This is the before and after...I didn't take a picture (I know, I know I should have) of the mullet.

The hairdresser didn't do a great job but Soph's hair was of such varying lengths it wasn't a straightforward cut. I'm still getting used to it.

Sigh.

During 'quiet time' yesterday Soph was very quiet indeed. She found a pair of her scissors, sat in our bed, and proceeded to cut great chunks of her hair out. Bits of her bangs, handfuls from either sides and she ended up with a wonderfully Canadian hockey player mullet.

It was horrible. I freaked and no doubt ensured she will be seeking therapy years down the road for linking her self-esteem to the length of her hair.

She really hasn't been too bothered by it all. When asked why she did it she only answered because the 'scissors were there'. God forbid we leave the chainsaw lying around.

I ended up having to take her to a children's hairdresser who, rather alarmingly, told me this happens all the time. So Soph now has something vaguely close to a bob. It's not great. There are still chunks missing. I am gutted her lovely long hair is gone and that it's now straight and boring like mine.

I am really not impressed with the two little feckers at school who told her it didn't look nice though. Bloody parents, teach your kids to lie dammit.

Bloody hell, I'm getting worse at keeping this up to date. I blame old age.

So the update:

Christmas was good – if Paul hasn’t already said so thank you all for the lovely gifts for the girls. The books, cds, ornaments, clothes and pjs were lovely and very much appreciated.

This month I started a new p/t job. It’s going grand. I like the company and the community work they do, my colleagues are lovely, the work is very basic admin though...the type I used to have juniors doing for me...but hopefully it will become more interesting down the road.

I turned 40. I’m old. It sucks.

I’ve had a back problem for almost 5 months now. Hurt it in October in a weight-lifting class at the gym and instead of letting it heal I continued to do the class until December when it became debilitating. So far it’s been fun – muscle relaxants, anti-inflammatories, a constant ice pack down my pants, a bone scan, x-rays, blood tests, cortisone injections, physio, massage and numerous dr’s appointments. And it still hurts like a sonofabitch. I can barely exercise at all. Running is definitely out and I really want to run a half-marathon this summer so I’m a very unhappy bunny.

So I’m not only old, I’m getting fat. Huzzah.

I've just recovered from the stomach flu and a poxy cold. I blame getting old.

I still knit, enthusiastically and often.

I started a writing group with a couple friends and have actually started writing short pieces and am researching a novel. Crazy stuff altogether.

Amelie continues to be a cute head-case of a child. She finds nothing funnier than head-butting and smacking in the face. You sternly tell her no and she chuckles this hilarious guttural laugh at you. She shouts in the middle of the night and you go in to her and she’s on her knees bouncing in bed and giggling. You put her down and she runs away laughing like a maniac. She’s happy, funny, slightly insane and obviously has a hidden stash of speed somewhere. She also has these mad eye looks - quite like a ventriloquist's dummy where she thinks if she looks at you sideways you can't see her.

Sophie is in great form. She continues to thrive at school...loves all things artsy crafty and ballet. She still tends to be a rather lazy child who would prefer watching TV all day (this ain’t allowed) to actually being active and yesterday I asked her if she would like to try a new sport class and she responded with a ‘what’s sport?’ Good lord child. She seemed frightened of trying footie and gymnastics so she may need a push. She is completely addicted to Abba/Mamma Mia and is constantly signing their songs. There’s nothing funnier and slightly disturbing than your 4 yr old singing “lay all your love on me” and “don’t go wasting your ‘motions”. She also does a wicked version of Money, Money, Money. I’d get her into musical theatre but unfortunately, bless her, she has inherited my singing voice. Poor child.

And finally, I killed her hair. It was down to her arse when and had never cut in the back - with her enthusiastic agreement I cut off about 4 inches. It's not half as curly now - but much more manageable. Paul, like every damn man out there, gave me the old 'but I like it long'...yeah, I didn't see him detangling it for half an hour or ever putting in the braids or even attempting to brush it.

Ok...that's all folks...

Yup, Soph started pre-school this week. And mother of all surprises, it has gone brilliantly. No screaming fits at getting up early, or getting dressed or missing her morning cartoons. No throwing wobblers at all. She has her brekkie, get dressed, dons her rucksack and is raring to go. I had anticipated so many problems but she's taken to it like a German to beer.



