Little Acorns, Big Know-It-All Oaks

Last Thursday, I waited anxiously, along with so many other parents, for my eldest son's GCSE results.  Obviously, it got me thinking.. how quickly time flies?  I remember when he was born - the feel of his skin, how he smelt, the grasp of his hand around my finger. 

He started school, in Dublin, when he was four.  So confident, eager to start.  He loved his teacher - she replaced me as the centre of his world, if only for five hours a day.  He relished homework. 

Then when we moved to the UK, he made a seamless transition to his new school, loving how new and different it all was, immediately falling in love, yet again, with his teacher.

And as he passed through, year after year, he always did well.  Always tried his best. Always was pleasant and polite.  Always was the best that he could be.  And I've always been proud of him.

He's no angel, don't get me wrong.  What kid is?  He can be impossible to live with.  He is an impossible know-it-all.  And incredibly cocky.  But it turns out he had reason to be.  

When he finally decided to text me and put me out of my misery, it turns out he had done as well as he said he would.  He did very well indeed.  

Next is his A levels.  Watch this space!

Her Hand - My #dosomethingyummy Post Week 4

This week's prompt from Nickie at Typecast's #dosomethingyummy post was difficult for me. These blog prompts have been to raise awareness of CLIC Sargent, who help families deal with cancer in children and young people. I've been lucky never to have to face anything like many families do.  So this week, I've decided to write a poem, which is inspired by Nickie's blogs about her family and her experiences with her daughter (with some poetic license!).






Her hand grasps my finger the very first time
As she enters the world with a yell
With all her ten fingers and ten tiny toes
Our precious new daughter is well


Her hand pulls her bottle, as she guzzles down
She's growing with each passing day
Beginning to smile, to gurgle, to laugh
She is talking in her special way


Her hand holds so tight to the edge of the chair
As she struggles to get to her feet
She's taking the first of those tentative steps
And she often lands back on her seat!


Her hand grips my sleeve as we wander through clinical
Corridors we don't belong
But sensing as only a mother can do
That something was seriously wrong


Her hand lying still on the hospital bed
Surrounded by bleeping machines
So quietly laying, not making a sound
Is my girl who was once full of beans


Her hand has a needle that leads to a tube
My princess seems ever so brittle
It is so unfair, that she suffer like this
My girl who is ever so little


Her hand....


Her hand holds his hand as he places the ring
On the finger that makes her his wife
The joy in my heart at the woman she is
After all the hard times in her life


Her hand holds a hand for the very first time
And I see how my baby has grown
With all her ten fingers and ten tiny toes
She has a princess of her own.

What family means to me - #dosomethingyummy post 2

This is my second contributory post to Nickie's prompts at Typecast.  The campaign aims to bring awareness to childhood cancer.  Pop over to Nickie's blog once your finished reading to check out the rest of the links. 

What my family means to me

I was born in Dublin, the youngest of a family of nine children.  We lived in the suburbs, quite close to the city, in a two-up, two-down.  Yup, two bedrooms for eleven people.  My dad worked hard and provided well for his huge family.  My mum stayed at home and looked after us as only an Irish Catholic mother can.  It was cramped, we didn't have much.  Although, I can only say this in hindsight.  While I was there, living it, it never seemed like anything but home. Maybe six girls to one bedroom was a lot, but it made us all so close.  Maybe there wasn't luxuries, but Mary (my mum - everyone called her Mary. Her children, grandchildren. Everyone.) baked almost daily, sweet and savoury pies, scones with jam and cream.  And you could bring a friend home for dinner, unannounced and she never batted an eyelid. 

Being the youngest, I was spoilt.  Not with "stuff", but with so many more important things.  I always had someone to turn to.  I always had someone to visit.  I was taken out for treats by my older siblings all the time.  I had my first niece when I was 6 and each year our family continued to grow.  And it never felt too big.  Never felt too loud.  Never felt too crowded.  I was always surrounded by love, by laughter, by people who cared.

Since moving away from Dublin in 2002, I've constantly missed my family.  We keep in touch how we can, but I sometimes feel out of the loop.  Babies are born, people move on and I miss it so much.  But they're always still there for me.  I'll always be a part of them, even while I'm apart from them.