Days when only the coffee keeps you sane...

There I was, indulgently mulling over writing a post about the pros and cons of working from home and commuting. It was going to be a largely positive post, waxing lyrical about the pleasures of checking for eggs on my mid-morning tea-break, cutting the grass at lunch-time, watching the swallows swooping past my window as I held a conference call.

But then Sunday night happened and put paid to all that stuff and nonsense.

Lou Loo hasn’t been a good sleeper for a long time. Well, actually, from the word go if I’m honest. If a cow moos in the field outside her bedroom, she could be up for hours. JP, on the other hand, wouldn’t notice a herd of them charging past his bed. Sunday night would easily rank as number 2 in Lou Loo’s Top Ten of Awful Sleepless Nights, number 1 going to a night sometime in the last year (it’s a blur) when we literally didn’t get any sleep.

I think it was her first visit to the cinema on Sunday that probably did the damage. We went to see Monsters vs Aliens in Waterford that afternoon - on hindsight probably not a wise move. I thought it was going to be innocent enough, with cute, funny monsters that wouldn’t be scary at all. And mostly, it was. But the thing about a cinema is that it can be incredibly LOUD to a 2.5 year old. She coped well and cuddled into me for a lot of the movie and seemed to enjoy it overall. But, I’m learning that that is LL’s style. She looks fine, but there can be an internal mutiny bubbling away inside her and it generally breaks through the surface at night.

She started crying at 11:30pm. She finally stopped at 3am. I was due to get up for work at 5:30am.

As you can imagine, by the time I finally fell asleep at 3:30am, I wasn’t feeling too good about the prospect of the Monday commute to Dublin. But the downside of only being in the office two days per week is that you really do need to be there on those days. And with Mr G travelling to London on Tuesday and Wednesday, it made it less of an option to change my days.

So, I dragged myself out of bed at 7am for a later train, threw on some makeup and hoped for the best. When I finally reached the office, 3 hours and 2 coffees later, I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. I could feel my legs moving and my fingers pressing the button on the lift, but it was like I was watching it happen from inside a bubble. At the management meeting at 10:30am, I tried to sound together and coherent, despite the fact that my brain was about 10 steps behind everyone else’s. When it was over, I retreated to the nearby cafe and enveloped myself in coffee fumes. By the time I got back to the office, I felt marginally better and began to face the day (by about lunchtime).

When I got home that evening, my ears were ringing and I felt like my head had been packed with cotton wool. Lou Loo and Mr G weren’t faring much better. JP, who had slept through the whole thing, was bounding around the garden looking for someone to play football with him. Oh, you have to smile.

So you see, collecting eggs and taking a tea-break out on the deck is wonderful, but there’s always a price to pay. Maybe one day we’ll have it all sussed, but I have a feeling that day is a long way away.

Rosie catches up

Rosie (our Minorca) has been flirting with the nest box on and off over the last few days, looking up at us with a 'What?' look in her eyes if we opened it whenever she happened to be in there. So, I've been scrutinising the daily egg, wondering if it looks any lighter or different in any way - just in case it was hers.

I needn't have bothered.

It couldn't have been more different to Maisy's. In fact, I think they qualify for first prize in the Eggs That Are Polar Opposites competition. I always knew that Marans produce dark brown eggs and Minorca's white eggs, but I wasn't expecting the difference to be so obvious from the word go.

I don't think we'll have any problem identifying who's pulling their weight.. do you?

Gardens can be scary places..

Especially if you're like me and haven't a clue what you're doing. I try my best, but I don't generally get things to grow with any great degree of success (unless you count weeds). Mr G, on the other hand, gardens with flair. He seems to instinctively know things like what to plant where, how to lay the garden out, what 'companion planting' means in the vegetable beds and whether or not we should pluck some blossoms off the pear tree in order to ensure a decent crop. Things that a couple of years ago would have sounded like a foreign language to me (and sometimes still do).

Last Summer was a bit of a wash-out (read 'rained for 3 months solid') so I felt fairly disheartened at the end of it when none of my shrubs or flowers fared well. However, a couple of small successes, like last Summer's bumper crop of courgettes and peas and this year's gorgeous display of tulips, has given me the impetus to carry on and sow some more seeds.

