I think most mothers remember the birth of their children like it was yesterday, no matter how much time has passed. Sure how could any woman possibly forget such a powerful, life-changing day when their bodies did the most incredible thing and brought a new life into the world? They say every pregnancy is different and every birth unique, which makes perfect sense because even though the mama might be the same, we’re talking about a whole new different human being and all of their individuality playing such an important role in the pregnancy and birth process. Continue reading Share your positive birth story and photos with the women of Ireland
It’s been there since Sunday when it had the company of another bottle of white wine. But now it’s all by itself. Quietly chilling away. It won’t be opened tonight so that’s four nights and counting…
I’ve just checked our drinks cabinet (it’s a press). It’s fairly well stocked with spirits and most of the bottles are more than half full. At a moment’s notice, we could whip together a cheeky G&T or a hot whiskey. Even a cosmopolitan, should the mood take us. That all sounds frightfully grown up and responsible, doesn’t it?
Time was, not so long ago, you couldn’t keep a bottle of wine in this house, particularly on a Friday night. Wine was bought for drinking and preferably in one sitting. Leftover wine? Whatthehellisthat? If there were spirits in the house, it was because there was a party. Once the sun was up, if there was anything left it was because someone brought their mother’s ouzo from her holiday in Crete or the bottle of Absinthe smuggled in a suitcase from a messy weekend in Prague.
But now there’s booze in our house. Because we don’t want to drink it. No, we do want to drink it but just in small amounts, with no consequences. The luxury of sleeping off a hangover until well past midday and eating last night’s cold pizza for breakfast is a distant, dry-mouthed memory. In fact, for me the thoughts of having a hangover and having to play blocks or run around the kitchen table in a convoy of choo choo trains is so not fucking funny, I can’t even laugh about it. Also, alcohol makes me want to stay up later because I want to drink more of it. Which means my window of opportunity for sweet, sweet shut eye gets increasingly narrower because morning time is not dictated by me and it just seems like masochism at this stage to purposefully rob myself of sleep. Why would I do that when there’s a little person who does a really great job of that already? Why?
Since I’ve started running on Saturday mornings, having a glass of wine the night before is the equivalent of kicking myself in the stomach before I even get started. In the olden (golden? nah, rose-tinted – these days rock) days, Friday night was WINE NIGHT. After a long week in the office, the thoughts of a big, bowl-sized glass of red wine – or two, three… – was enough to put me in a good mood and boy, did I enjoy it!
Don’t get me wrong, I am still a passionate lover of alcohol. In one former life, I worked as a cocktail bartender and had the privilege of mixing and tasting drinks I could never in a million years afford. I still make a mean mojito and there isn’t a cocktail I can’t make (Try me 🙂 ). In another previous life, a big portion of my work revolved around corporate entertainment and once again, I had the opportunity to indulge in tipples and concoctions that would make my bank manager weep if he thought that credit card bill was mine. They were good times! I genuinely appreciate alcohol and I enjoy a social drink but at the moment the drawbacks outweigh the benefits. And I’ve become a lightweight in the meantime. It took me nearly three hours to drink two glasses of wine with dinner on my birthday. I’m 34!
We’ll be friends again, el vino. But not today, not today.
Is it just me or have I sisters in sobriety?
It is not his birthday. It is not our anniversary. It’s not a special occasion. It’s just a regular old Tuesday, like any other Tuesday. Like any other day.
Our lives are made up of regular old days when nothing special happens and everyone is just getting on with it, so this is the day to dedicate a post to my baby daddy. Just a regular old day is exactly when his praises should be sung from the rooftops because he is special always, not just on special days.
If I had to pick a daddy for my babies, which funnily enough I did, it would be this guy. But I didn’t pick him to be a father, I picked him because he is an incredible man. A beautiful man, in mind and body. An intelligent, thoughtful, passionate, creative, talented, loving, strong, focused, disciplined, bloody-minded, hilarious, geeky, pensive, calm man. Who I didn’t actually pick of course because it doesn’t work that way. Our paths crossed and then aligned, so here we are.
He is a wonderful father who cares deeply about his fathering. He knows how important he is to his son, and the influence he has and will have on his life, and he reflects that in their relationship and their interaction. He is a champion roughhouser – as daddies should be – and has an innate sense of how much playacting is just enough to tip boundaries for both fun and development, but not too much that anyone gets hurt! He is empathetic, intuitive and a huge source of comfort to our son when he’s not well or upset or hurt. He has a childlike sense of humour, which translates into antics that fill our house with peels of laughter on a daily basis. He’s our disciplinarian, firm but fair.
When the chips are down, he’s there holding the fort, the family, the child. He’s an action man, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. He is the best multitasker I have ever met, particularly when it comes to the child/cooking/cleaning combo and puts me to deep shame on a regular basis when sometimes everything looks worse than when he left it if I’m in charge. He’s a gentle educator, teaching our son small but important things through play, each and every day. He is a natural. As a family, we are truly blessed that he is a part of us.
I love him more than words can say. His son loves him without the words to say. They are buddies as only the kindred spirits of fathers and sons can be.
He almost sounds too good to be true. But he is true and very, very real. Sometimes, no scratch that, a lot of the time, in the regularity of the regular old days, sometimes I forget to tell him. Even though my heart and soul know it and the core of my very being knows it without having to think about it, sometimes these things need to be said out loud.
He’s one in a billion.