Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Embarrassing PDA Alert

So, it was the D'Oubs wedding anniversary yesterday. 8 years of D'Oubby bliss.

We nearly forgot about it.

We were just soooooo busy. Toddler Oub has the chicken pox, Second Son had his communion, the living room wall has come down and new floors, light fixtures, etc have gone up. Baby Oub (ver2.o) is as demanding as ever, though (whisper it!) she is considering sleeping the night.

That said she had a blip on Sunday night. And so, exhausted from Baby being awake alot, we woke yesterday morning not a little cranky. He said something. I was snappish. He said 'Happy Anniversary.' I said, 'Oh yeah.' And then he went to work.

Loves young dream.

As he says himself, it's not so much the 7 year itch, more the 8 year rash.

Hands off, he's taken!

Altogether we've been together twelve years (I think...) so you kinda get used to someone over that length of time. Does his heart palpate when I walk in the room? Maybe, but it's more likely to be the beginnings of coronary health disease. Do I swoon when he returns each evening from work? Er, I probably only swoon from standing up too quickly to nag him about something.

But to be honest, I think that's only natural. I distrust those couples who say they are as passionate now as they were the first day they met. It sounds exhausting! And really, with all that passion, who's taking the time to fill the dishwasher?

I'm not advocating the banishment of passion. Don't get me wrong. We've all enjoyed a soupcon of wild animal rapture in our time. Possibly even more than a soupcon. But isn't that what your twenties are for? And that's not to say one shouldn't make the effort to peer through the domestic fugue and see that quiet IT programmer he once was. And maybe growl a little in his direction, while doing curling cat claw hand gestures, when he's looking particularly good in a suit.

But, you know, I like him better now than I did then. He rubs my smelly feet every evening without complaint. He makes me tea and toast too. Never whinges. He's a brilliant dad. He'll assemble a flat pack piece of furniture at 3am because my family are due the next day and I really, really, want it to be ready. He'll sleep on two pushed together chairs in hospital when I'm so sick after yet another baba and never complain. He will buy me underwear in M&S when I decide from my hospital bed that that's what I need him to do. He puts up with me going on and on and on and on about my sore knees/back/hips. He'll dig the allotment in the snow cause it's what my mad brain decides needs to be done - and he doesn't even like vegetables. Not a word passes his lips when I go out four nights week, requiring him to do the Scout run on his own with all the kids and do dinner and put them all to bed yet again.


Hottie!

Perhaps I'm wrong and we are still passionate about each other.

Maybe it's just a quiet kinda passion.

Love you schmoopy.


Embarrassing PDA Alert

So, it was the D'Oubs wedding anniversary yesterday. 8 years of D'Oubby bliss.

We nearly forgot about it.

We were just soooooo busy. Toddler Oub has the chicken pox, Second Son had his communion, the living room wall has come down and new floors, light fixtures, etc have gone up. Baby Oub (ver2.o) is as demanding as ever, though (whisper it!) she is considering sleeping the night.

That said she had a blip on Sunday night. And so, exhausted from Baby being awake alot, we woke yesterday morning not a little cranky. He said something. I was snappish. He said 'Happy Anniversary.' I said, 'Oh yeah.' And then he went to work.

Loves young dream.

As he says himself, it's not so much the 7 year itch, more the 8 year rash.

Hands off, he's taken!

Altogether we've been together twelve years (I think...) so you kinda get used to someone over that length of time. Does his heart palpate when I walk in the room? Maybe, but it's more likely to be the beginnings of coronary health disease. Do I swoon when he returns each evening from work? Er, I probably only swoon from standing up too quickly to nag him about something.

But to be honest, I think that's only natural. I distrust those couples who say they are as passionate now as they were the first day they met. It sounds exhausting! And really, with all that passion, who's taking the time to fill the dishwasher?

I'm not advocating the banishment of passion. Don't get me wrong. We've all enjoyed a soupcon of wild animal rapture in our time. Possibly even more than a soupcon. But isn't that what your twenties are for? And that's not to say one shouldn't make the effort to peer through the domestic fugue and see that quiet IT programmer he once was. And maybe growl a little in his direction, while doing curling cat claw hand gestures, when he's looking particularly good in a suit.

But, you know, I like him better now than I did then. He rubs my smelly feet every evening without complaint. He makes me tea and toast too. Never whinges. He's a brilliant dad. He'll assemble a flat pack piece of furniture at 3am because my family are due the next day and I really, really, want it to be ready. He'll sleep on two pushed together chairs in hospital when I'm so sick after yet another baba and never complain. He will buy me underwear in M&S when I decide from my hospital bed that that's what I need him to do. He puts up with me going on and on and on and on about my sore knees/back/hips. He'll dig the allotment in the snow cause it's what my mad brain decides needs to be done - and he doesn't even like vegetables. Not a word passes his lips when I go out four nights week, requiring him to do the Scout run on his own with all the kids and do dinner and put them all to bed yet again.


Hottie!

Perhaps I'm wrong and we are still passionate about each other.

Maybe it's just a quiet kinda passion.

Love you schmoopy.


Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Chicks and Babes



It's just so damn busy round here.

I am reminded of that poem '
Epic' by Patrick Kavanagh, one of my fave poets...

Epic

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided : who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.

I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."

That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was most important ? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said : I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.


Because it's all a go-go round here - Betty from London! Barry from Hawaii! Banking Bailouts! Bedlam!