Speaking of Germans, this just reinforces my belief that Soph is German to the core. Ve vill not have ze fun now...nein danke, ve must study ze punctuality! Structure Madame! Bitte, more structure!

There is a lot to get used to. Older kids in the before class daycare, older kids on the playground. Yesterday at the play structure an older boy grabbed her precious doll - Katie - and started hammering its chest with his fists screaming CPR! CPR!. She nearly had a fucking heart attack.

Then there were the kids on the wobbly bridge. Soph does not like the wobbly bridge. She has only recently started crossing it on her own. So when a bunch of children were jumping on it like monkeys on a trampoline she went ballistic and screamed at them all to stop! When they did not comply she bellowed 'I SAID STOP IT NOW! NOW! ACHTUNG! And lo and behold the little monkeys looked terrified and complied. Who's mommy's little soldier...


Paul mentioned she shed a few tears this morning at drop off. I'm guessing Soph is actually realising this is what the next 18 years are going to be like.


But she's already picking up the odd French word here and there. We were talking to a neighbour down the street yesterday and when we said goodbye Soph gleefully shouted out an Au Revoir! No matter it came out like oaravoir, she's still the cutest Del Boy on the block.


This is us heading off to her first morning. Don't mind that I've got bird shit or some such all over my arse.



In her class! Amelie was dying to get down and go for a looksee. I had a raging hangover which will partly explain the hideous look on my face.

There are certain things I will forgive my mother for; giving me a perm that made me look like the first white child in history with an afro in Grade 7, never letting me watch 'Three's Company' (the lewdest show on telly don't ya know), taking circular bread to school that had been baked in a coffee tin. Circular bread. Imagine the sambos. These weren't easy but in the spirit of mother/daughter hatred/magnanimity I will let them be water under our troubled bridge.

But then there are times when currents run too deep. When Nessie rears her thorny head. When you hear Morricone's baleful Good, Bad & Ugly in your head at just the very thought. These are the unforgiveable.

Reading my diary when I was 16, that was unforgiveable. Recently telling me while squeezing my fatty midrif - that I'm just 'soft, soft all over', trying to force-feed my child JC...all unforgiveable. But quite possibly the worst - and I have a hard time saying this - was introducing Sophie to Andre Rieu.

If you're unfamiliar with him picture, if you will, a tosser. Now make him Dutch. Now give him golden-ish locks. Now toss those locks. Toss, toss, toss. *insert flounce*. Now give him deplorable taste. Add a dollop of Strauss.

My mother is a fan. She thought it would be educational to introduce Sophie to classical music. This, I'm all for. Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, my fave - Paganini. Too many to name. But Strauss? Strauss is to true classical music what Daniel O'Donnell is to trad music...what that fucking gobshite with the ringlets is to jazz...y'know who I mean...

To put it bluntly he's a tosser. Ads on PBS show him strumming his violin and flouncing his lion's mane to the blue rinse brigade. And they lap it up like ants on maple syrup.

And Sophie loves him. She thinks he's the bees fucking knees. She loves to do ballerina twirls and say 'I dance like this to Andre's music'. Oh yes, he's only Andre...they're on a first name basis.

If I put CBC on in the car and it's opera or what have you she enquires if it's 'Andre'. She asks me all the time if I like him, to which I emphatically state 'no' and under my breath 'not the fuck ever'...and she proudly, defiantly, in your face mama states 'well I do!'. It's toddler rebellion at its finest.

What the fuck. Can she not just develop a little pre-school meth habit? Does it have to be this dire?

After a little chasing and phone tag I was finally able to speak to a rep from the wading school program. The gist of our conversation was much the same as below...bad lifeguard, bad toy, parents are ultimately responsible. In fairness, I suppose this was the best I could have hoped for.

Dear Ms. Hoenisch:

On behalf of the Community Services Department, I would like to thank you for your email dated August 22 and our subsequent phone conversation on August 29, concerning an incident involving your daughter at Harrow Park.

As we discussed, please be assured that we are taking steps to prevent any future occurrences and have addressed your concerns with our Wading Pool Attendant by reinforcing the wading pool procedures. In addition, your concerns regarding the use of flotation devices at wading pools have been noted and we will be reviewing our guidelines concerning these types of items. Safety is our primary concern and we will continue to do our best to demonstrate this to our patrons.

