Getting on the carousel.(money counted, chances taken, a little punch drunk.)

We are looking  down a  house move. And to a far province. Which might as well be  a far country, in a way. I am standing on the edge, at the brink, before the jump, because I know when you go you can't stop,  turn,   hang on, wait till you feel stronger.  I am an habituated upper of sticks, a punch drunk volunteer for moving on.  I know how it works. The packing by black bag and box, the canceling  of the utility bills, the re directing of mail, and then you are  Alice through the looking glass,   reversing every single last  thing at the other end.

I want to go. I do. There's  nothing quite as stale and dispiriting  as your default day, after you have baulked. I am reluctant to reap the whirlwind though, because there  is always a price to pay, always, when you have  turned  the world on its head, and you had better have the shoulders to carry it.

We must yet,  before we go,  run the whole scenario by the fearsome threesome. I have played these cards close to my chest,  till schools have been located, a possible date decided on. And then a swift departure planned before they can build up  a head of steam against DISRUPTION OF OUR COMFORT ZONE. Moving Teenagers is a whole other ballgame.  They are   neither child to be brought , or adult to choose. And we will have the new school uniforms, the bolshie refusals, the stuff they can not possibly do without taking up most of the available space in the removal van. The whole supporting edifice you make around your children, to be uprooted, replanted in a new country. So why not just.......stay?

I do believe there is a time to go, to move on, and if you get the timing right, if  you dare,  your courage will bring you growth,  change,   a much needed stretching of  all your  ever so slightly suffocating limits . Life is shift and  change my friends, a fairground trip, and when the carousel stops for you, you had  better  get on board. If you are able.

No. No. No. Stumbling on (single) mindfulness.

"Nope, No, I Regret, Would if I Could, But... nope......No"  I am leaving a trail of refusals  behind  me these days , channeling negatives,  you might say.  A a result of this, people are cross with me.  An icy toned daughter  barely  speaks for days. I have refused a request to drive  across country to collect her,  on a work day. . My beloved eldest  son has cut at me via text, on my failure to keep up sufficent contact with  him, at  a most difficult and  painful time in his life.  He, at least forgives me. The boy hectors and wheedles at my tardiness in sending money (to purchase worms.)  The boss, taking her tone from her sister, has taken me to task for not taking her abroad this summer. " And You have NEVER taken me to London...  yet.... at all". The thing is I seem to have lost my facility for multitasking.  At which I may not have been so good anyway. My husband avows wonder (and not in a good way) at the sight of me cooking at the stove, whilst also, (a) emptying the dishwasher, (b).  laundry sorting  (c)  feeding the hound.  D. directing teenage traffic.  "Multitasking" I say.  "But....but.. that' s no way to treat food, and I certainly can't be expected to put such neglected hastily concocted fare into my body " he says.   "And also,  baby, you may set the house on fire" he adds.

Anyway, recently, I have stumbled on the joys of focusing on the task at hand, it  being  the task I have chosen to do. I am only in my office  when I am in my office, only writing when I am wrting, only  reading when I am reading.  So satisfying! . Who knew! Everyone is a (little) mad at me,but I will live (very likely longer) with that.

To hell or to Connaught, Making time for good fighting.

"You have abandoned me !....Once again......And and I'm not prepared to stand for it.....And I  have things to do over there...." The first and outraged daughter is comfortably seated in her grandparents house in the West of Ireland,   firing of accusatory texts across the country but I am adamant.   No, I am  hardened. She has spend the summer so far drifting down stairs at a late hour, where she can be found munching cornflakes, and watching Britain's next top model (B N T M for future reference)  on a loop, facebooking her friends, and growing tall and sultry in the process. On the plus side she is three quarters of the way through Jane Eyre on her Kindle, which I have inveigled her to read by dint of banning broadband  and  B N T M  for specified periods. AND  she has learned to like it, advancing from "but its in a foreign language" "to, hey its really good...Jane's at Rochester Towers now and it's kinda wild"  hmmm. Anyway, I have dispatched her to spend time with her father and  grandparents and now,  due to  the lack of broadband on tap, and other home comforts she wants to come back. I feel her pain, oh yes, but I' m a little battle weary, needing  some  time to  myself, and her basic inactivity, her entitled indolence  is getting to me. Also, she is exploring alcohol  (on a controlled basis) (ie with the adults,  supplied by myself0 "because I'm  old enough....and YOU do it....AND all my friends are actually like seasoned drinkers". All true. Probably.