Our vegetable garden now consists of three large beds, in which we'll grow potatoes, onions, peas, courgettes, sweetcorn, carrots, pumpkins (if the rats don't keep eating them like last year - even they had it in for me), garlic, spinach, rocket and a few other salad bits. I've sown some of these already and it's exciting waiting for the first few shoots to appear.

I'm also aiming to create a sea of scented flowers near where we eat outside this year and have sown tons of cottage garden-type flower seeds in two large beds. Some of these have started to pop up already and we've put some netting over the most vulnerable bed in order to keep the hens from eating the lot. Here's hoping that even some of them survive so that I don't totally lose faith in this gardening business.

One of the things we decided to add to the garden last year was the orchard. It consists of about 10 apple, pear and damson trees and some of these are starting to break out into the most lovely blossoms. Fruit trees are easy.. all you have to do is leave them alone to do their business. Even I can manage that.

On the hen front, Maisy and Rosie are becoming increasingly chilled out in their new home. Maisy is laying daily eggs for us and it's fabulous to find one still warm in the nest box in the late morning. Rosie is becoming positively slutty, allowing JP to pick her up and walk around the garden with her in his arms and generally following us around wanting to know what we're up to. Yesterday, when we were sitting at the table outside, she wandered over, jumped up on the table and even went as far as to try to get at my tea.

I'll have to have some words with her. No-one messes with my tea.

And so it begins...

It was an innocent enough start to the conversation. JP, Lou Loo and I were sitting down to lunch and the subject of our First Ever Egg (produced today with much fanfare by Maisy) came up. Mr G had explained to JP some time ago that the reason the cockerels 'sit on' the hens is to make chicks. We had seen our neighbour's cockerels do this many (many many) times during their visits to our garden.

Over lunch (obviously after much consideration) JP said quite matter-of-factly, 'So, Daddy has to sit on you to make a baby. Or lie on you, or whatever.'

Gulp.

'Kind of', I replied.

Cue bemused glances exchanged between Mr G and I across the kitchen.

'So what does he do - sit on you or lie on you?'

'Whatever he wants,' mutters Mr G, with a smirk on his face.

'So, how does the baby get made?'

Here we go... I thought I'd have another 3-4 years before having to answer that question. But we did it, sticking to the facts and being as light-hearted as possible. JP lost interest almost immediately and moved on to more important things, like battle droids and drop-ships. But I was left feeling amused and a tiny bit sad at the same time. I can remember so vividly being able to fit the whole length of him across my knees and now the sex questions are coming at us already. Did I just blink and miss the last 6 years?

Mummy, will you play with me?

These words seem to have become the soundtrack of my life lately, usually followed by a plaintive ‘pleeeease’. And it’s slowly, but surely, driving me bonkers.

I try to make some time every day to play with JP and Lou Loo, but it’s usually brief, due to the amount of cooking, cleaning and general housework that needs to be done on any given day. But even that small taste of time with me seems to whet their appetite and generate more and more demands for me to play with them. JP constantly tries to drag me out to the garden to play football, while Lou Loo keeps bringing me dolls to cuddle and dress. I do my best to get friends around to play so that they’re distracted, but as soon as the friends have gone home, it all switches back on. It’s like they’re watching me, waiting for me to stop moving for 2 seconds, so that they can pounce.

I’m increasingly finding that on Monday mornings, I look back on the weekend with a vague sense of regret, wishing that I had spent more ‘quality time’ with JP and Lou Loo. I never seem to focus on all the good stuff that I’ve done, like making home-made meals from scratch, cleaning the bathrooms so that an army of germs don’t take hold, lovingly ironing pyjamas and boxer shorts (I know I’m mad) and generally trying to catch up on all of the stuff I can’t get to during the week when I’m working. No, all I focus on is the things I've missed. Is this the nature of being female? Always wishing we could do more to care for our children? Mr G looks after the outdoor stuff, something that has become a little unspoken agreement between us and it works most of the time. Funnily enough though, I rarely ever hear JP or Lou Loo hounding him to play with them. He can just get on with his jobs uninterrupted and doesn't feel the slightest bit bothered about it. So, what is it about me? I know it’s flattering that they enjoy playing with me and want to spend more time with me, but it just creates a huge sense of guilt for me to carry around all weekend.