We are committed to creating a fun and safe environment for all patrons and strive to establish guidelines and procedures to assist us in achieving this goal. I would like to again acknowledge your efforts in staying within arms’ reach of your children while they were in the pool. As we discussed, all patrons are encouraged to actively supervise their children. Active supervision includes being in the water within arms’ reach of children under 5 years of age at all times.

Once again, thank you for taking the time to discuss your comments and concerns regarding the Wading Pool Operation. We appreciate your feedback and will continue to make every effort to improve our service and commitment to providing a fun and safe environment for all.

Sincerely,

Some little fuckers nearly drowned my Soph at the local pool on Tuesday. I'm not going to shed a tear if the useless lifeguard gets sacked but I fear if I get any response at all it will be a 'we'll look into it, but the summer is nearly over' blahdeblahblah.

Below is my missive to the Community Services Dept of the City.
...................................................................................................


I wish to report a problem that occurred at the Fleet/Harrow wading pool on Tuesday 19th August 2008.

I attend this pool regularly with my children aged 1 and 4. On Tuesday an incident happened that could have ended in drowning for my 4 year old.

There were a group of older children - most looked ages 5/6 but there was one clearly older one as well - probably over 10. They were all grouped around a mini-surfboard. This item floats, looks identical to a surfboard but is only about 3 ft long. The children were all grouped around the board and pushing/fighting/climbing on it without paying any attention to who was around. They did not see my 4 year old daughter, only her head above water pulling herself around on her hands and they pushed the board over her head. Her head was completely submerged in the water with no way to get up. I do not dare to think what would have happened had I not been 2 feet away from her. I yelled at the children, grabbed my daughter who was gasping, very frightened and quickly burst into tears along with my 1 year old and we sat at the side of the pool where I could calm her down.

I played the incident down for my daughter's sake. She has recently started swimming lessons and the last thing I wish to do is instill a fear of water in her. But she could have drowned had I not been beside her. This is not histrionics or exaggeration, just a frightening fact.

The children involved all came over to us to apologize. I told them that board should not be allowed in the water. Another local mother came over to see if we were okay and we had a similar discussion about the board. The lifeguard did not come over. The lifeguard did not see the incident and even when my daughters were crying (the younger joined in when seeing her elder sister in distress) she did not come to ask what had happened and if she was hurt.

My first issue is with the allowed usage of this kind of board in wading pools. A child smaller than mine would have had even less chance of getting out from under it. While every parent is responsible for their children most don't stand right beside them in the pool. I, fortuitously, just happened to be within arm's reach. I cannot stress how a board of this kind is clearly dangerous and has no place in a wading pool.

My second issue is with the lifeguard. The pool was busy but not exceptionally so. Perhaps 12-15 children in the pool at the time. How the lifeguard failed to see the incident happen or the aftermath of it is mind-boggling. There is no way she could have missed me yelling and pulling my child nor her crying. As we were leaving I asked her if she saw what had happened and she said 'no'. I explained that my daughter had been pushed under this board and was struggling and she said 'oh'. I said the boards clearly do not belong in the pool and I got no response.

Not exactly inspiring confidence of any sort.

Though I applaud the City's decision to keep the wading pools open longer this summer we will not - because of the lifeguard on duty - attend this pool again. Another long-term resident of the neighborhood has expressed similar concerns to mine (and has stopped bringing her child there as well) - specifically when compared to the very capable lifeguard who was on duty at this pool last year. She kept the rowdier children in line. Used her authority when needed and was always close to the children in the pool. She cleared the pool of children when taking water samples and entering the pool building allowing them back in only when she was there to watch them - the lifeguard this summer does not. I had thought this was City policy. Perhaps the difference comes down to maturity. The lifeguard last year was older, probably late 20's/30's the one this year looks to be a teenager and uncertain of her authority.

If a lifeguard is loathe to assert any authority they should not be a lifeguard. If a lifeguard fails to spot a near drowning and cannot be bothered to inquire what happened when an incident clearly took place they should not be a lifeguard. If a lifeguard cannot spot how hazardous an item is BEFORE a problem occurs they should not be a lifeguard.

I hope this matter will be addressed and that the use of these surfboard items will be disallowed.

Please feel free to contact me to discuss this further.

