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Aug 4

Accessory to Murder

Posted on Friday, August 4, 2017 in Family, Rantings

I am a dog person. Not a cat person.

However due to endless pressure from Puppychild to get a cat (after our pet rats died), I caved. We now have a cat named TROUBLE.

Apologies for the video icons… Trouble never stays still.

Puppychild is heard regularly

outside calling for the cat, passers by ask her if she’s okay.

“I’m looking for trouble.”

“Uh… Okay, good luck kid!”

He’s aptly named.

This evening it brought a live field-mouse to my doorstep and had an epic battle with it. In the effort to shoo the cat away I accidentally stepped on the mouse.

The crunch. It’s the sort of sound that reverberates through your soul itself, the sickening instant mental image of brains exploding through cute little mouse ears, the slight squelch of delicate little organs oozing under my foot. Like stepping on a snail, that feeling of taking a life and having goo on your shoo.

The mouse convulsed for a few seconds and passed away. The cat gave me a look, I swear it fucking winked at me. Then it tucked in to the carcass, more crunching of bones and skull and organs… squishy noises.

I’m an accessory to murder.

I dislike cats.

No I’m not okay hun.

Apr 30

accurate puke

Posted on Sunday, April 30, 2017 in Family, Strange and Unusual

Wow! Four months since I last posted. I’m beginning to think that I’m on a different planet, orbiting everybody else at a different rate compared to most people. Children grow at a faster rate than I can grab a hold of. The extra life stuff that is supposed to keep me mentally healthy, the voluntary groups… friends… in my head everything happened yesterday but according to man time it was ten years ago.

*interruption from small child #1, bear with me*

It still floats though. It’s still there. Like you, reading this. I appreciate that.

I’ve had a comical day.

My puppychild is off out camping with her scout team, in the mountains, somewhere. She’s almost 13 now. The fact that I can’t contact her hurts me both in my chest, but in my stomach too. She’ll be okay. She’s tough. I hope she got that from me. *interruption from small child #2… juice???*  She’s entering womanhood soon. I want to stuff her back up into my womb sometimes.

Laughingboy seems to have Chickenpox. A rake of spots arrived on his chest and abdomen this morning when I was changing his peg stoma, which is alarming but we’re *interruption from middle child #3… my tummy hurts* dealing with a very chilled out mother here until the chilled out mother stupidly went and consulted DR GOOGLE. People with compromised immune systems.. on bank holidays there is nobody there. Nobody at the end of the phone, I felt alone, helpless. Death before it’s begun. But there are pharmacists, and beautiful people whom I’ve rarely met on internet forums who listen. And give good advice. I love these people. Everything WILL BE OKAY. Silent scream.

Today it was also Sir Fartsalot’s 7th birthday party!!! They did trampoleenee stuff. He came home feeling sick. As you do.

He puked a bit onto his bed, I don’t mind that. I’m a domino vomiter though, like when you catch the smell of sour milk, or that gone-off *interruption from small child #4… mommy mommy mommy shhhhhhh* chicken dinner at the back of the fridge in the Tupperware container that you crack open and sends you gagging.

Give me an open abscess wound any day! Or blood, or faeces. I can deal with that. Just not vomit or decay.

Getting back to the point, Sir Fartsalot YELLED from the living room: “I have to get sick!!!”

My reaction was similar to that of some poor fucker who randomly had a tarantula placed on his forehead out of the random blue. “UP UP UP! FUCK THIS LARK OF CLEANING UP VOMIT OFF DUVETS AND CARPETS!! GET TO THE BATHROOM! DEPLOY ALL UNITS!”

The vomit machine.

He made it. There was prolific spewage. It came out of his nose, and almost came out of his eyeballs. I was so proud that he got everything into*interruption from child #5 mummy read me a story* the toilet bowl and the smell! The smell! I had to grin a lot. Fake grinning is a great way to suppress the gag reflex, this is also useful for the evil gick that is cat shit.

Then there’s the toddler. She’s all

MUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMY

all the way through all of this.

and there’s NOBODY TO HELP. BuT there iS my senSe of huM our.

