway. Tomorrow he turns eleven. It wasn’t the best birthday celebration day ever, probably; but the big day is still to come. There’s a giant Nerf gun and some Lego Technic waiting for him, which I think he’ll like even if it isn’t a Playstation. We’re not the greatest birthday parents, but we try, every year.

Learning curve

I’ve been busy. I am busy. Busy is good, right? I have an editing job on at the moment, I’m trying not to lose the impetus I have with writing the third book of my trilogy, I’m promoting the first (in my own slow, awkward and ill-informed way), and on the cusp – the very CUSP, I tell you – of publishing book two. Also, it’s spring break for child #1 this week, which makes all that a bit harder to get to. Next week will be spring break for child #2, but she’s all set up with a camp that will essentially remove her from my orbit for exactly the same amount of time as if she were at school.

Why yes, it would be more convenient to have them both on break at the same time, but no, that is not my life this year. We also had a houseguest last weekend and the weather is right there changing from spring to summer (that is, what I think of spring weather – nice – to summer weather – too hot) outside my window. Time once again to regret my sandal choices and wonder what I wear when it’s too warm for jeans.

I have to tell you that baseball is much harder than it looks. Dash has had me out throwing and catching with him today and yesterday, after chivvying me to finish my work so we could do something fun (i.e., throwing and catching), and yesterday there was a lot of missing and dropping on my part; today not quite so much. But my hand stings because he’s got quite an arm on him and even under a too-big softball mitt, when I catch one straight to the heel of my hand it makes me wince. In general I throw the way you might say a girl throws if you weren’t a feminist who knew better than to say that. I also catch that way.

The cats’ current nickname is Squoodleperps. I address them both as Squoodleperps. They seem fine with that, so they probably like it, I think.


Last week I went to talk to the local homeschool co-op (yes, you can homeschool your kids and still have to be somewhere on a rainy Tuesday morning, which some might say defeats the purpose) about my book and being an author and things like that, she said self-deprecatingly. One thing I’m starting to get through my thick skull is that I have to stop with the self-deprecating stuff because as far as other people are concerned the fact that I self-published rather than having a publisher is of very little import, and while it might make me feel like a fakey mcfakerson because all I did was put a bunch of words together and whistle up some online magic and hey presto I have a book that I say is good and you should read but nobody of real worth has said that so why would you listen … sorry, where was I? I mean, even if I think that’s not the same, as far as most people are concerned I’ve written a book and here it is, it looks great, they’d like to buy it and read it and maybe they’ll love it. And maybe they will, I’ve heard from people who do. (I love those people.) And me being all cutesy shy and self-deprecating about it is just confusing, as far as they’re concerned, so I need to stop it. Slap me if you see me doing it.

Another thing I have to do is come up with an answer to “What’s it about?” that’s not “Well, it’s about a girl, who goes to school, and … stuff…” because that’s not going to make anyone think “Hey, that sounds like a book I’d like to read” or “I should buy that for my granddaughter because she’d really like it.” One pithy elevator pitch for potential readers, stat. Saying “Just read the back” is probably not what I’m meant to do.

And I need to work out answers to frequently asked questions like “Did you always want to be a writer?” and “Did you always write?” so that I’m not sitting there gazing into space all, “Well… yes… no… yes … sort of… I suppose I did.” I can come up with something better than that. I just have to write it down first. Because yes, I always have been a writer of some sort, somewhere, even just inside my head.

It was fun, though. I chose a passage to read aloud (which I probably read too fast; slow down, Maud), and I think they liked what I said. Luckily there were several parents on hand to ask questions, because the kids didn’t have a lot (they were a mixed-age bunch, which was a little tricky to keep engaged). I’d do it again. In fact, I e-mailed the local public school to see about doing just that, maybe.

So I’m learning a lot, is what I mean. It’s good.

Maud on a chair beside a table with books on it, with a colourful and institutional-looking wall as background.

Me, beside a table full of books I didn’t write, about to talk to the homeschoolers.

 

Things the cats are fascinated by, a partial list

The basement stairs, which are way more exciting than the regular stairs.

The process of scooping and disposing of their poop, which they have to run over and supervise whenever I do it (where supervising = getting in the way).

Pens, especially if on the table. A pen’s proper place is on the floor, of course.

What the humans are eating and/or drinking. Best examined from the vantage point of the table.

Human feet, under a duvet, at 5am. Pounceable deliciousness.

My hair.

Tails, which are a constant mystery, in spite of having one each.

A piece of dry cat food that has accidentally skittered across the kitchen floor and is much more alluring than all the rest of the cat food in the bowl.

The breeze coming through an opened window.

The bath, empty (for playing in) or occupied (utterly flabbergasting).

The toilet, ditto; they must come over and inquire into exactly what I might be doing if sitting there.

The inside of the dishwasher.

The inside of the clothes dryer.

Drawers – how they work, what’s inside them, what might be behind them.

The freezer, on the bottom of the fridge, the most mysterious drawer of all.

The sliding closet doors. They clearly operate by witchcraft and must be stopped at all costs.

Empty tissue boxes, to be examined closely, from within, at a cat’s peril.

Shopping bags: enemies, to be defeated.

Napping. More investigation required. Haven’t got to the bottom of this yet. Will get back to you with our results.

The annual curmudge

I’m a big old St Patrick’s Day curmudgeon. This is not news to anyone who was here last year or any other year. I don’t want to wear green today or get drunk today (well, sure, but children) or set up leprechaun traps today or listen to traditional Irish music today and I’m only just getting over the mortification of having to see Enda Kenny visit Donald Trump today.

When the word went out that this year’s international dinner at Dash’s school this Sunday would have live Irish music and dancing, I went from vaguely wondering if we could get out of it to deciding that I really didn’t have to show up to everything they put on.

Old map of Ireland, framed, from unusual perspective.

No, it’s not sideways. That’s the way they drew the map.

Then I wondered if I was really a terrible person, denying my children access to their heritage like that. Am I like one of those immigrants who refuses to speak the language of the old country to their children so that they’ll assimilate better, thus taking the wonderful benefits of bilingualism out of their family’s grasp?

Actually, no. I don’t like traditional Irish music or step dancing. It’s part of my national heritage, but it’s not something I feel any personal connection to. Same goes for GAA (that’s hurling and Gaelic football). And we’re not even Catholic any more. But you know what my kids will grow up with?

  • A Hiberno-English vocabulary that they can turn on and off at will.
  • A bookshelf full of books by British and Irish authors many of whom are less well known here, from Oliver Jeffers’ picture books to Joyce’s Ulysses and a lot in between.
  • Knowledge of the canon of Father Ted, Monty Python, The Two Ronnies, and various other bits and pieces of nerdy 80s trivia befitting children of Irish people our age.
  • A better grasp of Irish and European geography and history than many Americans.
  • An understanding that other countries are just as valid and real as the USA and that normal is an ever-shifting concept.
  • Familiarity with the Dublin Monopoly board.
  • Access to plenty of excellent Irish hits of the 80s and 90s, should they choose to indulge.
  • Their grandfather’s watercolours of Irish scenes and historical maps of Ireland on the walls.
A pile of books by authors including Marian Keyes, Kate O'Brien, James Joyce, Julia Donaldson, Liz Nugent, Flann O'Brien.

Not all Irish authors, but all from that side of the pond

And then there’s that book I wrote, too. It’s set in Ireland.

I think they’ll be secure enough in their cultural heritage even if it doesn’t extend to a spot of the old diddly-aye.

Framed watercolour painting of a Galway hooker with brown sails on the water

An Irish painting of an Irish boat