But what is really concerning me is a Baby and some Blue Tits. And the devil really is in the detail.

Why oh why am I a slave to such a tiny bird and a tiny baby?


I am the supreme commander of the world! Mwwahahaahah! Mwwahahahahahaha!

I have been trying to garden. We have a First Holy Communion on Saturday and family is due round. While I am in general happy to live with a back garden that looks like an abandoned derelict site - only the winos and crack whores missing - I thought this might be a timely time to pick out a few weeds and make a weak effort to pretty the place up. Especially as the gales we had yesterday demolished my ickle green house and so strewn murdered seedlings were added to the general chaotic mix.


I decided to begin with the weed bed flower bed. But for some reason a pair of Blue Tits decided to actually nest this year in the Bird box we mounted on the wall. Obviously the property bubble in the avian world has gone bust too, otherwise I have no idea why these two are slumming it round our way...


Going for 350,000 Euro only three years ago, now yours for a few earthworms and a grub.


But this has created an unexpected problem.

Every time the mammy and daddy want to go into the bird box and feed the babies, they sit on the wall above me, chirping and looking accusingly down at me. Until I get up, walk back a bit and wait. Then they'll go in a feed their babies. Repeat ad nauseum every ten minutes. And I'm the eejit who gets up every ten minutes to let them do it. Probably because I have my own squalling chick of my own. I really empathise too much.


Before! Shameful.

After! Still a bit shit...


So it makes the weeding very slow going. I may have a foot or two cleared by Saturday.


I did get to see the Queen's Chinooks though. (A privilege only previously shared with Prince Philip. Ho, ho.)


A fine pair of choppers


And of course, through all this I have my own little chick who is as insistent as her feathered friends in her demands for attention. Really, it's just my luck. I had three easy peasy kiddies and then, just as I decided to hang up my ovaries, out pops this little diva. Sure, she's adorable and if I ever decide to enter her in illegal baby wrestling she'll make me a fortune (significant weight advantage -but we'd have to be careful she didn't eat her opponents.)

But she has laid waste to my life! No time for blogging! My allotment is divorcing me. Friends pass me in the street with nary a backward glance I am so unfamiliar to them now.

Ah, but methinks I like to complain. And as my man Paddy said 'I have lived in important places, times When great events were decided' - Sure, didn't she smile at me when I got in from the Scout run this evening. Amn't I actually delighted to be able to tell the mammy and daddy Blue Tit apart and listen to their little babies thrive. I have a garden that one day could be a pleasure. And a baby, despite her crazy ways, is, along with her equally crazy siblings, the centre of my world.



Chicks and Babes



It's just so damn busy round here.

I am reminded of that poem '
Epic' by Patrick Kavanagh, one of my fave poets...

Epic

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided : who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.

I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."

That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was most important ? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said : I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.


Because it's all a go-go round here - Betty from London! Barry from Hawaii! Banking Bailouts! Bedlam!

But what is really concerning me is a Baby and some Blue Tits. And the devil really is in the detail.

Why oh why am I a slave to such a tiny bird and a tiny baby?


I am the supreme commander of the world! Mwwahahaahah! Mwwahahahahahaha!

I have been trying to garden. We have a First Holy Communion on Saturday and family is due round. While I am in general happy to live with a back garden that looks like an abandoned derelict site - only the winos and crack whores missing - I thought this might be a timely time to pick out a few weeds and make a weak effort to pretty the place up. Especially as the gales we had yesterday demolished my ickle green house and so strewn murdered seedlings were added to the general chaotic mix.


I decided to begin with the weed bed flower bed. But for some reason a pair of Blue Tits decided to actually nest this year in the Bird box we mounted on the wall. Obviously the property bubble in the avian world has gone bust too, otherwise I have no idea why these two are slumming it round our way...


Going for 350,000 Euro only three years ago, now yours for a few earthworms and a grub.


But this has created an unexpected problem.

Every time the mammy and daddy want to go into the bird box and feed the babies, they sit on the wall above me, chirping and looking accusingly down at me. Until I get up, walk back a bit and wait. Then they'll go in a feed their babies. Repeat ad nauseum every ten minutes. And I'm the eejit who gets up every ten minutes to let them do it. Probably because I have my own squalling chick of my own. I really empathise too much.


Before! Shameful.

After! Still a bit shit...


So it makes the weeding very slow going. I may have a foot or two cleared by Saturday.


I did get to see the Queen's Chinooks though. (A privilege only previously shared with Prince Philip. Ho, ho.)


A fine pair of choppers


And of course, through all this I have my own little chick who is as insistent as her feathered friends in her demands for attention. Really, it's just my luck. I had three easy peasy kiddies and then, just as I decided to hang up my ovaries, out pops this little diva. Sure, she's adorable and if I ever decide to enter her in illegal baby wrestling she'll make me a fortune (significant weight advantage -but we'd have to be careful she didn't eat her opponents.)

But she has laid waste to my life! No time for blogging! My allotment is divorcing me. Friends pass me in the street with nary a backward glance I am so unfamiliar to them now.

Ah, but methinks I like to complain. And as my man Paddy said 'I have lived in important places, times When great events were decided' - Sure, didn't she smile at me when I got in from the Scout run this evening. Amn't I actually delighted to be able to tell the mammy and daddy Blue Tit apart and listen to their little babies thrive. I have a garden that one day could be a pleasure. And a baby, despite her crazy ways, is, along with her equally crazy siblings, the centre of my world.