I made my bed, and I shall lie in it. I wish I could be a cave woman with supportive mothers and aunties and cousins and sisters and I would never be alone, but that will never be again but at the same time my son would not be alive if it weren’t for modern technology, if only there could be an in-between. I found a good group to talk to though, in the dark times, you know who you are, you are my cavewomen. Thank you Splinters.

Thank you. And my DAD. ALWAYS MY DAD. HE MADE ME. WHO. I. AM. For better or worse. He worked hardest to make all of this. Sometimes when I find myself rocking in a corner I think of him and find my sense of humour again.

To everyone else in the internetosphere, these are that rantings of a woman who is close to the edge. I would love to meet myself as I was ten years ago and talk to her, and warn her, and hug her, and be her mother.

But I’m fine.

We’re fine.

It may be a while before I post again, though I really want to.

Bring wine.

I hope this explains why I don’t blog a lot. It’s all venting, normally my pillow gets it. But TOdaY it iS YoU.

And I will definitely regret this tomorrow.

Sep 10

It’s been a while…

Posted on Saturday, September 10, 2016 in Family, Quickie

…since my last confession.

I worked at a boxing match this evening and should probably be flaking on the couch watching television but it suddenly struck me that I should be talking to you instead.

I have thoughts about motherhood, the competitive nature that lies within. The jogging pants, the networking updates declaring achievements of marathon runs, of mummy college graduations and I must admit to feeling a bit inadequate, but that’s my problem, not theirs.

The school car park is where all of this happens. I used to stand amongst the other mummies waiting for our little snot-nosed characters to be released from the guard of their relentless underpaid teachers and we used to make small talk in the meantime. It was nice small talk, but it was superficial which was nice then, but now it’s more cackle than I can handle in my already overcrowded mind and besides, mummy groups are the straightest route into getting roped into things.

Now I sit in my car and pretend to listen to voice mails on my phone while doodling on the back of old diesel receipts, pretending to look busy. I play Candy Crush sometimes while trying very hard to maintain a serious expression. It’s quite sad, but it’s understandable.

Sometimes I do venture out, and hover outside the mummy groups. I laugh awkwardly and venture into their various circles but I don’t belong. I resort to retorts about the weather, I compliment their babes in arms, they compliment mine. Then we all go home.

I wonder sometimes if other mothers feel like me, if they have a boundary, if they’re lonely in spite of loud obvious laughter, in spite of the jogging clothes. Maybe we’re all the same, underneath.

 

Apr 1

I forgot what I was going to say…

Posted on Friday, April 1, 2016 in Family, Quickie, Strange and Unusual

Easter Holidays are lovely. I get to not have to get up so early in the morning and I don’t have to make school lunches. Children just happen around the place randomly.

This time of year also means gardening.

There are weeds everywhere. I would rather stay inside either sleeping or doing laundry or some other haphazard sort of thing but the seeds are calling me, and there are bored children.

So.

‘Here’s a shovel, lads.’

‘But I want to play Transformer Autobots!’

‘Yes, but there are worms underground that need to transform into motorbikes.’

‘How do they do that?’

‘You won’t know until you dig them up.’

‘OKAY!!!!’

Meanwhile the lady children weeded my garden while the young boys made mud pies and havoc. I wandered by later and sowed seeds.

It’s been that sort of day.

Mar 29

The savoury stage

Posted on Tuesday, March 29, 2016 in Family, Humourarse, munchies, Strange and Unusual

“no milk or sugar in your coffee? ARE YOU SURE?”

I’m not really sure I like coffee any more. It’s a morning ritual, sure, and I love it when Puppychild or the Accidental Terrorist lands me a cup of clean pure diluted granules on my bedside table every morning but usually I wind up enjoying the zephyr from it, then I go back to sleep. Microwaved re-heated coffee is nice though eventually. Is that old age setting in?

Easter though. All the chocolate.

The Terrorist brought me and a few friends out last week for dinner here in our local finer establishment. I did not wear silly shoes for it was an upstairs thing and decided to be sensible in my forethought. I ordered the cheeses for dessert much to the horror of my peers but they were good cheeses and it seemed fitting because everybody seems to concentrate on chocolate at this time of year and forget about the cheeses. I had wine too, because that’s what cheeses liked apparently.