When I look back on my childhood, I can’t remember a single occasion when my mother played with me. And it never mattered. I just entertained myself and I was very happy. To ask my mother to play with me would have been a ludicrous suggestion – it’s just not what mothers were for. Don’t get me wrong, she was a bottomless well of hugs, encouragement and tenderness when I needed it. But she didn’t have time to play. Mothers at that time were far too busy keeping the house in order, feeding us, washing our clothes and scrubbing floors to get involved in entertaining us. In other words, all the stuff I do today while also holding down a job. And now, on top of all that, I’m expected to play with my children – because, by cultural osmosis, I’ve absorbed the notion that that’s what they really need from me in order to be truly nourished as human beings. Aaargh. Is the pressure never-ending?

And yes, I know that the time spent with them is more important than a clean house. But I’m not even talking about getting all of the luxury stuff done like hoovering behind the couch - just the basics that keep the place ticking over. When I was young, I was cast out into the garden for the day to find things to amuse me and I didn’t dare go near my mother unless there was a problem. It didn’t do me any harm, so should I try being equally firm with my two? Even so, I find myself yielding to them after the twentieth plea and probably feeding the problem.

As with many aspects of motherhood, there doesn’t seem to be any right answer.

Maybe one will just reveal itself to me someday soon and I’ll find eternal peace and time to have a cup of tea un-pestered.

Rosie and Maisy have arrived...!

After a fruitless trip to the Poultry Fair at Myshall a couple of weeks ago, we finally got our hands on two birds to get our little flock started. They came from a reputable breeder in Laois and weren't on the list of breeds I had shortlisted, but they're winning me over more and more every day. Rosie is a black Minorca and is proving to be a fairly plucky little lady. She's always the first scrambling out of the hen house in the morning for breakfast and it's usually her little head you'll see peering out of the hedge first when there's any grub on offer. Yesterday, she tried to climb the steps to the slide but skittered off abruptly with her wings flapping 'like a helicopter' according to JP when she couldn't make it to the top step. Maisy, on the other hand, is a lot more reserved. She's a Cuckoo Maran, with round haunches, who waddles swiftly out of sight if we come anywhere near. The two of them have been gradually venturing out further into the garden every day and seem to be enjoying the range of worms and slugs on offer. A couple of our neighbour's hens have wandered into the garden now and again and have even been audacious enough to try to nick Rosie and Maisy's feed, but they're learning their lesson slowly but surely. JP will happily pick up one of them quite firmly and throw them out of the enclosure if he sees them at it. It's funny how he's becoming really interested in them.. he asked me to read the whole 'Keeping Chickens' book to him last weekend. I'm not sure if the attachment is really there yet though.. he keeps asking if we can kill Maisy and eat her as she looks so fat. Hmmm...

Over the last few days, I've noticed Rosie and Maisy becoming more and more chilled out.. often nestling down together in a quiet spot and watching the world go by. They never leave each other's side and it's quite endearing to watch. On the subject of eggs, in case you're wondering, there aren't any. The two of them should start laying soon, although the breeder reckons he's missing a daily egg since he sold them to us. I still haven't seen any though, but hopefully they won't be too far off.

In the meantime, we're just enjoying getting to know them. We should have some more to add to the flock in about 2-3 months. A friend of ours bought a box of chicks on an impulse two weeks ago and is raising them at the moment under lamps in his garage.. two have been ear-marked for us and he might be getting some more soon. Can't wait! I'm beginning to understand why people find this poultry business so addictive...

Whose social life is it anyway?

I'm beginning to realise that JP (6) is turning into a paradox all by himself. He is - not unlike his dad - a sociable loner.

Since he started school last year, we've noticed a few things..

A. He has lots of friends. This is borne out by the jostling that happens when they all emerge from school at the end of the day and he's happily in the middle of it all.
B. When we're out at family outings, lots of children want to play with him, dragging him off to chase them or be thrown into prison. It never seems to matter which.
C. He gets invited to so many birthday parties that I have trouble keeping track.