 She is demanding wine at the table and hinting at the drinking she might be doing  with her friends, (the seasoned drinkers) if she decided to be frank. I don't believe it. Its like sex, its the ones who don't  boast   you need to watch. I let her have careful glasses of   white wine, from nifty little  sachets I discovered in the supermarket. . Which she insists on slurping rapidly and draining the sachet after,. And looking at me pityingly when I counsel moderation. Anyway let the other half of the parenting team have a go. I have a mental image of the abandoned one boasting of her intake with me and demanding  wine at his  table, as I write.  I should warn him. I should.

Also I feel the need for space for our new(ish) marriage to take.  A surprising number of people have an opinion on marriage and how one should proceed. The recurring theme seems to be that the first six months are  crxxxxp. Or make that a year even. But why?  Because its forever, and you loose all personal space, and the older you are the harder this is to bear, and once the drama and emotion of the wedding is over you each  bring out your auld  baggage   to chill the heart of  the other (innocent) party. Its a little bit of all of that I guess. My dearest life's  companion and I have worked our way through a few skirmishes all ready and are growing  a  bit of a survivors bond (in addition to the love and the  devotion). But, my dear reader, the thing is,  you need space and time in which to act out your stuff,  to work your way like a good dose of salts through the marital wars,.  We can't put our hearts and souls into it whilst  sheparding  the would-be hardened drinker safely  through dinner. "It's a luxury, darling, to fall out and in again at one's  leisure," I have explained to him, having  given this some thought,  "good fighting is trickier than you might expect".  I see the whites of his eyes as he says  "Eh.....  right, .... as long as YOU"RE  happy baby".   Hmmm, love that man.

Living for pleasure, money for worms.

"Oh hey, you know soon we will be living entirely for pleasure"  I tell my new (ish) husband as we book bed and breakfast for Friday, in Carlingford Lough. I am working in the vicinity in the afternoon and we have the magnificent notion to stay over, spent Saturday, rambling like tourists in the Mourne Mountains. "Ah but time is rushing past us n if we mean to  devote ourselves to pleasure, better get started."  he sagely says. He is a VERY  good husband. We have had an overnight bed and breakfast jaunt to Galway  last weekend and  the winding country roads, the  walks soundtracked by lapping sea, the companionable, slightly tipsy lunchs were outrageously pleasing . "And you, know,  bed n breakfast is cheap,  AND  the company is   free" I assure my grinning spouse, if he need assurance (not).

I phone the boss and her brother before we set off. She is busy  living for pleasure herself with her father and his family for a few weeks, but she does not like thing to be happening , trips being made, that she doesn't know about, has not approved. The boy needs a cash lodgement (to buy worms coke, sweets, and possibly a few other items he does  not mention).

Principles, Pubes, a Nail and a Hammer

"Oh, well it's against my principles to drive a car, "  Miss  Oh So Young and Principled smiled serenely  (self rightously). "Huh? ....um "., I manage, reaching after an approach that won't involve incredulity, baffled fury and/ or heavy duty sarcasm. I have broached the subject of driving lessons for her, thinking to lighten my chauffeuring load. " I will NOT be leaving a huge carbon footprint like .....like..some (me?), well anyway the air is polluted badly enough  with car emissions and you cannot make me act against my own beliefs". "Umm, right...so....how do you propose to gettaround the planet, darling"? "Well with YOU, of course, YOU are always running in and out of town anyway". "Oh,.....and.....and what about MY carbon footprint, or   lets just say  if I  get tired of the running in and out?". "Well, then I'll just stay at home.  You wouldn't like that,. would you,? And YOU  have to take responsibility for YOUR OWN  footprint (severely), and besides, you have to go in and out with the others anyway, and also I would just get landed with driving the others  around, IF  I let you talk me out of my principles."  I took a deep and meaningful breath  "And ...and... have you considered the bus darling? (mentally decided to nail  a   bus time table on  to the kitchen wall, pronto).... " The bus?  Why would I take the bus?    You are my mother..... And its your job to ...um ....bring me places. And....also.... I do not WANT to take the bus".

Later I asked my new husband to get me some blue tack, or, I announce fearsomely, a nail and a hammer,  brandishing a local bus timetable. He is  unimpressed, and  snorts derisively.   He maintains that he was   up and running since the age of sixteen, without parental let, hindrance or mollycoddling. He   is   still a little bemused at the kind of hands on parenting considered necessary these days (if you dont want your children to  cite you as chief villian on the psychiatrist's couch, or, heaven forfend, the  dock, at some unspecified day in the future) (of course chances are you will have passed on, or succumbed to dementia of some kind,  when  that day  comes,and thus be  oblivious). Not having had  the parenting of the fearsome  three since infancy,  he doesn't get or entirely approve of the extended  childhood, the elongated adolescence of  tiger and post tiger cubs.  He tends towards a shock and awe approach as in Let 'em walk. Eat cake,  Work for it, Earn it, Do without it, approach. He is held back only by his heart of mush, his failure to see the fingers round which he is being slowly wrapped, and soon he will be quite as bemused as me. Hah..