There is a lot of chocolate here now, and wonderment as to why I don’t eat it. Because I’m a girl and that’s what girls are supposed to do, so they say. I just tell them all to shut up and make me a Tayto sandwich.

We didn’t do Mass this year. I fear that we’re entirely missing the point. Sigh.

memmeh

Mar 4

Interrobang

Posted on Friday, March 4, 2016 in Arty Farty, Family, memememememe, Strange and Unusual

This post is brought to you by a friend of mine who doesn’t write, but shares my love of new words. He challenged me and inspired me to learn 19 new words and use them ALL in one blog post.

So…

Thus follows the story of K8’s February.

I am studying to be a teacher of all things medicine which is a huge thing to undertake and a marvellous privilege. I also have many children now at this stage, and am the keeper of wonderful things that come with this such as nappies that smell like popcorn, and pet rats that tend to escape.

To begin at the beginning…

There was the extraction. A lower molar, the sort that needs a lot of Novocaine and a monkey wrench to remove. It hurt, once my tongue was able to feel the gap. Even a nurdle* was too much to bear. They are good dentists, they did their best. They invited me back but I politely declined.

Two days later, I started a new course.

I forgot the octothorpe* after the numbers on the security system when I entered the building to let my students in on the first day… this sent the alarm off at the school where I was teaching. The alarm sounded like the vocable* of a really bad song, the sort of noise that sticks in your head, that sound that blackbirds love to mimic just to drive you crazy on a Sunday morning when you’re suffering from crapulence*.

The students arrived, and tea was sunk and class began, but due to the nature of the lesson I soon found that my keeper* was unreliable and several students commented on my builder’s arse. They were too demure to obviously point it out however and instead very kindly commented; ‘Hey K8, what’s the crack?!’ I was not in the mood for such interrobangs* so early in the morning so I avoided the collywobbles* by going outside to sniff the petrichor*, for it was indeed a grand soft day, and my desire path* told me that one cigarette wouldn’t hurt.

We had pizza for lunch. Or, at least the students did. By the time I had come back from collecting training equipment all that was left was the box tent* and a few lousy bits of cornicione*. I gave out to them for not eating their crusts, as every good mother does. What followed was a lemniscate* of argument which I could not win, and just ate into (as it were) a perfectly good lunch-time.

Later, at home I yearned for the punt* of a bottle of Chilean wine but found that Puppychild’s pet rat had escaped and was scratching around underneath my oven leading to immense curiosity of the dog and much perplexity of my daughter. Having spent most of the evening prone on the floor with a piece of ham trying to lure the fecker out while also explaining to Sir Fartsalot about magical letters in words where some are invisible.. knights, knees and knickers and other such examples of apthong* technology such as homework is at that age… I felt something nibble on my aglet*. When I turned and looked, it was gone, whatever it was was be found on the overmorrow*, leaving me fitful in my insomia and due dysania* with nightmares and fear that the dog would leave a bloody carcass where my neglect ran dry. I pictured Puppychild staring at the muntin* for weeks while the rain ran down the pane in despair of the horrible mother she had, she that had not the reflexes to catch the rat.

Catch it I did, however, last night. I heard it behind the piano while I was sniffing my barm* and I grabbed it tight and it squeaked and bit but the struggle was worth it, once it was reunited with its sister in the cage. And there it remains, barricaded in the frustration of its own existence. Just like me, just like the rest of us.

Sometimes freedom is more than what it seems to be I suppose.

This is a somewhat abridged version of my eventful recent past, there was also some tree-pruning, quite a lot of runny noses and nappies and also a flat tyre… but I have no more room for cromulent words at the moment, this will have to do for now…

…meanwhile I cannot use the oven, for the insulation is all chewed up. I’m not sure what to do about that.

apthongs aglet barm boxtent dysania desirepath crapulence cornicione collywobbles interrobang keeper lemniscate muntin nurdle vocable punt petrichor overmorrow octothorpe

Jan 5

There’s Light at the end of the Tunnel

Posted on Tuesday, January 5, 2016 in Family, Philosophy, Rantings, Something to think about

No there fucking isn’t.

