The idea was born from my ongoing understanding that the welfare of family – and in particular, mammies – is completely neglected in Ireland.
Being a part of wonderful support networks such as Irish Parenting Bloggers has meant that I have gotten to hear and absorb the most important message that all mums need to hear; ‘Look after yourself and you can look after everyone else’.
It’s so true. Rather than push myself to my limits as I previously did, and risk being too stressed out to be the best mum I can be around my kids, I make sure to treat myself as much as I can.
I take a nap if I’m wrecked, I get cover and hoof up a hill or two for an hour if I’m uptight & I get into the bath with a face or hair mask as much as I can.
This is why we developed ‘Mum’s Box’ – because being kind to ourselves as mums is a learned thing. We need to help each other remember that we deserve simple treats such as a cuppa and a slice of cake or a nice new lipstick!
To subscribe to Mum’s Box is €20 for a once-off box & there are reductions for multiple subscriptions available.
We’re sending beauty products, amazing skincare items, sweet treats and a novelty trick or two to keep smiles on those mum’s faces.
The difference between us and other beauty boxes is that we are dedicated to providing a support network to mum’s – a cheerleading team who will send positive messages and helpful information on parenting in every box.
There is a 50% discount for our gorgeous Raising Ireland readers – just enter ‘PRELAUNCH’ at the checkout.
I say lucky in that she had a mild concussion, we went to hospital and she has come out the other side ok.
Every time she and her brother start to mess together now, i am terrified for her; I don’t want it to happen again and am seriously considering popping a helmet on her from morning to night.
We won’t do that, obviously, but it is that thing that we are always concerned about with our little ones isn’t it? Don’t bump your head, don’t bump your head, don’t bump your head…
Eva’s preschool are running a fundraiser tomorrow night for an almost four-year-old boy named James Higgins who was not so lucky with a head injury last year.
Just shy of his third birthday party, he fell at a playground and banged his head.
What happened in the next 24 hours is every parent’s worst nightmare – their gorgeous James is now rehabilitating and wheelchair bound following a blood clot and other complications.
I will let James’ grandad tell you the story in his own words:
James Higgins was 1 month short of his 3rd birthday when the accident happened on the 2nd of December 2015. His grandmother and I had taken him to collect his brother, Liam, from school. On the way home we decided to visit the playground. We were only a few minutes there when James fell on the all-weather pitch and hurt his head. What seemed innocuous enough at the time later turned into a nightmare. Within the next two and a half hours his condition worsened and we called an ambulance to take him to Temple St. Children’s Hospital where he underwent emergency surgery to remove a clot on his brain. He was subsequently moved to intensive care where he spent the next three weeks in a coma. Over the next six months James’s condition fluctuated with bouts of pneumonia and flu. At the end of May 2016 he was moved to the National Rehabilitation Hospital for further treatment and rehabilitation. At this stage he was unable to walk or talk and his left eye was partially closed. A recent brain scan has revealed that he will never have the use of his left eye. Obviously James needs 24 hour care and still attends the National Rehabilitation Hospital four days a week in a specially adapted taxi. At the weekends his Mum and Dad, Jean and Kevin, and his brother take him out for walks in his wheelchair but outings are limited to this as they have no other means of transporting him. When Brenda heard about James’s plight she offered to carry out some fundraising events so that James’s Mum and Dad can purchase a specially adapted car, which would make a significant difference to the family’s quality of life. A big thank you from James and all his family. Michael Conroy (James’s Grandad)
Eva’s preschool are helping to raise funds for a specially adapted car for James and his family promise to bring him to visit the children at Bizzy B’s when he (fingers crossed) gets it.
There will be a charity auction hosted by yours truly in The Drop Inn in Rush at 8pm and I hope some of my Rush friends reading this might make it along.
If you have any prizes or items for auction please contact Brenda Lattimore on 0872487445 or if you would like to make a cash donation, please contact me and I will point you in the right direction.
