Posted on in Food, parenting

Food Inglorious Food Part 2

As most parents will know, a lot of time is spent trying to get the right amount and the right kind of food into your children. For me there are probably three main criteria for my kids’ food. It should be filling, healthy (or relatively so) and not overly burdensome to make (preferably can be done in batches). With dinners, I have taken the use it or lose it approach, i.e. eat it because you’re not getting anything else and things have been going rather well on that front. Packed lunches were a different matter and I was really struggling to get combinations that worked for the three boys. I made numerous attempts at different combinations of cheeses, mozzarella, pate, bread, rice, crackers, rice crackers, pasta, grapes, peppers, strawberries, hams, salami, etc. There was always something that just wasn’t quite right, not enough butter, too much pate on one-side, pasta too soggy, rice not at the correct temperature. This is all before taking into account the sudden changes in taste which frequently occurs in the palates of young boys. It can be very frustrating and it led to the implementation of a rule whereby all leftover food from the lunchbox had to be consumed before the boys were allowed do anything fun post school. This initially resulted in much grumbling but then in the period leading up to Easter I noticed that less and less reject food was coming home in the lunchboxes. Eureka, but just when I thought I had it cracked something comes out of left field to show me how wrong I was. In this case it was a blocked toilet!

Now this is not the first time we have had a blocked toilet and usually a bit of vigorous flushing and some good spray work with the garden-hose in the outside drains was enough to get flow levels back to normal, except this time it was different. When the blockage was dislodged we (or rather I should say Niki who was wielding the hose at the time) couldn’t help but notice something rather unusual. Along with the usual “stuff” going through the pipes, there were an awful lot of whole vegetables! Now, either the boys have very mild digestive systems or the luscious cherry tomatoes, olives, etc., which had been acquired at the local organic farmers market were somehow making their way into our sewage by nefarious methods!

A quick bit of AC-12 style interrogation (a couple of questions for non Line of Duty fans) brought about a full confession from Lochlan, our second child. It became clear that rather than eat the vegetables his doting father had lovingly acquired and prepared for him, Lochlan preferred to sneak them into his pockets when he was removing his lunchbox from his schoolbag on returning from school. He would then take a short trip to the downstairs toilet, wrap the aforementioned items in copious amounts of toilet paper and flush away to his heart’s content. And he would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t blocked up our entire sewerage system. This does make me wonder what other ingenious schemes the boys have gotten up to in order to get around my house rules. Maybe random friskings will become a feature going forward!

On a related matter, I rediscovered last week how horrible sour milk actually smells. Oscar had left a milk carton in the normally unused front pocket of his bag before the Easter holidays and it had obviously slipped through my intensive screening system! Now it would have been fine if the milk carton had remained intact, but somehow a significant quantity of liquid had managed to seep out of it. It still amazes me that he was able to scoot into school with the bag on his back and spend the whole day in class without anyone noticing the stench. It was only after Oscar’s bag had spent 10 minutes in the confined space of our car on the way home from school that it became clear to my senses that something was seriously wrong. It is to my eternal shame that Ella was my first suspect when it came to finding the putrid smell but after she was given the all clear we quickly identified the culprit and it has been rehabilitating with some bicarbonate of soda ever since. Safe to say it has not been a good week but hey, the weather is getting better so that’s something!

Posted on in easter, parenting, zoo

Surviving Easter (Part 2)

I had now reached week 2 of my Easter challenge. Bloodied but not beaten by my torn quad muscle, I knew that I required a different approach to successfully navigate the second half. I am a proud man but it was abundantly clear that I needed help, so on the Tuesday after Easter Monday I did what any good Irish son does in his hour of need, I headed to my parents’ house (the place that is still called Home on my mobile phone). As a family, we are very lucky to have both sets of grandparents nearby in Dublin, I still argue the toss with my in-laws about whether Shankill really is in Dublin but they are reachable by travelling on the M50 so that is all that really matters! Anyway the kids love seeing their grandparents and vice versa, or at least the grandparents do a good enough job of faking it! As an added bonus, the garden in my folks’ house is sufficiently long for the boys to happily while away a couple of hours taking pot-shots at each other with footballs, tennis balls, rugby balls or when things get testy, pretty much any object that comes to hand. My dad has a never ending supply of gadgets which he regularly replenishes in Flying Tiger, now that Hector Grey’s is no more (feel free to google search Hector Grey’s if required but in short, think of Flying Tiger but organised in a much more scattered and much less commercial way). These amuse and amaze the kids in equal measure. Tuesday’s visit to my parents followed a familiar pattern. As soon as the boys’ energy levels began to drop in the back garden (normally signalled by one of them trying to take the head off another one) and Ella started to get a bit grumpy, my mum produced her party-piece, crackers and cheese. It is a strange thing that crackers at home are only moderately sought-after but as soon as we enter my parents’ house, they become some kind of food of the gods, a modern day ambrosia. I must say, all of us were refreshed and replenished by the experience and I could now see a path through to the end of the week.