I would like (if you don’t mind) to have a rant about cheesy expressions.

There IS always a light at the end of the tunnel, and you might find it every now and then, but then a small and very strange force from the darkness behind you sometimes coaxes you back and tells you that things aren’t so bad in the darkness. This is probably because if you look carefully enough, there is a lot to be said for the darkness that comes in between the start, and the finish. In that darkness, you learn things, and that’s good. When you hit the light, it’s finished and that’s just boring. There are always new things to learn, so darkness should be embraced no matter how difficult it seems.

‘BE YOURSELF’

You can never entirely be yourself. At best, you’re 10% of yourself. Most of the rest is just bacteria. So, next time you’re in a meeting with 20 people, know that you’re actually in a room with 2000 trillion microbes, and only 3% of them are paying attention to what you’re saying. Most of them are smelling you and want to invade you.

‘BE TRUE TO YOURSELF’

I love this one. I don’t know anyone who knows what themself is. If everyone knew who themself was, then there would be no need for conflict of any sort, if you think about it, and conflict is necessary. Everyone should lie to themselves on a daily basis. This way, you either force yourself to stop feeling guilty about the nice things you do for yourself, or you coax your brain into making your body do something different. I would encourage an imaginary friend who can be true to yourself instead, that takes a lot of pressure off, and gives you someone to blame if you screw things up. Avoid mental institutions though.

‘THE GREATEST GIFT YOU CAN GIVE SOMEONE IS YOUR TIME’

This just makes me feel guilty. I can’t give my children most of my time because I can’t multiply myself by four. And that’s okay, because I’m still feeding them and clothing them and doing stupid dances in the kitchen to entertain them while the spaghetti is burning. Even with one child, time is precious. Even with no children. Sometimes you can give someone a whole lot of time when you think it’s right, but it really isn’t. Maybe you’re sick, or sad, or pre-occupied, and the best time you can spend right then is time mulling, or sleeping, or sipping tea. Time is relative. That four minutes you spend calling your friend out of the blue can feel like 500 years worth of friendship to them, because it was at the right time. Or not, if you’re interrupting their nap. It’s a bit of a gamble, and very complicated. Do you know what I mean?

‘KEEP FIGHTING’

Telling someone who is very very sick to ‘keep fighting’ is like telling the rain to stop falling. Either it does, or it doesn’t. Umbrellas are nice. And a quiet ear.

‘LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE’

Until the next morning when you remember what you were laughing about and then you feel like an absolute and utter complete gobshite. And then you remember that nobody else feels this way except you. And then you laugh at the memory, and the cycle completes, and you’re in a loop of embarrassment that only exists in your own head. But you still laugh when you remember it, usually in a queue for something. Again, avoid mental institutions.

‘AWARENESS DAY’

I declare this next week ‘bits of old scraps of paper awareness week’. Because I can. DON’T THROW YOUR OLD BITS OF PAPER AWAY! DOODLE ON THEM INSTEAD! SAVE THE PLANET! SAVE A TREE!!! etc.. etc.. (tomorrow shall be National BellybuttonFluff awareness day)

‘TODAY IS A BRAND NEW DAY!’

No it isn’t. It’s nothing new. It’s been happening for billions of years. The sun rises, the sun sets, days are a man-made invention so there’s really no such thing and it doesn’t really start at any set time. Maybe each 24 hours isn’t a day at all. Maybe we should embrace every 4 hours, every  5935 minutes instead of re-setting the clock at 6am arbitrarily because someone told us to. Happy New 36o,987,243,092 minutes everyone! Randomly celebrating time and existence for no reason should be compulsory, out of the blue when it’s least expected. Like a non-birthday, if you will. You don’t even have to say it out loud.

‘THE OLDER I GET, THE WISER I BECOME’

This is true, but it’s also false. Puppychild once told me (when she was 4 years old) that I’m bad and that’s not good, but I’ll never be good and that’s not bad.  I think that’s the best advice I’ve ever had from anyone, ever.