I know you join me in sending love and best wishes for little James and his family, and I hope to see you tomorrow night x
Concussion. That’s why. Your two-year-old daughter’s potential concussion. Fml.
‘Twas a morning that was going well, last Tuesday.
Ass Monkey left for work early, the kids and I had brekkie, cleaned up and got back upstairs to get dressed without any major upsets.
The calm in itself should have been warning enough that something disastrous was about to happen.
With both of my little ones dressed and the ole ‘Hands, face and teeth’ routine complete, I ushered them to my room and stuck the TV on while I had my own shower.
“Don’t jump on the bed” I warned. We had gotten a new base for the bed the previous week and the kids had been enjoying testing it’s durability by bouncing on it, off it, over it and all around it.
“Jacob, you are the Chief of Not Bouncing On The Bed until mammy gets back. I’ll be two minutes. Watch Diego”.
He wasn’t really convincing me that he was listening so I chucked out my instructions another 17 times before leaving for the bathroom.
“Don’t jump on the bed. Don’t jump on the bed. Don’t jump on the bed”.
I was in the shower all of 30 seconds when Jacob came in, crying.
They had been jumping on the bed, he said, and had bashed heads.
He looked so scared that I ran, soaking and in my nip, to my room where Eva was crying that kind of a cry where you know something has gone really wrong.
She’s normally a tough little thing but on that Tuesday morning, she wouldn’t stop crying and wouldn’t let me put her down either. It was some job trying to get the suds off and get myself dressed.
On the way back from dropping Jacob to school Eva vomited all over herself in the back of the car so I did an instant detour to the doctor’s surgery. Bang on the head + vomit = not a great situation.
Our local GP was great – he saw her immediately and said she had a mild concussion, to administer Calpol and Nuerofen for the pain in her head and to monitor her for the next couple of days.
Ass Monkey and I got zero sleep that night – between just being worried about her generally (I slept beside her in her bed) and her own inability to sleep (concussion can throw out a sleep pattern for a few days), it was one long night.
She seemed pretty ok the next day and went to preschool who said she was fine aside from a slight spike in temperature. She had also taken a little nap and we put that all down to the lack of sleep the night before.
That evening we were out shopping for a shirt and tie for my dad for the wedding and went for a bite to eat afterwards. Our childminder called just towards the end of the meal; Eva had thrown up twice.
We were in the city centre so zoomed back to North County Dublin to grab her and take her to Temple Street.
The staff in the hospital are absolutely fantastic and we discovered while we were there that not only did Eva have the concussion from the day before but also has a urinary tract infection (UTI) which was the cause of the temperatures and the vomiting.
That kid was having a SHIT week.
We all got home and into bed at around 5 am armed with a dose of antibiotics and pain killers and had another couple of rough days (and nights!) after that where her temperature still spiked every few hours.
She’s back to herself as of around Monday or Tuesday this week and I’m only short of putting a helmet on the kid to keep her little head safe.
I haven’t had a shower without either Alan being around to keep an eye on them or with her having a nap since. That’s the end of that!
(My advice if your kid bumps their head? Take absolutely no chances – take them to the doc straight away and into hospital if you suspect anything is awry).
**Read More On The Signs Of Concussion On The HSE Website**
My skin has been a bit of a problem since, oh.. FOREVER.
I am of that 30% of the population in Ireland that suffers with psoriasis and eczema and wishes there was a cure other than being told to ‘try not to stress’ (gah!) and ‘have you tried sunbeds?’ (gerrup outta that).
My flair-ups have been particularly bad twice in my life thus far: the year I sat my Leaving Cert and had a part-time eating disorder was one and the second is now.
Or, more accurately, since Ass Monkey asked me to marry him.
I’M SAYING NOTHING.
Anyway I’ve been ignoring it somewhat and hoping it will go away by osmosis but I found myself in trouble at the beginning of this week when I woke up to find angry and swollen patches all up and down my arms and chest.