On Wednesday I went for an old reliable, the zoo! Well at least I thought it was an old reliable until Aaron went on over his ankle running down the mound surrounding the zoo car park within 60 seconds of arrival. I just about managed to coax him to his feet and despite the howls coming out of him I was pretty sure he was going to live. I can confirm that he certainly is not blessed with his mother’s high pain threshold (4 natural births without any pain relieving medication). Then as we ambled towards the main entrance, I noticed that Oscar’s tracksuit bottoms were on back-to-front, I mean did he not notice the dubs crest on his backside! I tried to get him to do a quick change at the side of the path but he was having none of it so it was back to the car. I could feel a Roy Keane tinged red-mist starting to descend upon me and the thought of packing up and heading back to Glasnevin did cross my mind, but Ella’s plaintive little voice asking “Daddy will we see animals?” pulled me back from the brink. The zoo is great and has improved immeasurably over the years. One of the benefits of having 4 kids is that I continuously get to see it afresh through a new set of young and wondrous eyes. Also, now that the boys are a bit older they can help push Ella around in her buggy so it’s win-win!

That was Wednesday successfully negotiated and on Thursday, I received a welcome wild card, the offer of a play-date for all three boys at the same time, jackpot! In my slightly frazzled state I was more than happy to depend on the kindness of strangers / parents from St Pats BNS, thank you Gillian! Again it was a win-win situation as the boys could sense that my mindset had changed from one of expansive new ideas (or my Leinster rugby frame of mind) to one of keep everything on a tight leash and hopefully we’ll get through it (my Munster rugby frame of mind). With the sound of nerf bullets flying past my ears as I dropped the boys off, I knew that I was another step closer to the weekend.

Friday was swimming with Ella day. Ella has weekly water babies classes and has been going since she was a couple of months old (as did all the kids thanks to the foresight of their mother). I now get to enjoy being in the water with her as she splashes to her heart’s content. The boys got to come and see her which was nice for them too, cue lots of waving from the viewing area and applause whenever Ella stuck her head in the water.

I had survived, I had made it through the fortnight and now all I had to do was start researching summer camps and fast (as I type I can see Niki doing up one of here dreaded To-Do lists). Was there any real secret to my survival, I don’t think so, a few new things, a few old things and plenty of help from friends and family. In the end I’ll certainly remember it fondly (mostly). Oh and we may have played quite a bit of minecraft!

 

Posted on in easter, parenting, sport

Surviving Easter (Part I)

So here it was, my first really big challenge, the Easter holidays, two weeks with just me and the kids. Sure my wife (Niki) would be around for the 4 day Easter weekend but that was just a minor breather in a fortnight of white-knuckle, hold on to your hats, let’s make sure they don’t break me, adventures. I was determined not to rely on the dreaded screen-time as an easy way out, I mean what kind of father would I be if I had to turn to external distractions every time there was a bump in the road. My opening tactic was to smother them with kindness so our first breakfast was pancakes, pancakes and more pancakes with a healthy / unhealthy dose of nutella, sugar and honey. I started making batter from our never ending supply of eggs, unsheathed my trusty copperstone pan (an unusually prescient Christmas present), and turned up the heat. This worked exceptionally well (even if I must say so myself) and I was complimented on my “restaurant standard” (their words not mine) pancakes. I was off to a great start but unfortunately the only way from here was down. The next day it was the cinema and McDonalds, the cinema went down well but I soon realised that the only reason my kids like McDs is because of the easy access to tablets which enables them to circumvent the “no screen-time” rule. I think they ate 2 portions of french fries between the 4 of them leaving yours truly to hoover up the remnants of their unhappy meals. The kids also became obsessed with the current monopoly promotion and spent a good part of our time in McDs scanning discarded food, the floor, the bins and pretty much everywhere else for leftover tokens. Never again I swore, not for the first or last time.

