Pritty Horrendous..Mothers Day reflections

Lock up the superglue, hide your favourite eyeliner, Mother's Day; a time for darling Zara to smuggle your favourite photo taken in Dalkey for your 40th Birthday into montessori, glue some pink feathers round it and watch your reaction as she helps Daddy serve it on a tray with tickets to Damien Rice, lukewarm Lavazza and cold croissant. What do ya mean you wanted to see Ed Sheeran? Children. Personally I love them but only a mini serving with a side order of sweet potato fries. It seems it's no longer possible to visit a cafe to enjoy a latte or two while losing yourself in Vanity Fair without a super-duper, three wheeled, extra aerodynamic, purchased in La Bella Bébé boutique in Glasthule for the introductory price of €1,899, bumping into your table and spilling half of the contents over your favourite cashmere sweater. Can someone please enlighten me? What exactly is the idea of Mother's Day? What creative, progressive purpose does it serve? Millions of women receive cards with greetings so two-faced they could make The Donald blush. These cellophane-wrapped delights are usually accompanied by a bunch of ill-chosen flowers that will be wilted by Thursday and a trip to the local carvery for a plate of roast lamb with seasonal vegetables and a gravy that would shake your Granny in her grave. There is, of course, an obtuse pleasure that all women enjoy as they eat such a meal. The knowledge that it tastes nothing close to as good as you can produce in your own kitchen, coupled with the fact that it cost as much as your last hairdo, is in itself a feast. And so Mother exits the restaurant beaming with this peace of mind, the innocent male who has just had wallet irrigation delighted at his successful efforts in pampering the Woman of the Day, brownie points clocking up nicely and all is well with the world. Those with more creative offspring are blessed to be endowed with the gift of a beauty treatment; a signature, five step facial to minimise those fine lines that your birth initiated in the first place. Or was that the conception? It’s unclear to me which was the more traumatic. Serves me right for agreeing to that last Sea Breeze. Then again, I always was a walkover for anything nautical.

Upgrade

I cannot sleep.

That which could offer me

the luxury

of screensaver or logoff

or shutdown   to charge up and try to muster

more courage

to face the morrow with less sorrow

desisting the apathetic drudge to exist

while I strive

to live again.

Change the appearance.

Different settings

                   

                           will stop me getting overwhelmed

by the ocean of emotion

that threatens

my sanity

and vanity

of a weaker Me.

Shutdown?

Cancel.

Restart.

Show my heart a new programme.

Upgrade software.

Click install.

File.

New folder.

Rename ‘Smile’.

Save.

New document.

                               Live.

Sonflowers and Bike fun; a reality check.

My mother was minding my son in the garden on a sunny Summer afternoon. She was reading the newspaper as he played. Suddenly he shouted "oh Gran look!! aren't they SOOO beautiful!"  Not knowing what he was talking about and looked up from her paper puzzled, asking "what? what's so beautiful?" He pointed to the ground and said "look, the sunflowers, aren't they just so very beautiful!" The 'sunflowers' in question were, in fact, some dandelions growing at the edge of my less than 'perfect' lawn. Such is the joy of children...their perception of Life and all things is so different to ours. We need to see a few more dandelions/sunflowers to keep our reality check level! A few days later, my son was racing his bike around the back garden as I typed my college essay just inside the window. He was riding round and round on damp grass, the skid marks becoming bigger and deeper each time...tons of mud!! It was JUST on the tip of my tongue to tell him to stop riding across it as it would only get worse and he said "ah but Mum don’t worry, the grass will grow again!". How right he is... grass grows, muddy marks happen. I'm so glad I didn't give out to him for doing what he should...living the life of an 8 year old boy.

Dessert Menu

Dublin can be heaven with coffee at eleven and a stroll on Stephen's Green.... exclude the force 7 gale blowing dust, a passing smokers ash and some random twigs onto your favourite Juicy Tubes lip gloss as you sip your skinny latte (make that with soya please).

Weekends are a time to switch off, relax, recharge the batteries and enjoy the peace of parks, window shopping and cafes. Unfortunately I happen to live on the same planet as Les Jolie Bebes. This particular species of Mummy's Little Angel whose toothless, hairless, unending ability to howl an additional level of pain into your already shattered, hungover highlighted head could win awards beyond any Olympian's dreams. My guess is that Sweet Little Angel Buttercup's parents are so resentful to the World as a whole for the sleep-deprived, sexless lives they've chosen that they seek weekly revenge on those of us with real lives and real jobs, thus inflicting the brunch time teething chorus on unsuspecting, exhausted revellers who have replaced their iMac for an ice-cream and profiteroles for just 48 hours. The injustice is beyond belief.

My solution? Smuggle nail glue in your Prada best, pop some on SLAB's soother while picking it up for the umpteenth time for Mumsie and sit back sipping your macchiato to enjoy some much-earned silence accompanied by a side order of mystified Mummy.

Just desserts indeed.