In fact they were SO sore that I thought I had the shingles so I popped off to the doc.
‘Dermatitis’ says he. ‘Is there a chance that you could be pregnant?’
WTF.
‘No’.
‘But if you got pregnant would it be the end of the world for you?’
Silence. He stares at me and I stare at him. He wants me to pee into a jar and now I don’t want to in case he knows something I don’t know. Are swollen armpits a new pregnancy symptom that I haven’t heard of yet?
I peed in the jar. Aside from acute dehydration there was nothing to worry about, especially Knocked-up-itis.
(Note to self: discuss The Snip with Ass Monkey)
Dr. Drama prescribed steroids for the week anyway to get the dermatitis under control and we’ll head for blood tests next week to see if there’s anything else going on.
Anything else, besides, you know, wedding.
Having not ever been on steroids until now, I can tell you it’s not an experience I’d like to repeat. I’m wrecked but fucking wired all week. Double-wrecked with a crazy constant impulse to clean everything, if you know what I mean.
Here are the 7 likely outcomes for you if you ever find yourself popping 8 steroids a day for any reason:
You won’t sleep. Well, not really. You will really, really want to sleep because you know that you need it but when you get to bed, you will lie in bed awake and think about all the things you should have said to that bitch in school when you were 15 until 3 am.
You will agree to mad shit. Like to throwing a random dinner party at 6 pm on a Wednesday. Which makes no sense because YOU HAVE KIDS.
You’ll be aggro. I’m a bit shouty-snappy at the best of times but The Snap has been strong this week. I had to get out of the house and hoof up and down a hill on Friday to shake off the excess negative energy. I probably should have joined a professional swim team for the week.
You’ll be hungry. I have a good appetite but I couldn’t STOP eating this week which isn’t great when your wedding is in 6 weeks and you’ve been sooo good up until now. #theresalwaysmonday
You’ll go to award ceremonies. Well I’d most likely go to an award ceremony even if I wasn’t on steroids (who wouldn’t!!) but you especially run when your book has been nominated for an award AND you’re on steroids. And when you don’t win, you feel fine because YOU’RE HIGH AS A KITE ANYWAY.
You’ll attend hen parties and not even drink. I did. I did that yesterday. And I even drove a few people home afterwards. Who needs cocktails any more huh?!
You’ll sort shit out like a boss. The house is clean, we finally have curtains, even the bastarding ironing is done. I literally couldn’t sit down, not even for a second.
If I thought the little pillies wouldn’t make me need a second wedding dress by December, I might even consider staying on them.
For more on matters of health and wellbeing, read on!
We have a busy, messy house and white tiled floors to go with it. BRILLIANT COMBO. We have our dog, Pearl, who drags who-knows-what through the house on her paws, we have four year old Jacob, who loves the combination of muck and water probably more than anything else in this world, we have one year old Eva, who likes to fire porridge, peas, biscuits, spaghetti – you name it – from the height of her high chair onto whatever she can hit below. Then we have Daddy Alan, Mr. Engineer who comes home from work covered head to toe in dust and dirt from a busy day at Dynamic Cater Care. Part of the work uniform is a pair of humongous work boots that he likes to keep on him until he gets up the stairs to get changed…..don’t mention the war.
Then there’s me, I am a hoarder of bits of paper; bills, receipts, newspaper clippings, recipes on the backs of envelopes, things that I’m working on or things that I’m hoping to get a read of ‘later, when I get a sec’. On a whim, I’ll decide to sort out the attic and drag half of it’s contents onto the landing below, only to be called away by a crying child, a dash to the school, or a call at the door, and I might not get back to it for weeks…..don’t mention Alan’s war with me ;o)
Laundry has taken over our lives. It’s everywhere, it’s unruly; you think you have it under control until the day you open the hot press door and it physically attacks you, the bastard.
‘Have I any work t-shirts?!’ Alan will call from upstairs, just as I’m eyeing the damp pile of washed clothes that he has taken from the washing machine the night before, and casually dumped on the floor by the back door.