Tactic number 2 was to tire them out. Luckily the weather over the last fortnight has for the large part been exceptional for this time of year, so I was able to bring them to the local park without having to load up on rain gear. The two-on-two football matches are getting more and more competitive and soon the rule where I can only score with my weaker left foot will have to go out the window! Frisbee has also made a welcome entry into our outdoor games repertoire and with a bit of work the boys were soon making regulation 10 foot passes to each other albeit there was still the occasional moment when fear of frisbee finger (the smacking of a knuckle with hard plastic) would cause an elementary drop. Interestingly, while we were playing our games, an outdoor boot-camp was taking place within earshot. At one point Oscar (age 6) edged towards me and whispered in a secretive tone “that lady said a bad word”, I glanced over as she did another 10 burpees and gave her an understanding nod. The trip to the park was an unqualified success, so much so that I decided to take it up a level and try out something completely new, footgolf. For those of you not aware of footgolf, it is as the name suggests a cross between football and golf. It basically involves trying to kick a ball into a hole in as few attempts as possible. Following a bit of online research I decided to bring the gang to Deer Park in Howth which has an 18 hole footgolf course. Deer Park has many fond memories for me as it was the place where I learnt to play full blown golf, having honed my short game on the pitch and putt course at St Anne’s. Back in those days, a round of golf involved a dart trip to Howth station and then carrying my bag of overly heavy clubs up the exceptionally steep hill to the Deer Park ticket office. Getting to the first tee was already an achievement worthy of an army cadet, so no wonder my first tee shot back in the day ended up skewing off the toe of my wooden driver (remember those) and scattering bodies on the nearby putting green. Back to the present and the 9 hole golf course in Deer Park has been converted into 18 holes of very enjoyable footgolf. Well mainly enjoyable, though there were three negatives to the experience. First of all our footwear (runners / trainers) was nowhere near sufficiently water-proof to deal with the moisture on the course (particularly in the rough). Secondly Ella (age 2) got pretty fed up after about 9 holes when we had reached the lowest part of the course and had to be carried around the back 9 (coincidentally she’s probably a similar weight to my old golf clubs). And last but not least I managed to pull my quad muscle on the 14th hole trying to knock it onto the green of a par 4 in one!! I had been playing pretty well up until that point and may have even gone up in my kids estimations with a display of strength and accuracy from my trusty right foot. There was even talk that I could have been a professional footgolfer at one point before the high-pitched scream of anguish on the 14th hold brought me back down to earth!

It’s amazing how you only realise how often you use a particular muscle when you have injured it. The drive back from Howth to Glasnevin was a painful one with every switch from accelerator to break and vice versa causing a sharp intake of breath. So I ended up  back home feeling tired and upset while the gang were all wondering what Daddy had planned for them next. Despondently I threw them the remote control. We had reached Thursday of the first week!

Posted on in gaa, parenting, rugby, sport

They Don’t Know They Have It So Good

In the true spirit of the grumpy old man that I have become, I am constantly comparing my kids’ experiences with those of my own childhood. In particular I look back at the performances of the sports teams I supported in the 80s and 90s and compare it (enviously) to the very same teams in the present day who are now supported by my sons. Let’s start with the most obvious candidates for improvement, “The Dubs”. Now I have many great memories from my time supporting the Dubs in the 80s and 90s, and I still have a certain nostalgia for the old wooden benches in the Cusack Stand where you would be crunched up against god knows whoever. But the boys have never known what it is like for Dublin to lose a Leinster Football championship match, well technically Aaron was alive when Dublin last lost in 2010 but given he was just a year old I don’t think it has scarred him too severely. They recoil in horror when I recount year after year of defeat to Meath (and occasionally Kildare or even Westmeath) and the whoops that used to emanate from the Hogan Stand. Six All-Irelands in the last eight years compares to five in my previous thirty-six years (with three of those sandwiched into my first four years on the planet). They laugh when I say that the Jacks used to have “problems” defeating Kerry and that they had issues around taking penalties (I used to fear Dublin being awarded a penalty as it would inevitably lead to a switch of momentum in favour of the opposition) and generally closing games out. Since I started having kids, Dublin have gone from being a team that finds ways to lose when playing well to a team that finds ways to win when playing badly (maybe I should have started having kids earlier). Take last September’s All Ireland Final as an example, I spent the entire match fidgeting and fussing, a big bag of nerves, particularly at the start and the end (post the sending off) while the boys were calm as you like, sure Dublin always win Dad. Oh to be blessed with such a blase attitude towards winning Sam!

In relation to our other team in blue, Leinster, the contrast is even more pronounced. The inter-provincial rugby scene was very different back in the 80s, in fact you would be hard pressed to see a game involving Leinster from one end of the season to the next. The only footage to be seen would be on the BBC Norn Iron results show as part of the dregs of Final Score. Every year we would be treated to overly long highlights from a dull and dreary Ravenhill of Ulster triumphing as Nigel Carr, David Irwin and the boys laid down another marker showing who wanted it more. Quite often there would be a drop-goal scored by somebody I had never heard. But then the unbiased and indignant commentator would inform us that it was a travesty that the player in question had only received one Irish cap as a replacement on a tour to Canada the previous Summer. Ulster won or shared every Irish inter-provincial championship from 1985 to 1994 and boy were they proud of it. Fast forward to 2009 and the arrival of Aaron, Leinster win their first Heineken Cup and they are now the ones who invariably win trophies year in, year out. Add on to that fact, that they play a great brand of rugby in top quality facilities. No wonder I set an extra alarm for 12pm last Friday to get tickets for the semi-final vs. Toulouse!