‘A FRIENDLY EAR’

Ears are just cartilage and flesh. They also are home to the smallest bone in your body, and are responsible for keeping your balance, even when you’re drunk. They’re amazing things, but they’re not friendly… they’re fairly impartial unless you stick a Q-tip in too far in which case they get fairly pissed off.

o0o

I know, I know. I seem to find the price of everything with this post, and the value of nothing, but I like being cynical. The most valuable things that motivate me are those expressions that excite the silly in me, the things that poke fun at life because that’s the only way to get through it all, I think.

Nov 20

Boobs

Posted on Friday, November 20, 2015 in Family, Quickie

caoimhe

This is the Pixie, the fourth and last.

All that chubbiness is attributed to breastfeeding and I’m not giving that up any time soon. I’m so proud of her, and of myself. I love her and would do anything for her including enduring VERY SHARP TEETH.

At the same time, however, she is at the stage of crawling and the need for constant entertainment. She likes eating fluff off the carpet and dividing molecules with her extremely sharp fingernails. We are in the process of chewing on quarks right now to see if they can be divided further.

If a black hole develops in my house any time soon I shall let you know.

Nov 18

Arachnophoboprophylactic

Posted on Wednesday, November 18, 2015 in Family, Humourarse, Philosophy, Strange and Unusual

I have a new theory that I have been testing out for 18 days now. It is a prophylactic spider:

spider

It is not a real spider.

But people sometimes think it is, and tend to stamp on it violently forgetting that this is not a country where large spiders tend to exist, hence its lack of legs. Poor inanimate thing.

Since Hallowe’en, I’ve noticed that laying large fake tarantulae around the place has led to a lack of spiders who would generally otherwise invite themselves into my home AND NOT PAY ANY RENT so I left them there presuming that spiders are innately carnivorous and would probably be terrified of large counterparts who might eat them. I’ve googled this theory intensely but have not come up with any answers other than anecdotal evidence so I am conducting this experiment alone, and will keep you updated.

There is one by the front door, one by the back door, one on our bedroom windowsill and one at the back of the house for extra measure. Since Hallowe’en I have not had one single spider enter my home. This is quite impressive considering the grand soft Irish weather we’ve been having lately. Not one single spider.

I’m not mucking about here, by the way. I’m very serious about this. I have regular dreams where cute little animals suddenly develop eight scuttly little legs…

squirrel

… and given that I’m the only coal-fetcher in our house I can assure you that monster spiders are lurking for I have seen them. They are there.

In the dark.

Waiting to come in to my nice warm house.

And this is why my fake spider sentinels will remain in place, ready to not pounce, ready to not eat them.

Nov 10

Phoenix

Posted on Tuesday, November 10, 2015 in Family

I think this blog has become somewhat of a phobia for me. I’m afraid that whatever I put on it becomes permanent. So, I mocked it. And made it say silly boring things, just to show it that I don’t care.

Which is silly.

And then I’d wake up the next morning and dread seeing comments to my typed diarrhoea and would feel guilty because there are still readers who visit me (thanks!), so I would not reply because I was ashamed.

Which is silly.

Truth is, I’ve lots to say. I write bits of things down every so often and think ‘I could write about that!’ but then a day later it seems silly. Three years ago my best friend Wouldye died, and I wanted to write about it but I couldn’t get past the fact that my words wouldn’t do him justice so I didn’t.

Then I had a baby, and I would love to write about her and her quirks, and the little journey she’s travelled so far and the inner goo that is my insecurity and fear of her growing up… describing in intimate detail my favourite two hours of every day in the morning, once the kids have gone to school and I am left with her snuggled up in bed, she cluster feeding from my breast and the blankets thick around us protected from the world. I’d love to describe that but it seems silly.

I have a friend who appeared out of the blue last week. She is one of those people who can see things. She laid some cards out for me (which I was initially cynical about) but declared some truths that hit home. She told me to stop over thinking things. She taught me to let go. Since her visit amazing things have happened, so I will grow up, and take her advice and stop the inner negative voice and tell it to go and sit in the corner.

So, I declare that from now on, I shall post a blog at least once a week, even if it’s pure pants… it’s better than nothing, and it’s really not silly at all.

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