‘Oh you have’, I’ll call back. ‘But the magic laundry fairy didn’t intercept their neglect and get them up onto the clothes horse to dry so it’s another topless day for you, darling. I shall inform the neighbour to get their camera phones out when you’re ready to leave the house.’
There has been great chats this week online about how much housework we all do, and how we keep on top of it. I know I could spend every single minute of the day on housework and laundry if I so chose to, and I still wouldn’t want anyone to drop in ‘just yet’. There would always be one more thing that would make it better, isn’t there? If I could just get to wash down those seat covers…if I could just quickly wipe down the kitchen windows…if I could just Fabreeze the smell of stale milk out of this room…..
And the thing is, it’s so BORING, isn’t it? I know it has to be done, and no one wants to look like they’re living in squalor, but we’ve got to sort of get a grip. I mean, who are we really doing it for? I know I’m not cleaning the house for Alan’s benefit, because he never notices (although he does like to tip the cleaning staff in hotels ‘for doing such a great job’ – *coughs*. He could easily owe me 74 thousand euros in back payments at this point).
I definitely keep the floors clean for Eva’s sake – she is walking and everything now, but she still lands on her bum quite a bit and still plays with her toys not he floor, so that gets done every day for her. But the rest? The dressing the beds first thing and the scrubbing stains off walls and door handles and rearranging shit that does not need to be rearranged and the power hosing of the fooking high chair??? Ok, the high chair is completely manky, not even the power hose is sorting that shit out…. but who is it for? For myself? To prove my worth as a woman and a mother and a home owner? But who really cares?
The answer is: nobody. Nobody cares. Sure, someone will notice if you’ve got a pile of dirty nappies sitting in the corner of the living room, or if the contents of your jacks should carry a health warning so let’s not go there. But let’s try this: why not cut your time spent sorting out your house every day IN HALF this month. Just do it. And spend the other half making Witches Hats with ice cream cones and melted chocolate instead.
Which you will then have to clean up after. Oh I see your point.
The clever and sexy people at Durex magically knew two things about me this week, 1: that I am off on holidays very soon and, 2: that I have decided not to have any more babies (more of that later). And so they sent all of this to my house:
I have an extremely nosy postman, as in, he sometimes looks at me expectantly at the door as I sign for parcels as if I’ll open it in front of him, or declare ‘Oh I know what this is! It’s the BROS back-catalogue I’ve been waiting for!!’ (As if I’d share that kind of excitement with anyone…)
Anyway, he lived another day without embarrassment at my hands. I mean, I’m not embarrassed about condoms, lube and massage oil, but you’d be surprised how uncomfortable I might get unwrapping them in front of the local postie. One who knows my da..
Anyhoo, as one is not currently on the pill (and we all know what kind of situations I get myself into under those circumstances), I was thrilled to receive my stash and I fully intend on using it!*
And guess what? Oh yes, that’s right, they’ve offered to send another stash to one lucky, soon-to-be-sexed-up reader of Raising Ireland in a giveaway! All you have to do to enter is:
(*Disclaimer: If I get pregnant on holidays, I promise not to hold Durex responsible. Mortified explanations will no doubt appear in the next book: ‘I Forgot To Bring My Condoms: An Honest Diary Of A Third-time Mum’ ;o) )
We visited Loughshinny beach a couple of weeks ago, that’s in North County Dublin for all you who are unfamiliar. It’s a five minute drive from our house, and we’ve managed to get there twice in total this, er, ‘summer’. Eva was still getting over the chicken pox so we weren’t staying too long – it was more an effort to get us out of the house than anything.
The beach is so small that I knew we could get away with not bumping into too many people who might stare at us in that judgemental way they do, because it looks like there’s something wrong with your kid. Alan said he had it with Jacob in the playground when he just finished with the chicken pox too, and was still covered in spots – parents looking at Jacob, then back to Alan, then back to Jacob, then, you know, moving away...