Last but not least is the Irish rugby team. Now at least the 1980s had a couple of Triple Crowns to sustain the ardent Irish rugby fan, but by golly the 1990s were a grim time for the men in green and those who followed them. The main highlight of this period was the five minutes between Gordon Hamilton scoring his try vs Australia in the 1991 world cup and Michael Lynagh scoring at the opposite end at the death to defeat us. Five minutes of joy in an unrelenting period of dire results plagued by dire rugby. I was actually at the 1996 France vs Ireland match in Paris due to being on Erasmus at the time. It was our last game played at Parc des Princes and we got a thorough hammering, the only bright spot was Ed Morrison (the English referee) giving us a consolation penalty try at the end (mainly because he took pity on us at 45-3 down) thus becoming the first Irish / Englishman to score a try in Paris since year dot! The turnaround in fortunes since Aaron’s arrival is even more astounding. Now technically Aaron had yet to make his appearance into the world when we won the grand slam in 2009 but he was certainly kicking hard in his mum’s belly. The fact that in the 2009-19 period we have won four Six Nations championships including two grand slams is remarkable, not to mentions two victories over the All Blacks. I do however wonder if the fact that my boys expect Ireland to win means they don’t value success as much as somebody like yours truly. Take the grand slam match versus England last year as an example. I was a bundle of nerves throughout and was almost in tears by the end, the boys were just “ah sure we were never going to lose to England Dad”, no memories of Chris Oti to haunt them!

I suppose on the opposite end of the spectrum there is the Irish football team, I had a team full of talent from Liverpool, Man Utd, Arsenal, etc. McGrath, Whelan and Keane spring to mind. They have, well they have, hmm let’s leave it at that then.

Posted on in music, parenting

The Sound of Music

Those of you who know me well will be aware that I love listening to music, so much so that I get anxious if there isn’t a song playing somewhere in the background pretty much at all times whether that be in the car, in the kitchen or just reading a book. I even used to listen to music while studying or doing my homework which I’m not sure is best practice but seemed to work at the time. I know that I can trace this positive association with music back to my early childhood where my dad was constantly singing (badly) as he made his way around the house. Mellow Yellow by Donovan was a consistent favourite and he would try to use it to diffuse contentious situations, although his constantly repeating “they call me mellow yellow” probably had the opposite effect than what was intended. My mum also had a strong affinity for music and managed to brainwash me with Jolene by Dolly Parton in my formative years. To this day I can’t stop a bit of toe-tapping whenever it comes on the radio which thankfully is seldom enough (why did she take her man?) Thankfully she kept her Leonard Cohen sessions until past my bedtime or I might not be the cheerful chap I am today!

Now that I am the parent I have made it my own personal crusade to similarly influence my own children with my incredibly distinguished musical tastes. There is nothing that gives me greater satisfaction than having a massive family dance-off (normally when Niki isn’t around) to a mega-mix of Cotton-Eye Joe, Rhythm is a Dancer and Mr Vain or any other 90s dance classic. This is always great fun until the boys decide to turn the dancing into a massive mosh (usually after Lochlan has given his younger brother a sly elbow) which leads to me reprimanding them severely, “no moshing in the kitchen, well at least until the House of Pain has started on my playlist!”

The odd bit of mild physical violence aside, I have found music to be a great way to bond with the kids. Aaron likes to have a weekly rundown of the Spotify “Top 50 in Ireland” chart to see what the latest tunes are, in the same way that I used to spend Thursday evenings watching Top of the Pops with my parents. Although as an unforeseen spin-off of my censorship policy, Aaron also likes to count the number of songs that are blocked off / prohibited due to explicit language which these days seems to be about 50% of the hits. He also gets quite annoyed if I continuously play my “Big in the 80s” or “Absolutely 90s” playlists which just goes to show that the old adage that “we all eventually turn into our parents” is completely true.

Lochlan, to my amazement (and delight) given his rugged approach to life, is a big fan of show-tunes and in particular The Greatest Showman. He would quite happily have the soundtrack on repeat for hours on end or at least until he is told he can have some screen-time at which point he is gone like a shot! Oscar has yet to find his niche but I feel Nine Inch Nails or some form of death metal could be his sweet spot given his tendency towards teenage-like mood swings at the tender age of six! Ella is probably the most fun member of the brunch (as usual) and just loves any type of music particularly if she is dancing in her daddy’s arms. Particular favourites are “Shallow” (or Gaga as she calls it), “Nina Cries Power” (Nina Power) and the Connacht Gold Milk jingle (fresh cold milk everyday). Although I have noticed that my ability to bounce for more than 30 seconds with child in arms has consistently diminished over the years. I used to be able to keep going for all of Cafe del Mar with Aaron, now I just about get to the first chorus.

