Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother

by Marisa Mackle

  BABY BOOM

  There’s a baby boom going on right now in case you hadn’t noticed. Yes, the bump is back with a vengeance. The recession and the bad weather this winter has probably contributed to the vast number of babies due this year. After all, people need to stay warm and when funds are low and it’s wet and cold outside, staying in becomes the new going out. But I’m honestly glad I’m not pregnant this summer. I mean, have you seen how depressingly gorgeous today’s mummies-to-be are?

  I remember when I was a young child and lots of my friends’ mummies were expecting, they wore hideous flowery smocks that made them look like they were expecting baby elephants. And who could forget the God-awful denim dungarees that should have been banned from the market? They made every pregnant woman look like a fat, Farmer Joe!

  Even when I was expecting Gary I found it enormously difficult to find any nice, flattering clothes. I ended up buying a lot of large size clothes, which looked more appealing than the regular maternity clothes. I think I might have even bought a few man-size tops too. In the end my saving grace was a wine-coloured, velvet Juicy Couture tracksuit which I bought in Nelo maternity shop for a small fortune. But I reckon I didn’t take it off me for the last three months of pregnancy so it was well worth the money.

  I remember also buying one black going-out dress to party in. Nice designer maternity dresses cost so much so you wouldn’t want one in every colour! When you buy gorgeous clothes you expect to get years out of them, but you never want to see maternity clothes after you’ve given birth so it doesn’t make sense to splash out on a whole wardrobe. The black dress served me well. I wore it everywhere. It was fairly non-descript but I didn’t want to be noticed when I was that large so I was happy to hide behind it. Two and a half years on I still have it hanging in my wardrobe. Don’t ask me why because I don’t intend having another baby. I had one for the experience, I love him, but now I’m looking forward to sending him off to playschool and reclaiming my life. At least the mornings, anyway.

  But hats off to those who do manage to look perfect during pregnancy. I envy them. There was nothing elegant about my pregnancy. I carried a plastic bag around with me to get sick into and during the snow I wore an extra-large fake fur coat that made me look like a moving mountain.

  GO TO SLEEP, NOW!

  Isn’t it funny the way you spend your twenties trying not to get pregnant, and your thirties trying to? And then when you manage it, and that little bundle of joy comes along, you stare at him or her in complete wonder. Full of unconditional love, you look at the little miracle thinking, he’s mine, he’s really all mine. It’s the most indescribable feeling. Of course there are the sleepless nights, and you get through the first six months or so in a fog of hazy exhaustion but it’s all worth it, you think. You have a mini me all of your own and you’re both going to have so much fun bonding together.

  I was that besotted Mummy. I used to stare at my son all day thinking he was the most perfect baby ever. So where did it all go wrong? Why, a few nights ago did I fly into a rage when after the eighth attempt, my child got out of bed and handed me his Thomas the tank engine toy to play with? Well, for a start in was midnight, I had a writing deadline and I hadn’t had five minutes to myself all day.

  ‘This isn’t normal.’ I told him crossly, and although he can’t speak properly yet, I think he understand by my tone of voice that I wasn’t about to start singing another lullaby. I am tired of watching Supernanny and reading parenting books and getting tips from well-meaning parents who seem to be able to watch TV or read a book in the evening without Peppa Pig or Dora the Explorer joining in. I was beginning to think I was the only parent alive still up at the witching hour, night after night, pulling my hair out and secretly thinking I’d have to put my son into foster care before he drove me to having a nervous breakdown.

  ‘Wake him up earlier,’ suggested Dad helpfully.

  Maybe he was right, I thought. My son is not an early bird. Trying to rouse him in the morning is like trying to wake the dead, but I had reached the end of my tether. So the next morning I got my child up bright and early, pulled back the curtains and let the sun flood in. He was none too happy about this but I was a mother on a mission. At around 3pm that afternoon he started rubbing his eyes. This time I didn’t allow him his daily nap.