In other words, he's relatively popular and seems nonchalantly comfortable with it all.

However, paradoxically, he loves his own company and is entirely happy to be alone, in peace and playing quietly with his stuff at home. He has zero interest in taking up any sport / activities that would drag him away from home and would quite happily stay put 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, if it wasn't for the inconvenient business of going to school. As a result, weekends in our house often end up like this..

Me: What would you like to do today?
JP : Em.. play with my Lego.
Me: Would you like to go to football?
JP : No
Me : What about a swimming lesson?
JP : No
Me : Will we go to the park and explore?
JP : No. I just want to stay at home and relax.
Me : Ah go on. You'll like it. Let's go.
JP collapses into tears and starts kicking things.

The strange thing is that, instead of being thrilled, I really struggle with the fact that he's so happy at home. I keep hearing about all of the activities that other children do and feel that maybe he's missing out, that maybe in a couple of years he'll be behind his friends in terms of sporting or social skills. I always promised myself that I wouldn't succumb to the pressure exerted by the perceived norm in relation to what children should be doing and when. That I would allow JP and Lou Loo the chance to relax and just be children. But it's still nagging away at me in the background and I guess I'm beginning to realise that it's my own hangups about fitting in that are having a bearing on how I'm feeling, rather than any real reason for concern about JP.

Mr G keeps repeating 'he's only six', 'he's only six', to reassure me. My sister, who has 4 busy almost-teenage children, tells me to enjoy the time with JP at home, as soon he'll be out and about all of the time and I'll be sick to the back teeth of chauffeuring him around.

I know they're right, but I still can't help worrying.. then again, I guess that's my job for life. Whether I like it or not.

New mantra for the day - 'let my children be themselves', 'let my children be themselves', 'let five builders free themselves'.. yawn. Time for bed I think..

Mr G’s Best Fluffy White Rolls

Mr G has always loved bread and has, over recent months, been learning how to bake his own. Below is the recipe he has found to produce the lightest, floury rolls yet. I made a big batch on Sunday to feed the workers (and children) at lunchtime and they went down really well with bacon (rashers) and sausages.

Ingredients

1lb strong white flour
1 tablesp sugar
1 tablesp salt
1 oz lard
1 sachet of dried yeast
¼ pint milk
¼ pint water

Recipe

Warm the milk in a pan until it is just hot enough to touch with your finger. Empty the sachet of dried yeast into the milk, stir and leave for 10 minutes or until it froths on the surface.

Mix together in a large bowl the flour, sugar and salt. Rub in the lard until it is fully blended with the flour mixture.

Warm the water a little, make a well in the flour and pour the water into it. Add the milk & yeast when ready and mix all of the ingredients together loosely with your hands. Turn the mixture out onto a board and knead for 10 minutes. Put back into the bowl and leave (we put a clean tea towel over the bowl) in a warm place for an hour to rise.

When the dough has risen, remove from the bowl and roll into small balls (about a third smaller than you would want the rolls to be, as they will rise further). Cover each roll with flour by putting the flour in your hand and rolling the ball of dough in it. Place all of the rolls on a baking tray (or two) and cover with the tea towel again. Leave for another 45 minutes or so.

Heat the oven to 200C. If you want to dust the rolls with poppy seeds, brush the top with a little water and sprinkle the seeds on them. Place the trays in the oven for 12 – 15 minutes. The rolls are done when they have turned a light, golden colour and sound hollow when you turn them over and tap them.

It may sound like a lot of effort, but the work involved actually only takes about 20 minutes... the rest of the time is taken up by the rising of the dough and you’re free to do other stuff during that time! In order to make these, we need to be home for the morning and start the process by about 9am / 9:30. The result is well worth the effort though, as the rolls are delicious and light and are always gobbled up by any children who are around!