As part of my daddy duties I have tried to provide a bit of musical education to my offspring. So when the boys listen to Ariana Grande singing “7 rings” I follow up by playing the song that it samples “Favourite Things” from The Sound of Music and I try to play some Neneh Cherry after a song by Mabel (her daughter) to which the boys normally reply “why does that sound so old?” I even ventured to play some Beatles at one point while trying to explain that basically all modern music can be traced back through these four Liverpudlians, however Aaron and Lochlan just seemed to take this as an affront to their allegiance to Chelsea!

I’ve always been a fan of the saying “dance like nobody’s watching” or with my spin on it “dance with only your kids watching as it would be a bit weird doing dad dancing in a nightclub these days and it’s only a matter of time until your knees give out anyway!” So while the kids will still tolerate me and I reckon I’ve got a good decade left until Ella starts to disown me, I’ll keep my dancing shoes polished and ready for action. I still can’t floss though!

Posted on in gaa, parenting, sport

Absolutely GAA GAA

As I have become more involved in the regimes and routines of my childrens’ lives I have had a chance to compare and contrast them with my own formative years. One of the things that really stands out for me is the huge jump in standards when it comes to underage GAA.

I was part of a fairly decent underage team in Clontarf back in the day. We didn’t produce any Dubs but we were always close to the top of the North Dublin league at under-10, under-11 and under-12 level. I can remember some epic battles on the pitches of St Anne’s against St Vincent’s and Fingallians, who were our main rivals at the time. But the thing is I didn’t start training until I was in third class, I can specifically remember the excitement of signing up to play in the prefab classroom in Belgrove (probably while shivering). And that was just gaelic football, I didn’t start hurling for another year or two. My eldest, Aaron, is now in third class and he already has well over a hundred training sessions under his belt in both codes. I can only wonder what type of player I could have been with that amount of tutelage, probably swinging points over with my weaker left boot from underneath the Hogan Stand, bringing success after success to the Dubs in those barren years between 1995 and 2011 (my peak athletic years) instead of trundling out playing substandard rugby at a substandard level on substandard pitches across the southside of Dublin. But hey I’m not bitter!

Anyway back to the kids, Aaron currently  has training twice a week and a match at the weekend, a routine which Lochlan (age 7) has now also begun. Oscar (6) is still at the “nursery” so it’s just Saturday mornings for him, although with a 9.30am start this can often be the biggest chore of the weekend. As for Ella (2) for the moment she can only chase after many of the spare footballs which seem to inhabit our house and are constantly spawning new offspring! Goodness knows how Niki and I will manage when all four of them are into the matches and training sequence. Even now we are often faced with a “2 into 3 doesn’t go” situation on Saturday mornings particularly as some Na Fianna home matches are played at Collinstown out by the airport which is c. 6km away and involves crossing the M50 which isn’t really appropriate by scooter (and I’m sorry for even suggesting it!)

I must of course say that I have nothing but admiration for the Na Fianna club and the countless mentors that make all the training and matches possible. Everything is organised with precision, from the fixture list right down to the countless training routines aimed at developing skills in a fun and enjoyable way. The sight of 200-300 kids down at Mobhi Road every Saturday morning is a wonder and it will never fail to impress me (even if occasionally I have to sneak back to the warmth of my car to allow me to regain some feeling in my fingers and toes). I have so far managed to evade the lure of the mentor siren song purely because I have always had a younger child hanging on to my ankles when the call for new blood has gone out. That’s not to say that I don’t give advice or the odd piece of constructive criticism when I am on the sideline. This generally gets aimed at Aaron who I try to control like one of my PS4 minions on FIFA or Madden. I’m not sure he appreciates my strategic know-how as I encourage him to make another dummy run to the right before spinning back to the centre. I can remember one windy day down at the pitches by Malahide Castle where he told me in no uncertain terms to keep quiet so that he could concentrate on his own game. This seemed to cause much merriment not only on the opposing sidelines but also on our own! Who can blame me for being enthusiastic!

I get my exuberance for such matters from my Dad who was never afraid to voice his opinion on the rights and / or wrongs of a situation in any of the many matches we attended over the years (mainly in Croke Park). Occasionally this good natured banter on the topic of why it was unfair for a Meathman (for it was usually a Meathman) to attempt to clothes-line the nearest Dub would spill over into something more heated but it never got out of hand. Well at least that was until we went to the 1984 FAI cup final replay in Tolka Park between Shamrock Rovers and UCD. I can remember sensing that the atmosphere was a little more edgy than anything I was used to and my Dad being an alumni of UCD was proudly showing his colours much to the annoyance of most of those in attendance in the old ground. My abiding memory is of me tugging at my Dad’s sleeve, pleading with him to sit down as he celebrated UCD scoring the winner. I was very aware that we weren’t in the Cusack Stand anymore!