  Then later, after his tea, he had his bath and we went to bed (his, not mine). I turned off the lights and sang ‘Hush a bye baby’ five times. He struggled to keep his eyes open, bravely fighting impending sleep. But I kept singing the same tune over and over until I nearly sent myself to sleep out of boredom. But he did drift off into the land of nod, and for the first time in months I had a bit of peace to surf the net. I logged onto amazon to buy a book, and one particular book title caught my eye - ‘Go the f**k to sleep’. It’s a book for parents and I don’t know anything about it, only the title really did make me laugh out loud. Oh God, to think I thought I was the only one!

  SHOPPING AND BONDING

  I’m glad I have little boy and not a little girl. As somebody who once dreamed of having a daughter I could go shopping with, I am now a teeny bit grateful that I didn’t get what I wished for. Okay so I still sometimes fantasise about shopping for fairy wings and tiaras with a mini me, but deep down I’m thankful that I’m not going to fork out approximately four hundred euro any time soon for a communion dress. Four hundred euro? Yes, you heard that right. According to a mother I met recently that’s the average cost of a communion dress right now. I nearly fell over in shock when I heard that figure. I wouldn’t spend that much on a wedding dress, never mind on a dress for a seven-year-old.

  This mother laughed out loud at my startled reaction. ‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it!’ she exclaimed. ‘When I was shopping for my daughter’s dress she spotted one she liked in a local boutique, but the owner of the boutique said she couldn’t buy it because another mother had reserved it for her daughter and had insisted that the same dress could not be sold to any other child in her class.’

  That said dress cost, wait-for-it, eight hundred euro. And no, I am not joking. Eight hundred euro for a communion dress! To say I was scandalised is an understatement. I stared at the woman repeating the sum ‘eight hundred euro’ as though in a trance. I kept waiting for her to correct herself but she didn’t.

  I honestly hadn’t realised the whole communion thing was such a big deal. I remember my Holy Communion well. I got a couple of boxes of chocolates, a few fivers and a bible. I asked this lady how much her child got on Communion Day.

  ‘Seven hundred and fifty euro,’ was the answer.

  My head was spinning. I mean, I’m sure that’s the yearly wage for people in some countries. I am now secretly glad that Gary is a boy and won’t need to be spray-tanned and have shoes to match his bag when the time comes. It will be a relief to go to Marks and Spencers and get him some sort of respectable outfit instead of having to sell the family car to pay for his fancy rig-out.

  Still aghast from what I heard from this mother (eh, hasn’t she even heard about the recession?) I asked a teacher friend of mine if this kind of nonsense was the norm.

  ‘Very much so,’ she confirmed. ‘Communions are like mini weddings these days and the parents are even worse than the kids, competing with each other on who spends the most money.

  And then she told me about one Communion Day recently where one of her pupils didn’t even turn up to the church. She was so worried about the little girl missing her Communion that she took her mother aside the following Monday at the school door to find out more.

  ‘Your daughter missed her Communion. What happened?’ she asked the mum.

  ‘Ah no, we didn’t miss it at all,’ came the quick explanation. ‘Our Hayley got delayed in the hairdresser so we skipped the Mass and just went straight to the hotel.’

  Sure, you couldn’t make it up!

  AIRPORT STRESS

  As a single mum I find holidays a bit of a nightmare. Airports are stressful a
t the best of times, but when you’ve a case and a buggy to carry around it’s no joke. Last year I took my baby Gary to Morocco. It was a spur of the moment decision. It was freezing and a thick snow covered the ground. I had got a great deal for us on the internet the night before.

  As it turned out we were delayed six hours at the airport. My food and drink supply had run out and I was on the second last nappy by the time we boarded. Gary didn’t sleep the whole flight, either trying to climb over everyone or crawl under their seat. When we eventually arrived at our destination at 3.00am we then had to full out some forms which took ages. By the time we reached the hotel at four I was so tired I could barely remember my own name never mind my son’s. It was only then I realized that our hotel was situated across the road from which must have been Morocco ’s loudest nightclub.

  This year we did things a little differently. We checked into a hotel around the corner from where I live. It’s a very nice Irish hotel. I didn’t fly or take a bus or a train. I didn’t even need to take a taxi. I walked in with my pram. I unpacked our toys and clothes and put a DVD on. I ordered room service and we both got into bed.