Amélie is one year old today and ohhhh it makes me want to cry. Not because I'm having flashbacks of excrutiating pain and recall being stretched to cavernous proportions for 2 days but because she's growing up too quick. Kids these days...what's the bleddy hurry I ask you...

She is the light of my life though. It's impossible to be annoyed with her when she bites the bejaysus out of your leg, takes only 20 minute naps and wakes 5x a night because she beams a big smile at you and that's it...you are putty in her chubby little hands.

Her laugh is so gutteral and contagious we sit around like eejits laughing at nothing. She now has a big fake laugh that would make her a winner in a sitcom audience.

She is in the funny stage of wobbly steps and being fearless. We chase her around the house (much to her delight) and rescue her from falling down the stairs, keeling backwards off the slide and sticking pebbles, canker worms and Sophie's stickers in her mouth.

I think she's going to be a musician...or go-go dancer. Any peal of music has her clapping her hands and swaying with glee. She digs that crazy beat.

She's my wee sweetie.

sigh

I still love knitting. My yarn habit rages on (yes I've already started searching online for where to go in Dublin and wtf, do yiz have no stores?) I pore over pattern books and drool. My happy place is now fingering my stash. Oh matron.

But my latest love affair is with socks. I don't know what it is about them in particular - the intricate detailing, the earthy coziness, the harkening back to ye olde folkie days...but they are just wonderful to knit and wear. My feet are bringing sexy back.

Perhaps it's the fact that when knitting with 5 dpns (double pointed needles) you look like a friggin genius. Or that they knit up quickly. I dunno. But when I figured out how to turn my first heel I wanted to throw a party. Except nobody I know would turn up. My sister thinks I'm a complete geek. My mother thinks every thing I knit is worthy of effusive maternal praise so lofty I naturally assume what I've made is a big bag of shite. Paul, bless him, bears with me and makes appropriately admiring mumbles at everything he is shown.

Today I'm as giddy as a baby in Hooters.

I just won these vintage patterns on Ebay.






Maple leaf socks! Shamrock socks! Austin Power Yeah Baby Yeah socks!




Guess what everybody I know is getting for Christmas!


Ok...c'mon...they are cool in that retro way...admit it...you want a pair.

Three months ago I took up running again. I say 'again' like it was a regular thing before but it really wasn't. Every now and then I would take it up in a frantic bid to slim thighs and develop some cardio endurance and for a few weeks I would pound along the Quays before sunrise or jog the main thoroughfare in the Phoenix Park. Then I would reach said goal; a few pounds dropped, the mini-marathon run and I'd pretty much drop running and take up eating again.

This January I embarked on a 13 week run/walk program which very slowly leads you up to running 10k straight but does so in a gently gently softly softly get no injuries manner. This was a bit different than my old 'just fucking do it ya big fat loser' training method. Arrogantly, I wasn't sure this was for me, would I really be able to restrain my inner Pheidippides and go at such a slow pace. Would I be able to stick with such a relatively long program? In short - yes. Though there was a week or two during the February sickness when I had to put off a run or two I have stuck with it and ran the final 10k yesterday - huzzah!

It doesn't matter that me left knee hurts so badly today I can barely walk. It doesn't matter that I stopped halfway at the best patisserie in the city to buy croissants (not to eat while running mind you, but a nice well done let's put the calories back in ya treat for after).


The good is:
I can now run 10k without gasping like a splayed frog on a rock in the sahara.
I will hopefully lose the excess poundage in the next few months.
I have started to build up some cardio endurance!
I actually like it...well most of the time.

The bad is:
Ok - my knee hurts like a sonofabitch at the moment.
I am terribly slow and feel very turtlish when being passed by other runners. Will I ever have any real pace I wonder?
Paul is protesting against me spending $200 on a super fancy heart rate monitor that like the Blackberry he wants, neither of us particularly needs - but desires very much.

The jogly is:
I may consider running a half-marathon...at some point.

Anywho...I'm signed up to run a 10k race on Mother's Day. Here's hoping I come middle of the pack and not be the straggler crawling to the end, after dark, tripping over empty water bottles, to the cheers of the janitor dude sweeping up at the finish line.

pics of the kiddies



Amélie sporting splotches of medicine all over her clothes. This is her default 'wahey!' expression.