 

Posted on in Uncategorized

Travels through En-ger-land

For the week that’s in it and with all the commotion across the Irish Sea I thought I’d reflect on my own travel experiences in Perfidious Albion.

My first time on English soil was as part of a school rugby trip over 30 years ago. I can’t remember the name of the village we stayed in but I know it was near Taunton in Somerset. My first impression of England, as I sat squashed in the mini-bus seat which I had been allocated (I think there was 20 of us in a bus that could safely carry 15), was of being slightly overawed by the infrastructure and in particular the road network. Our driver (a teacher at our school) must have been similarly distracted as we ended up 45 miles from London on our journey from Holyhead (Taunton is c. 160 miles from London). Perhaps it was the scale and grandeur of the road signage that confused him. Irish signposts at the time very rarely, even on national thoroughfares, exceeded those simple white elongated triangles angling in various directions from a central pole, but these motorway road-signs were works of art bringing to mind Mondrian at his finest, even though I hadn’t a clue who he was back then.

My first substantial anglo-trip was in early 1996 when I decided to go land-bridging to France after the Christmas holidays. At the time I was on Erasmus, studying in Paris (or Cergy Pontoise on the outskirts to be exact), and thought it would be a nice adventure to visit friends who were studying in Oxford and Cambridge at the time. It was a great trip and was neatly book-ended by a boxer shorts & negligee party in the student residence at Oxford and a hovercraft trip across the English channel. You could not have two more opposing insights into English society. The first was like the last days of Rome with opulence and flesh aplenty and while it might sound extremely appealing there was something about it that clashed with my slightly repressed hiberno-catholic upbringing. I ended up slinking away after an hour or so as I was unable to relax with so much skin on display outside of a rugby dressing room! The second was rough as hell and I’m not talking about the waves outside our vehicle. I have yet to see anybody neck more John Smiths (lager) in half an hour than the overly tattooed man immediately to my right on the trip from Dover to Calais. Given the amount of alcohol that I saw consumed on that crossing it still amazes me how a business case couldn’t be made for it to keep going!

More recently my trips to England have centred around London and in particular the business areas of Canary Wharf and the City. The bulk of my time on these excursions has been on public transport (or the Heathrow Express which is basically overpriced public transport) or in conference rooms. These tend to be uneventful with the highlights generally being the ability to check what’s going on in the West End as I travel up and down numerous tube escalators, always nice to find out what Jason Donovan is up to! There have been a few non-business related forays, with a party in Islington which ended up with the neighbours hosing cold water over us in the back garden, while an industrial size tub of mayonnaise was thrown at the front door being a particular highlight. I believe the tub of mayonnaise came from some disgruntled locals in a nearby estate who had been refused admission to the party earlier. To this day I still don’t know where they sourced this particularly large tub of mayonnaise and why they felt it was a good use for it!

Trips with the family have been few and far between however it would be remiss of me to leave out our trip to Peppa Pig World. There were a few lessons that I learnt from this particular journey. (i) Southampton (where Peppa Pig World is located) is further away from London than you think. I had believed that by setting out early from Victoria station we would have plenty of time to enjoy the delights on offer on the south coast, two hours later I wasn’t so chipper! (ii) Kids get very excited over the darnedest things, even (or especially) when I think it is unwarranted. I laughed at the two burly security guards escorting the six foot Peppa when I first saw them, ten minutes later they were more than earning their corn as a swarm of youngsters tried to show their appreciation for their heroine. (iii) The theme park (Paultons) outside Peppa Pig World was actually a lot more fun, particularly the spinning tea-cups which I believe are Niki’s (my wife) favourite thing in the whole of England. This is particularly ironic considering she doesn’t touch a drop!

I look forward to many more trips, hopefully without the need for passport checks!

Posted on in Uncategorized

In The Name Of The Daughter

Looking back a few years ago I thought that I pretty much had it made. Three sons all of whom took a keen interest in sport, all bore a strong resemblance to myself and all had a severe stubborn streak which I believe is important to get ahead in life (although this I attribute to their mother!!). A future of living my sporting dreams vicariously through them was set out in front of me. I could see myself strutting the sidelines of Dublin’s northside barking encouragement (and the occasional piece of constructive criticism) to my three boys for a significant number of years to come and who knew what lay ahead, Croke Park, Lansdowne Road, perhaps even Anfield! Plus I knew all about boys and the issues that surrounded them, for I too had been a boy and that was bound to stand me in good stead even with millennials or whatever their generation will be called! In my mind the parenting boots were well and truly hung up (well at least my newborn parenting boots). My last nappy had been changed and sleep patterns were now returning to normal.

