An Irish woman's social, political and domestic commentary
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Sorry about that folks. Not content with child bearing, I just moved house. Not to any old house, but one that we've built (well, had built) in the corner of a field down from the parent's house at the arse end of a cul de sac outside the countryish village of my youth. So not only did one have the usual new baby stress, and the usual house moving stress, but I woke up Monday morning and looked out the window (at picturesque snow covered fields to be fair) and contemplated all the years swanning around our nation's capital, being educated and groomed, dining and drinking, fraternising with politicians, journalists, entrepreneurs, druggies and drop-outs; only to end up cleaning a kitchen and changing nappies down the same road I spent years fighting to escape. I lay in bed, feeling I'd been hit with a sledgehammer into a deep black pit out of which there appeared no hope of emerging. I wept as my husband tried to persuade me that our healthy children, beautiful house, supportive extended family and relative freedom from financial worries gave us much for which one should be thankful. The request of a radio station to appear in studio, which I had to refuse, didn't help my depression. However, it was short lived and cured by the following:
- the company of Deckie and Benny, the builder's tradesmen, left behind by the main party to assist me in the erection of curtains and bathroom fittings. Apart from the work (the curtains in particular made things seem more homelike), it was nice to have someone around during the long isolated day with everyone else at work in offices.
- when asked the location of film for the camera, I knew! (a sign that I need no longer walk round in circles when attempting to do something simple, like make tea)
- the visit of a friend from the big smoke who, still grieving for her deceased mother, reminded me that proximity to family was good fortune and not necessarily a precursor of an inevitable doom ridden pyschodrama where the tragedies of tense family relations are played out for another generation
- the arrival of box full of gifts from a friend abroad: a sign that I would not be forgotten regardless of geographical location
- the connection of broadband - back online!! The world is my oyster, once more.
Finally, I've been re-reading the Baby Whisperer books, and feel confident that my toddler's whingeing can be cured and that the new addition is another angel baby. In the meantime, I've just had time to vaguely notice that they are propping up the dead pope at windows trying to pretend he's still alive and that the IRA had to dump a few members over the Robert McCartney murder. I'm also told that McDowell introduced some bill in the Dail, entirely in Irish, which gives the Gardai more powers. One day soon, I'll start to care about this. posted by Sarah | 13:00 0 comments
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