End of Summer. Altamant Gardens. Unmoored.

The fearsome threesome are back to school. Bless them. Morning TV shows, (Sixteen and Pregnant, Britains Next Top Model, Britains Haunted Houses) must  carry on without them. All summer long they were to be found wandering owl eyed (late nights) in the   mid morning, pyjama'd and munching cornflakes    from  kitchen to T.V  , in and out of a cocoon of blankets on the living room  sofa. The house an obstacle course around fishing rods, kindle, discarded shoes, books, socks peeled from teenage feet, mobile phones, and other electronica which  I battled through on my way to work and back again. How I love the Autumn School term

 AS to them, well the first daughter drifted out of the car, resignedly and  with a distinct air of having other fish to fry, but  like ok so she has to get a brillant leaving certificicate first. Hmmm.  The boy strides off slightly dishevelled but uniformed more or less. My stern cautions are (should be) ringing in his ears,  "exams...he can do it..he will regret.....no one can do it for him.....in later life....etc etc"  "Uhh, can I have a fiver for my lunch" he asks, after an obsequious pause. He has had a good summer. His head is still  in the West, judging the wrist flick on the tiniest watery ripple, watching the line fly,  wrapped in the surround sound of   the whispering   leaves  overhead.  I can tell by the cut of him.  Even while  his legs are carrying him onwards into the junior certificate, the  teacherly exhortations, and, god help us all , TWO  HOURS  mimimum study EVERY night as prescribed.

And the boss, she is starting secondary school. I walk her in, and as we approach the door teeming with her  kind, she turns an abruptly stiiffed face "YOU don't come in with me". She inclines to me slightly. ,  eyes suddenly  stricken,  A Hug?, and pulls sharply back. "You can go now".  "Huh? Oh, Right, See you later honey"  I tell her unyielding back, as she walks away from me, pony tail swinging. . My husband tells me that in my mind my children are about four years younger that they actually are. And that they have one face for me and another  for the world. Perhaps. He makes his own space in the house and has his own perspective. Anyway he cooks me delicious Linda McCartney sausages for lunch, and helps ease the achy sense of dislocation ,of having been let go of, unmoored, by my baby.

We all go to Altamont Gardens after school. It is my birthday and we go every year, on the day. This year my husband comes too. He is as beguiled as I with this place. He knows it of old. The trees, exotic and native, the grasses, the embarrassment of  roses, the fairy tale  lilypadded lake, a homage to nature and devoted gardening. We stand in a line looking at the crumbling house at the top of the rose walk, drawn in by its human face, its air of having tales to tell. The three do a nostalgic encore  of stalking us as we walk, hiding in the myriad nooks and crannys, in honour of previous visits, despite being the size of young giants. I scream, unnerved,  when I come on  the boss and the boy, who  have arranged themselves on a ancient bench, partially concealed by an over hanging magnolia tree, stock still and staring outward in tandem. My kind husband takes my arm  as they  (and he)  whoop at my stricken state. Too easy.

The boy pays for a plant from the plant shop, for my birthday.  "Uhh pick one n I'l give you money...uhh how much will it...... its not to be.... not more than...uhhh".  "€ 8.50", I tell him clutching the most lively dahlia with dark green leaves, and a deep red flower . He grins with relief, his sisters hooting derisively behind him.

We see a sign marked   Adults €2.75,  on the way out (though not collected, at least from us). Also a part of the gardens were closed off today, (the ice age garden  on the way down to the Slaney.)  I explain to my husband that Corona North gave the gardens to the state on condition that they be available  free to the public. He thinks the gardens  are   not very well tended (though all the better for that). This place is balm to heart and soul. Are the OPW and the State in its most comfortable default of    smearing and despoiling what has been entrusted to it,  from basic uncaring  stupidity (or some other calculation that no body knows about?). I am watching them.

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.