Then two years ago something changed. Ella arrived into our lives in a rapid fashion with a labour of less than an hour. She wasn’t quite as speedy as Lochlan who necessitated a wheelchair-pushing dash to the delivery ward (think the sprint finish at the end of a wheelchair race but with more corners) but still it was clear she was anxious to get into the outside world. Bloody hell I had a daughter, how was I going to deal with that? At first she seemed pretty similar to the boys, well except she had a lot more pink stuff, but it was only when she reached a year that I started to notice some key differences. First of all she was much more relaxed about getting around the place. All the others were up and about by 13 months, Ella just seemed content to crawl, bum-shuffle or even just sit still until well past 18 months. Now this may have been because she had three older siblings who constantly brought her stuff or were quite simply happy to entertain her, but there was definitely something chilled out about her. She also quickly figured out how to rap me around her little finger, she has big blue eyes and a winning smile, even at her tender age she knows how to use them. Things which I would have come down on the boys quite severely, like drawing with crayons on the dining table or unraveling all the toilet rolls, were waved away as an artistic whim when Ella did it. A little giggle, or a big smile or heaven forbid a hug would have me turned to mush in a heartbeat!

I can also say that my bond with Ella (and with it her influence over me) has grown in the last six months since I have had the opportunity to stay at home and care for her. I can honestly say that the hours we share together after the conclusion of the constantly manic daily school drop-offs are simply joyous. Whether it is sharing my toast with her, reading a book to her or just having her on my lap while we watch one of her dvds together, there is kind of a zen like calmness that comes over me while I am in her company. Now I’m not saying she doesn’t have her crazy moments and an unusual fascination with toilet paper, but she is definitely more helpful than the boys. She likes to tidy up, in fact she gets annoyed when there is a mess, this could not be further removed from her three siblings whose rooms can often resemble the deck of the Titanic just before it goes to its watery grave! Furthermore she likes to be of assistance whenever I do some house-work (it does occasionally happen) particularly when it comes to loading and unloading the dish-washer.

Ella also has a level of empathy far in excess of anything her brothers have ever managed. For example if she sees that one of the boys has been hurt (which happens quite frequently and self inflicted more often not) she will immediately go over and give him a kiss and then follow up by going to the freezer to try and retrieve an ice-pack! Last but not least she has incredible manners and will say “welcome” after I have thanked her for something, now bear in mind that this is a concept that I often struggle to use.

So now I am gladly converted to pinkness, rainbows and the invasion of the unicorns. I’m sure Ella will always be happy-go-lucky and glad to hang out with her old man! Teenage years are miles away anyway and I have her three older brothers to help me through those!

As a special bonus feature Ella also likes to kick a ball, talk about a win-win!

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Bring Your Knowledge With You

I have been a stay-at-home Dad for just over five months now which is a relatively short period when compared to my 21 years in financial services. So how do my skills as a corporate banker, particularly one who was involved in debt restructurings, translate when it comes to looking after four kids under the age of ten? Well you might think there is not much crossover between the two but actually there is quite a bit that I have been able to draw on.

God how I hated acronyms when I worked in the bank. It seemed that every day brought some new found way for people to try to show you they knew more than you did. Oh you don’t know what IGMMKTY stands for, well it stands for I’ve Got Marginally More Knowledge Than You and I’m going to let you know all about it! Having said that one acronym does stand above the rest particularly when dealing with the behaviour (or lack thereof) of young boys. So I am still SMART (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic, Time-bound) when setting goals for my kids. Every morning we go through the ritual of assessing each of my sons’ “performance” during the previous day under the categories of (i) morning, (ii) food, (iii) bedtime and (iv) overall behaviour. Each category has the potential to receive one miniature pom-pom (my own patented arrangement) which makes four in a day and twenty-eight in a week (yet to be achieved by anybody). I also retain the ability to remove pom-poms for especially bad behaviour. I’m not sure if this is SMART but it does give me extra power!! Pom-poms are exchanged for hard cash (I was a banker after all) at the end of the week.

Another lesson I learnt from dealing with groups of men in dark suits (and it was predominantly men) was to try to keep trouble-makers away from each other. In every banking syndicate there are the naturally constructive members and on the other hand those who just like to cause trouble. In the slightly amended words of Batman’s wise butler Alfred “Some men (or seven year old boys) just want to watch the world burn”. Now it is possible to largely neutralise these malcontents by isolating them from the rest of the group, this is particularly important if there is another potential trouble-maker within the syndicate. I have used this technique multiple times when I see temperatures beginning to rise and sense the potential for conflict between my three boys. One of them will get a tap on the shoulder and be told that now is a good time for spending some alone time in their room. Despite the initial and normally quite exaggerated protests this normally does the trick. Although I really don’t see what the big issue with spending time alone in your room is, you would have thought it was solitary confinement in Alcatraz the way they react sometimes! Many a happy hour of my childhood was spent on my own, in my room devising adventures for my gang of star wars figures / matchbox cars / marbles / etc. I even once remember devising a football tournament for my chess set (a fit body enables a fit mind).