If you're not too familiar with kneading, the link below gives a fairly good idea of how to do it.

http://breadbaking.about.com/od/beginnerbasics/ht/kneadhowto.htm

Chickenopolis

We’re one step closer to having our own little flock of hens in the garden. This weekend, our friend Mr H (sometimes affectionately referred to as ‘God’ in relation to all things DIY) built a lovely little hen house for us and then came around to help Mr G to build the enclosure on Sunday. It was a glorious day and Mr H’s son, A, who is JP’s best friend (they’ve known each other since they were bumps) came around and he and JP didn’t stand still all day other than to eat, pee or guard a goal. I was holding fort in the kitchen while the men did manly things like sawing timber and hammering nails into chicken wire. Lou Loo pottered around in the garden and came in for company every now and again. Our neighbour’s hens decided to see what all the commotion was about and spent a lot of time investigating the new enclosure and generally getting in the way.

On Monday (due to St Patrick’s Day on Tuesday, we were all off), JP, Lou Loo and I spent the morning painting the hen house. I have to admit to calling Mr G in after a while though to remove Lou Loo, as all she was really doing was dunking her brush into the paint and then creating a trail of big blobs on the ground on the way to the wood. She meant well, but it was getting a bit messy and I was heading towards a bad mood. Mr G took her inside and brought me a big mug of coffee. JP wandered off a little while later to play inside.

The air was still, the coffee was strong and hot and I was getting a job done in peace... not bad for a Monday morning.

Coming home..

The days in Dublin are fairly long (up at 5:30am, leave the house at 6:30am and get home at 8:30pm), so I miss JP and Lou Loo. But driving home in the evening from the train station, I can feel my insides unfurl and a sense of peace settling on me, just knowing that I'll be with them again. It's funny how I spend so much time imagining Mr G and I having time to ourselves, but being away from JP and Lou Loo still just feels wrong.

JP is usually awake when I get in, so I go and sit on the edge of his bed as he sleepily recounts the highlights of his day (the number of goals scored at break time usually holds the number one spot). He's a very tactile little person and likes to climb onto my lap for a 'snuggle', folding his long legs against his chest. He doesn't fit so easily there any more. Scary.

Lou Loo is usually asleep and I tip-toe into her room for a peek. She sleeps on her side most of the time, her arm draped over Rollo, the teddy we bought for her at Hamleys in London last Summer.

Tomorrow's my regular day off and she and I have a Friday morning ritual of tea and cake at the cafe, just the girls. Can't wait.

Ok, off to rustle up a Bacardi on ice to celebrate the end of the week!

Sigh. Ain't life grand...

The Recession Diet

Little did I know that all it would take for me to lose a few pounds would be to have the company I work for make a couple of hundred people redundant.

As is the case with most women, I've been alternating over recent months between starving and gorging myself in a bid to lose the last couple of pounds between me and my target weight. (I use target in the loosest sense.. it keeps shifting by a pound or two depending on what mood I'm in). It's been a struggle, as I love those afternoon baking sessions with Lou Loo, watching her stand on her tip toes on her steps, 'helping' me to weigh and mix ingredients, her floury fingers scooping the mixture out of the bowl so that she can have a taste. The downside is that I usually end up trying out what we've baked (over and over again), just to make sure that it tastes ok.

But about a week ago, the negative effects of all of our baking were virtually cancelled out by the gut-wrenching, nerve-destroying situation of me having to tell people that they don't have a job any more. It's one sure way of putting you off your food.

I can only imagine that what I've gone through as the bearer of bad news is just a fraction of the anguish and distress felt by those who have been selected for redundancy, but it's been incredibly difficult. I've been walking around in a fog most of the time, like many people in the office, while trying to be strong and show some degree of leadership to the team. In some ways, it's a relief to get away and work at home for two days.

My appetite is coming back slowly, but I can feel that my hips are already an inch or two closer to where I want them to be.

I can think of many easier ways of getting there though..

Ronaldo the Snowman

One of the really cool things about working from home is that you can take a couple of hours off to do absolutely essential things with your children, like snowman-building, and get straight back to work afterwards.

In February, we had a rare and fabulous fall of snow that turned the garden and surrounding fields into a true winter wonderland. I told my boss that I was taking some time off and JP, Lou Loo and I got kitted out and went outside to get down to the serious business of building a snowman. The only trouble was that it was a little too cold to stay outside for very long, so he ended up being on a tad on the diminutive side.

Nevertheless, he was christened with a suitably noble name, reflecting JP's current fascination with all things football (btw, he's not a Man U fan really - he just likes the colour red).