  I walked into the hotel feeling very tired after finishing a nationwide book tour. I walked out of the hotel a few days later feeling like a brand new woman. I had no idea what the weather was like when I left the hotel, I didn’t know what was on the news or what anybody was up to because I didn’t have my mobile switched on or access to the internet. I read, I slept, I played with my son and I had a ball. When I checked out I had no taxi to call, nor plane to take. I didn’t have to repetitively check for my passport or plane ticket. I even had a tan as I booked a beautician to come to my room and spray me with a fake one.

  I can quite honestly say it was one of the best holidays I ever had. When I told people where I was going on my holidays they thought I was joking. Why check into a hotel just a few minutes away? Well, why not? I got a nice friendly welcome from the staff, many of whom were Irish. I didn’t have to travel far, didn’t have to lift a finger for a few days apart from lifting the hotel phone to order food and drink.

  I didn’t have to go off searching for an Irish bar somewhere or try to make new friends because every time I went downstairs to the hotel bar I met at least one person I knew. I hope anyone reading this is inspired to holiday at home this year.

  FAIRY TALES

  We all dream of marrying a prince. He’s the hero of most little girls’ fairy tales. Cinderella got one and so did Sleeping Beauty. I never did meet one although I lost a shoe and slept it out on many an occasion.

  I remember reading about the frog that turned into a prince after being kissed by the heroine. I kissed one or two frogs myself over the last few years but to no avail. Oh, well.

  Of course, there is something magical about reading fairy tales. But are we women just being conned at a very early age? Do fairy tale romances lead to false expectations? I’m just about coming to terms with the fact that my prince will never show up on a fancy white horse. One morning somebody did arrive at my door in something white, but unfortunately it tuned out just to be the milkman in his van. He knocked on my door but he wasn’t asking for my hand in marriage or anything like that. Apparently I’d just forgotten to pay him.

  No wonder women are so fussy. As young readers we are expected to believe in fairy tales and nothing short of a prince is good enough. Maybe it’s our parents fault for buying us these make-believe books. They are only setting us up for future heartache.

  Available princes are a bit thin on the ground these days. We don’t have any in Ireland, and the nearest royal family is across the pond. Like many wide-eyed little girls, I used to fantasise about marrying a prince until the first time I saw Prince Charles. He wasn’t remotely like what I imagined a real-life prince to be. Anyway, he’s taken as is Prince Albert of Monaco, who is due to marry shortly. The other princes are too old, too young or also unavailable.

  Meeting a prince and getting him to fall in love with you is kind of up there with meeting Santa or the tooth fairy. It just doesn’t happen in real life. At least to most of us.

  I wonder if Kate Middleton’s mum read her stories where the heroine met a prince and lived ‘happily ever after’. I’m sure she did. And no doubt neither Kate nor her mother can hardly believe she is now a real-life princess.

  Prince William chose his bride well. She is poised, elegant and charming and has already won the hearts of the people. The new princess’s life has changed forever, but she is proof that extraordinary things really can happen to ordinary girls. I think that’s why most of us were glued to the television last Friday. Maybe deep down we’re all romantic softies. William didn’t marry a princess or a titled girl. He chose to spend the rest of his life with a girl he met at college. She could have been us.

  THE DREADED RECESSION

  Imagine! The recession has got so bad that Irish yummy mummies are now raising their own kids. Well, maybe not all by themselves, but they are certainly cutting down on the hired help.

  There was a time when you were nobody unless you had at least a cleaner, a nanny and a gardener. Now the D4 mummies are ditching the Jimmy Choose for wellies and rubber gloves and the 400 euro a week nanny (plus car) has been given her marching orders.

  It’s all very well to have an entire household staff when two parents are working and bringing in lots of dosh but when one parent is at home, it doesn’t make financial sense to employ an army of domestic helpers. Or even a single one.

  Many of my friends have said au-revoir to their beloved nannies this year. It wasn't not just the weekly wage eating into the family budget. Nannies also get paid holidays, daily meals and heat their rooms. It all adds up.