Probably the most important nugget of wisdom I have brought with me is that fatigue and hunger are your two worst enemies. Debt restructurings, particularly in the corporate sphere, can be pretty stressful without having to deal with external factors. I remember in one particularly urgent case being effectively locked in a Parisian meeting room with a bunch of other corporate bankers with no food or water while on the opposite side of the table our adversaries happily munched on croissants, pain au chocolats and croque monsieurs washed down with orangina, evian and I think I saw somebody with a bottle of Chateau Lynch-Bages, but I could have just been hallucinating by that point. Needless to say that when we emerged into the Parisian dawn it was not the most favourable deal. Controlling hunger and fatigue is even more important when dealing with young children. You can never have too many rice cakes, and I always need to assess how Ella’s naps will be affected by any given activity. Sure going for an Arnott’s shopping trip at 11am may seems like a good idea (minimal crowds) but get a cranky two year old on your case and the lack of queues at the Nespresso counter seem much less important!

So the transition has been by no means seamless but not as big a change of scenery as you might imagine. There are actually quite a few similarities although I do get more hugs and kisses from my kids, well except maybe in French restructurings where the kissing pre and post meeting can be exhausting!

 

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Food Inglorious Food

For me by far the most difficult part of the stay-at-home Dad job has been anything related to food. I actually used to quite enjoy cooking and when I was a carefree bachelor I would take it as a challenge to rustle something up from whatever was in the fridge and / or kitchen cupboards. I normally took a fairly laissez-faire approach to ingredients, not bothering with boring things like weighing scales or recipe books in general.

My favourite cooking implement was a wok and everything and anything would go in there. Results could be mixed but it was generally edible and more often than not quite tasty. I had a few stock meals; pasta bolognese, tagliatelle carbonara, a chicken in soy sauce and mashed potato dish and anything involving Uncle Ben’s sauces. I thought that I would be able to draw on this well to keep the kids satisfied while recognising that avoiding processed food was essential i.e. so long Uncle Ben. Sadly I was very much mistaken.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. I myself had been a very fussy eater as a child. My vegetable (singular) of choice was the carrot and if there was even a hint of anything else in my food such as onions, mushrooms, garlic or god help us, celery I would practically roll myself up into a ball and start rocking. My dad used to call me “the surgeon” due to my obsessive removal of items from my meals. To be fair to my kids, they are actually much better than that and will accept vegetables in small doses, preferably if they have been chopped up so thoroughly that they can’t be detected by the human eye! What I did not expect was the rigidity with which they stuck to their mother’s recipes. My first encounter with this was when I was a bit too liberal with the rosemary when trying to recreate Niki’s pasta chorizo dish. “What are all these little bits in the meal daddy? They’re disgusting! Mommy never had them in the meal! Did you even peel the chorizo?” Now what is this about, who in their right mind peels chorizo? According to my research certainly not the Spanish! I have tried to push back against this crazy practise but to no avail so I have to add an extra 10 minutes into my prep time for chorizo peeling! One of the other things I have had to get used to is the weighing scales as I have found to my cost that any slight deviation from the acceptable proportions can lead to wide-scale revolt. Whereas if I can demonstrate that I have stuck to the letter of the recipe complaints are easier to swat aside.

I have tried to broaden the kids menu by dipping in and out of various recipe books to be found in the local library, however this has been met with stiff resistance and while myself and  Niki (my wife) quite enjoyed the pea and leek frittata the kids were not so keen and to say they were hostile towards my chicken with sesame oil stir fry would be an understatement, I think it was Lochlan who said “this is the worst meal ever!” His facial expression was very similar to Calvin from Calvin & Hobbes whenever he was at the dinner table.

So I have had to settle for becoming an expert / proficient in the six or seven stock recipes that Niki has built up and ingrained into my children over the years. I do occasionally indulge myself with the aforementioned chicken in soy sauce with mashed potato but every time I do it I’m quickly put back in my box. Support from Niki isn’t forthcoming either as the recipe belonged to an ex-girlfriend. I guess I should know better!

So I have learnt to quickly shut down the “what’s for dinner?” questions with “it’s your mother’s recipe and I’m cooking it exactly the same way that she cooks it”.

Don’t get me started on the food for lunch-boxes!