Everywhere we go people say 'oh what a cute boy!'...'oh he's adorable'. Either I start dressing her in head to toe pink *shudder*...or I change her name to Emile.











Sophie sporting a lovely knitted dress that is charmingly uneven in length. She solemnly tells me that she likes it 'BUT only some of the time mommy...not always.'

At least I think those are Soph's lyrics. She's all about Christmas Carols at the moment. Well, 3 to be precise; Deck the Halls, Jingle Bells and The 12 Day of Christmas. We have to get the latter on tape because it's almost as good as her rendition of Oh Canada.

This past Sunday we dug out some of the Christmas decorations and Soph & I hung tinsel and bells and decorated a gingerbread house. I love everything about Christmas and if I had my way the tree would be up in September and Nat King Cole would be roasting his chestnuts at least 6 months of the year. I've knitted the girls candy cane hats, have had my Christmas Crooners CD on heavy rotation in the car and have been wearing my snowflake socks for months. We've been reading Christmas stories and would have watched How The Grinch Stole Christmas a million times if only we knew where it was. Problem is we were so sick of Soph wanting to watch it every day last winter that we hid it somewhere and now cannot find it.

I'd already be wrapping presents if only I had a tree to put them under. Every year Paul & I fiercely negotiate when the tree will go up. I usually suggest the 1st Dec, he suggests the 24th and we grudgingly settle on somewhere around the 12th. Last year was a 'don't mention the tree' year. It fell more than the Dow Jones average. It fell if a snowflake passed overhead. It fell if we breathed on it. It fell on Sophie. Finally, wrapped and strapped in something straight out Flora Bondage Weekly we got it to stay put. You can imagine Paul's humour after taking the lights and decorations off and on it for the 50th time. Coochie coochie coo Mr Grinch. This year I have promised to get a smaller tree. He had the gall to quietly suggest a fake one but I will get a fake tree when he gives up his Erdinger for Coors Lite.

The decorating was fun in a nauseating sugar-rush way. I'm no Martha Stewart. I did not make the gingerbread house or men...or are they women...no matter...I did not make any of the persons of ginger flavour. I bought a pack that consists of house, people, 2 tubes of 'icing' (I'm sure it's just glue with sugar in it) and enough candy to make a dentist wet his pants.

We begin. I am determined to create a Hansel & Gretel meets Mies van der Rohe inspired masterpiece. A haus to beat all hauses, ja wohl. Soph politely asks if she can have a candy. 2 seconds later she's had about 30 pieces, I've had half a dozen, have nearly lost a molar and have already broken half of the roof. In my sugar induced haste I have also glued one half of the roof upside down. The icing is a bitch to use and our house looks nothing like the cover of the box. Soph keeps telling me I'm doing it wrong and slyly shoveling M&Ms in her cheeks like she's storing up for a long winter. She keeps wiping my Dali-inspired icicles off the house and eating them. She decides to only put white candy on the white icing. I cannot have this Scandanavian-like minimalism and throw as many candies as possible on it...and voila it's done...and there's only about 30 pieces of candy left.

Christmas list so far...

snow - check
prezzies - check
gingerbread house - check
enough wine to get sozzled for 2 weeks - check

so far so good

Dr Oz that is. I think I'm a little bit in love with him. Well, his brain and his enthusiasm anyway.

He's the cardiothoracic surgeon who, when not splicing apart chests, is on Oprah and Discovery Health all the time. As the Oprah-ites do my head in, he's about the only reason I tune in to the big O these days. He's often on showing various body parts and internal organs trying to teach people about their bodies, health, nutrients and the like.

He also has a great website Real Age which, after you do a quiz, will tell you what your real age is - i.e. how your body is aging - as opposed to your calendar age.

I was delighted to find I am not almost 39, but only 34.5 yrs old. Huzzah! When I excitedly told Paul his only comment was 'did you lie about how much you drink?'

Bastard.

Anywho I've been having a not-quite-midlife-but-almost crises lately concerning health. Haven't been feeling the best and having the same panic I had after having Sophie. What if something happened to me? I must get healthy for my girls. Bye-bye chips, hello All Bran.