  Irish women are sick to the back teeth of paying for childcare. Mothers resent paying a stranger to do the job they want to do most in the word – watching their own kids grow up. It’s not the same when the nanny or informs you that your tot got his first tooth or took his first step. Those precious moments are memories to be cherished by you, not a handsomely-paid stranger.

  The most heart breaking thing of all is when your child falls and hurts himself and immediately turns towards the nanny for a comforting hug. You, like a distant aunt, are almost surplus to requirement. Yes, you may pay all the bills, but your child doesn’t know that. All he knows is that the nanny is fun. She plays with Peppa Pig and Bob the Builder. You don’t. And when you arrive home in the evening exhausted, you do the non-fun things like insist that it’s time for bed. When this happens, you feel your heart wrench and you take a good hard look at your priorities. Why have kids if you don’t want to raise them? Why leave the house before they get up only to see them again just before bed-time?

  According to a survey carried out by Childminding Ireland, almost 45% of respondents reported that parents have reduced the number of hours for which they are seeking childcare. Out of those surveyed 76% cited a reduction in parents’ working hours and pay as the reason for the reduction in childcare.

  It’s not surprising that families are now looking to lower their expenditures. And a costly nanny is now seen as more of a luxury than a necessity. If a parent only works part-time, it makes sense that they do not employ somebody full-time to mid their children. Cash-strapped mums may consider a live-out nanny to reduce living costs or else use Granny and Granddad who come in very handy, and are usually free.

  It’s not easy being a Mummy. If you work, you feel guilty. If you stay at home you feel guilty. We are very hard on ourselves. We feel bad for paying somebody to mind our own off-spring. But all Mummies need a little ‘me’ time. Sometimes it’s necessary to be a little bit selfish.

  PUBLIC OR PRIVATE

  Public or private? It’s the burning question for expectant mums. Should you pay the €4000 extra for private care? I didn’t. I’ve always had health insurance – I wouldn’t dream of not having it – but after much internal debate I decided to go public when I was expecting Gary.

  On TV3’s
Midweek they recently debated the pros and cons of going private. I watched and listened with interest. It’s not that I plan on having another baby, but this is still a subject I’m interested in.

  If I won the lottery, I would go private. Otherwise I would not. Four thousand euro is an awful lot of money to pay to have your child delivered when you can have him or her delivered for free by the best doctors in the country.

  Looking back, the only disadvantage in going public was the queuing at the ante-natal clinics where you could be waiting for up to an hour and a half in a crowded, noisy room. I used to just bring a pair of earplugs and a good book and endure the visits. But the guest on the TV programme said she had gone private and still had to wait around at length to be seen by her consultant.

  My own GP had told me that she had gone private, but on the day she’d given birth there were no private rooms available. She was in a public room and, no, her gynaecologist hadn’t been able to make the birth of her child either as he was on a golf holiday.

  When she told me this, I decided that I wouldn’t pay the €4000 extra for the off-chance that I might get a private room. If a GP couldn’t get one, then what hope had I? It seems a bit of a lottery when it comes to getting a private room. It’s not the fault of the staff – they simply do not have the space for everyone.

  The early release scheme whereby women can leave after 6 to 24 hours is wonderful as I’m sure most patients do not want to spend a minute more in a maternity hospital than is necessary. Unfortunately for me though, as I’d had a caesarean I was required to spend at least three nights in the ward. In the end I only spent two nights there and then checked myself out early against the doctors’ advice. It wasn’t that the staff weren’t all great and that I was treated with anything other than respect, but I just couldn’t tolerate the noise of screaming new-borns for a second longer. I didn’t get a private room in the hospital because I hadn’t paid for one. I came home to my own lovely ensuite bedroom, which was free. And I was never so glad to come home. The second night in the maternity hospital a woman had been wheeled into the cubicle beside me with her baby. It was about 3.00 am and she was crying because there wasn’t a private room for her even though she had paid to go private. The midwife was trying to calm her down and I felt really sorry for her. Bringing a child into the world should be an exhilarating experience. And the only tears shed should be those of happiness.