Survivors, he and I , of the rigours of life in a large 1960s  Irish family, where much was expected, and little available in terms of support and attention ( your mother has ten or eleven others to get around to). There was  an unbreakable survivors bond between siblings in those families, and  I suspect our hyper   parenting is an answer to a question never asked of  our own  harrassed and  over burdened mothers.  In the light of middle age, I see that  fumbling stumble into  adult life,  into  sex, relationships, the work you were suited for; for what it was; a  rush towards an independent life, a poignant wish to have a life, or for your life to start.  And was the struggle character forming?  I am not sure, but I know that  sometimes the treatment kills the patient.   The truth lies somewhere in the middle then, a slow considered tapering off of support. Nurturing and letting go is a   fine balance,   and like any other fine balance, you get it wrong at your peril.  Its how you wind up driving your middle aged children to parties and/or posting bail.

"Nope, zuk is not a word" my husband tells my exuberant scrabble playing rabble. He is now the FINAL ARBITER and Boss   of scrabble. "Pubes? ah yes, that is a word, but its ah, not ah, appropriate" he tells the smirking principled one. "Its Forbidden! it's a No No" I hiss from the wings where I have been retired, but no one hears  to you  there..

I never thought I'd find a woman to marry me (in my jeans)

Today I made my way  to the Boss's dance show, at her Primary  School, to be performed by forty odd twelve year olds who have been dancing together enthusiastically for a whole year,  in  anticipation of this fine show. As I watch the hopeful coordination of  the anxious eager dancers  merging hip hop, disco,and   jazz; the hesitant  child keeping a cautious eye on the others;  the one doing her own thing in happy uncoordination; the one (always one) who dances with instinctive rhythm and perfect grace,  my propensity  to damned leakiness   (starting on the arrival of the eldest, and increasing every year) has to be held in check, least I embarrass the boss (she having reached the age of mortification, at parental lability  and other peculiarities) ). (et tu, boss).   My face squeezed into a rictus of bland ,  I think of how she is the last primary school child, and this the last innocent, uncomplicated SHOW  I will get to go to, Hmm, so I guess I too have ( finally) graduated from Primary School.

A certain leakiness is permitted to me now, anyway, as the Wedding Date approaches, next week. My co workers assure me that at least  one Bridezilla  Meltdown  is proper, or you are disrespecting your pending BIG DAY. Hmm. Maybe. There is certainly  a bit of emotional roller coasting going on.."I never thought I d find a woman who'd let me marry her in my Jeans" the husband in prospect offers, reducing me to helpless giggling hysterics (and they are really very lovely  jeans and he a very   lovely  man).Remarks like  "You are surely NOT letting the boy wear a track suit to you WEDDING" and "WHAT? You are not even having  a Ringbearer?  I would have though you could at least have had a Ringbearer. I could be your Ringbearer" abound from the girls, hanging in the air for days. And I  have become prone to dark visions of what will happen if we don't  ie. give crystal clear directions to  the witnesses  for the registry office, or forget where we hid the wedding rings least they be stolen by such stealthy burglars that we never discover the loss TILL  ITS TOO LATE.  I think I may have reverted  somewhat  to being perhaps Seven? Eight ? years old   and haunted that something black and final will come between me and Christmas, or the summer trip to the sea, and I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO HAVE IT  Somehow. .

Enough already. I have the perfect dress, a back up  dress, the most flattering shoes, two stunningly  chic daughters, the boy signed up  to climb out of the  tract suit for the day and into a pair of jeans (its all relative) (and I would have let him wear the  tract suit, albeit a shiny new one, if he just couldnt), and a most beloved and fabulously  be jeaned , husband to be. The food is booked, the guests asked, the wine chosen. the Registrar of Marraiges primed, . the rings made,  glinting and gold.  On the longest day of the year, we are getting married. 

civil (but insane) servants, tasteful candles, and (till) death us do part. ) death us do part.

"Yesss, it's very nice and tasteful, verrry, BUT NOW, you can't be having any mention of God, or religious   matters, or...or .. anything like that", the  marriage  registrar (I assume that's his title) (though who knows,  we were hailed  by a red faced, expansive porter  at the desk coming in, who greeted us by christian  name, and told us what was what   in avuncular fashion) is so earnest as he says this, that I find myself assuring him, equally earnestly that  there will be none of that.. "And" I add "could we see the eh.. um.. marrying room, too?"   "Yes." he beams,  " when the paper work is done, I   will show you. Very nice too.  Oh very tasteful.  I mean, you know" pushing his glasses up on his nose "I'm married myself IN the church  (properly) but if I was  to do it again, I don't mind telling you  that's the   the way I"d go".