It's not that I'm terribly unhealthy or anything. Yes, I still have chunky monkey thighs and a mommy tummy that makes me sing 'do you know the muffin man?' every time I look in the mirror but that's a work in progress. What I am concerned about is going batty, getting breast cancer - or any cancer - getting old and brittle...that kind of horrid shit. Aging shit. It's all about prevention and Dr Oz seems to be the man who knows it all.

He has a partner in all of this, Dr Roizen, but poor Dr R does not have a face for TV. I'm sure he's a perfectly lovely man but he so reminds me of a troll that I cannot help but look at him and wonder what bridge he lives under. So forgive me if I don't give him the credit he deserves here.

Anywho back to Oz. On Monday & Tuesday he was on discussing their new book You: Staying Young

A big part was spent on discussing the importance of lowering stress, eating right, what vitamins to take, why exercise and meditation are important and at one point he was showing various foods and items and they came to a green drink. Full of nutrients and fiber, O described it as 'a glass of fresh' and I thought I gotta get me some of that.

So I made my green drink. In their own right, I like each ingredient individually but there is just something physically perverse about drinking green. It's like men wearing pink and babies born with teeth. Just wrong. But I figured I would make it and see if I could stomach a sip or two.

Into the blender went celery, parsley, cucumber, spinach, ginger, some apple, pear, lemon juice and zest and a dash of apple juice because by god it looked thicker than Adam Sandler. Blend blend blend and voila.

It was so vibrantly green. An anguished Charlton Heston green. Greener than Al Gore.

But fecking delish. Really. Very zingy and refreshing.

Two hours later I felt like a giant tuber the size of Baldrick's turnip was snaking through my intestines.

But no matter. I'm sure I've dropped a decade off my life by having this a couple days in a row now. I love it. I now want to experiment with beets and carrots and mint. I may have to get a proper juicer (yay more kitchen equipment!)

Next step...to get Paul to drink it.

is three months old today...or a year, depending how you look at it. And what an absolute delight she is.

She is the happiest little lump of a baby and as plump as the disposable nappie that accidentally went through the wash today. She's always smiling and giggling like I've just told her funniest damn joke in the world. I can almost see a new career of baby stand-up in my future. Smile at audience *raucous laughter*, stick tongue out *mass hysteria with much throwing of soothers on stage*...and the clapping, oh the clapping. The drool would probably be the deal breaker though.

Nappy changes crack her up. When she sees the boob she emits a greedy giggle. Freakily, she laughs in her sleep a lot too. I knew she was her father's daughter when she looked at the beer picture in the porch and a smile lit her face like Tiny Tim's when he saw Scrooge's turkey.

I feel an enormous sense of guilt because I don't think I had this much fun at home with Sophie. I was always terrified I was fucking something up and not doing things by the book. Worried Soph wasn't gaining enough weight, worried about a nappy rash, worried she would stop breathing in the middle of the night, just worried, worried, worried. The exhaustion seemed bone deep and it cracks me up when I think both Paul & I were home every day with her.

This time around things are just so much easier. Even if we have a shit night it's not that bad. Sure I'm knackered but whatever, just gimme a cup of tea.

I suppose part of it is because she's definitely our last baby. **sniff**

I want to hang on to every minute and just enjoy it. Already it's going too fast. Last week a tiny developmental lightbulb went off and Amelie started to realise she could kick her toy to make the lights go off and also started to hit the toys above her on the play mat. It sounds a ridiculously minor step but it's not. And while delighted I wanted to shout 'stay a slug just a little bit longer!'. Please. Here sluggie, sluggie, sluggie.

I remember this time with Soph - around 4 months - it all took off. It's all go go go and suddenly you realise your baby is a toddler.

Speaking of toddlers, Soph is frikkin' comedian herself. Mommy, I decided I'm not going to be helpful today. Mommy are you frustrated? Mommy, Mommy, MOMMMYYYY I need my doll. Give it to me! It's right by my feet! Mommy are you angry?

Toddlers: can't live with 'em, can't send 'em to boarding school yet.

We did the corn maze today and fared much better than last year when we got lost numerous times. Took me ma & pa along and though it was a blustery old day it was still fun.

Amélie was a happy wee camper in the maze but the second we were out of it she wailed her head off.

Soph seemed to enjoy it - particularly getting carried around by my parents and flashing her crack at everybody. Though she was more interested in her snack than the llama in the petting zoo...go figure.

Don't ya just love her pumpkin hat? Don't ya?