 He is as good as his word, and, having told us to call him Timmy,  proudly ushers us into a dim chilly, pretty featureless room, the rows of seats  suggestive of an audience for pretty much anything from a union meeting, to a lecture on health and safety at work, etc. He explains when we ask, fascinated and somewhat at sea, that we will exchange vows, and that  anything else, like exchanging rings, or (mistily) HAVING CANDLES , has to be elected for as an extra. "Candles?". "Yes, oh yes  they sometimes like to have the candles. And its verry nice, verry nice. eh she has a cande and he has a candle and they.. they.... I can hear my intended husband snort, behind me, as Timmy  comes to a complete standstill, overcome presumably.

"I mean they ARE  making it up as they go along, aren't they" I ask the dear man , as we emerge from the very functional,  spanking  new,  red brick County Council building afterwards. "Well, now I"d say Timmy  was most recently promoted from the plumbing department and is just thrilled with his new job" he smirks "but, let me tell you, there will be NO candles".  We laugh hysterically, not having realized what an ordeal was in prospect, regarding paperwork and jargon, and now feeling that we are in a state of almost marriage. We restore ourselves with good strong coffee, and much giggling over Timmy, "BUT, I still say MAKING IT UP AS THEY GO ALONG" I  sternly tell  my (almost)  husband.

Oh I had started out innocently enough by  phoning  a local registry office to make arrangements. I knew we were required to give three months notice to the registrar, and, as we wanted to marry in June, and as I was applying in early february, I didn't foesee a problem. HAH. . "Um well,  June? yes we have your date. Will I write you into the book....Of  course,  you see now,  you have to make an appointment for Notification with  the registrar three months before. "  "Um,  right, can I have an appointment for that so?"  "Ahh, well, you see now, we don't have  any appointments for Notifications for at least four months" "Oh but..but then  we can't marry till three months after that, can we? (just checking)  "No. You can"t.. you see, we're inundated... inundated ...with people wantin" to get married, you know yourself, and there's only like  two of us, and we only do it on tuesdays and friday afternoons, and.. and you can always try Dublin, or (mentioning neighboring counties) and sure  you can do it (Notification) there maybe, and THEN we will marry you. In June. Eh is that OK?."

 We get a similar spiel from at least four  registry offices, INCLUDING  Dublin. Finally I snap "I CAN  marry WHOM EVER I like,  WHENEVER   I  like, as long as we  give three months notice, not seven months, or...or..six months or  whatever other  arbitrary  period you are effectively imposing! AND  I can and WILL   make a court Application to abridge time and dispense with the notice  requirement, on the basis that you  can not  accommodate us."( "HAH"!,)   "Oh, ah, OK. Well,... But you will still have to make a notification appointment with the registrar, and you ll have to  bring along the court order along with your other documents?".  "Thats just fine", I say carefully,  "because, if I have a court order,  that can be ANY  time before the wedding in June, Can't  it.?  Fine... So... you want to give me a date in April, or when ever, for that.?"  "Yes, yes. Hold on there  till  I have a look. Oh,.. you re in luck, I can put you in for that in February" and she proceeds to give me a date which would have allowed us  give the   three months notice required. Now, you, dear reader might have argued, might have quibbled and set the whole glad merry go round in motion again, but I have seen the light, the lay of the land, the way this cookie crumbles  and so proceed to get the court order and turn up on the appointed date. Which didn't disappoint. See above.  And anyway, I don't care so long as I can marry this man who is my other, on the day chosen by both of us.

That's if my children let us. Oh they have not  actually  forbidden our union, but are busy with  the kind of head wrecking,  devilish  war of attrition only three strong minded solipsistic teenagers can wage.  "I DONT think its too much to expect to have my mother to myself, until I leave home" the boy opined loudly, as an  opening shot, followed by muttered enquires as to why we would bother, anyway,  at our age.  The girls are more subtle "Of course, you should be able to  have your (little)  friends mum, but ah, do you actually LIKE  being a mother?" Ouch. We have good days (the prospective stepdad is kind  and  interested) and  bad days, ( " WE  NONE OF US THINK   its to much to ask to have our  mother to ourselves  till we  leave home...)  as the momentous day looms. It"s a work in progress,  and my almost husband and I have slightish  tremors of pure  panic at the madness, and the  enormity of it all, and we  promise  each other we will never ever do it again. Under any circumstances,  With anyone else.  Only this marriage to each other in June.   Ever.  Til death us do part. At least.