It has occurred to me though, that most parents understand that when the spots are out, it means that the contagious part is generally over. (I know this is gross, but essentially, when they’ve crusted over, you’re in the clear). And so I wondered if perhaps the paranoia is our own? Maybe those parents are looking at us with sympathy, because they’ve been in our shoes, because they know what we’ve been through. Maybe they’ve moved away to go and write down the name of some excellent cream that will help with the scarring from those bastarding spots, and we just didn’t hang around long enough to get it. Right? YEAH RIGHT.
But there was a woman at the beach that day, the day I brought my heavily spotty post-pox child, and my mildly spotty post-pox child. And that women had a son with her who was severely disabled. And she was blowing bubbles into the air for him and he was delighted and made all of these very loud, very happy noises.
And I looked, and I smiled, and I walked away. And I want that woman to know: I wasn’t staring to be a judgmental other mother: I was staring because I thought that you were the best mother I had seen that day. You rock.
I have been spending a lot of time with my dad lately. I mean, it’s kind of hard not to, what with him being the financial advisor for our company, and our moving house to right around the corner from him last year.
Aside from that, he had a knee replacement operation almost six weeks ago and part of his recovery is to get out for short walks. Guess what the distance is from his house to mine? That’s right, a short walk. So we’ve been having a lot of lunches and chats.
Yesterday, we were talking about his upcoming six-week check up this coming Friday and how he mistakenly assumed he’d be miles more along in his recovery by now. In the lead up to the operation, all of the medical staff he was dealing with kept mentioning this magical ‘six weeks recovery’ that he took on board very literally. He thought he’d be dancing around with his brand new knee by now, back driving, cycling etc. But the truth is, that notion could be quite another few weeks away. In fact, he got himself online and read a few forums where other people said it took them six months to a year before experiencing complete recovery and that seemed more realistic to him (I told him he should start a blog for his peers – ‘Tommy’s Knees Up’ anyone?!).
I think this realisation is probably the same for anyone who has just had a new baby. Everyone talks about this ‘six weeks’ mark after giving birth, that you’re suddenly supposed to feel ‘right’ by then, you’re physically recovered, you can get back to exercise, you have bonded with your baby and incorporated them into your daily lives at this point.
And I think that’s bollox. Eva is now a year old, and I am just getting back to normal. I am only this week back down to pre-baby weight (not necessarily pre-baby body, am signed up to some pilates classes for that!), I am just getting to put the baby car seat away and the formula away and moving on a bit to the next phase of her life where she progresses to a little wobbler. I feel like I am starting to open my eyes a bit and take stock of the craziness of the past year so that I can figure out where we are at. The house is upside down, my wardrobe and car and bags and office and computer and photo files are upside down, I haven’t seen enough of the girls or had much of a social life and I certainly haven’t had much time to myself to exercise or recharge. So I’m looking forward to getting on top of all of that, while enjoying the next stages that the kids are at. I’m looking forward to getting a little bit back to being me.
So if you’ve just had a baby and you’re busy wondering when you’re supposed to feel ‘normal’ again, don’t rush it. Give yourself a year, please do, a full year. Take more time if you want. Take all the time you please. But six weeks after giving birth? No way, it’s not nearly long enough x
Jacob had night terrors pretty consistently for about a year and a half – it started when he was maybe one-and-a-half to when he’d just turned three. If your kid has never experienced one, first of all, I hate your luck (!), but here’s what it means: You hear your kid crying 1-3 hours after they go to sleep, you go into their room to see if they need a drink or a wee, they start screaming in a possessed-like state and that carries on for anything from ten minutes to two hours. Screaming. Non-stop. Hitting you, lashing out, non-stop, while you wonder if everyone in your area has contemplated calling child services.
I read a lot about night terrors when we realised what we were dealing with and most articles said to sit somewhere nearby to make sure he wasn’t hurting himself, don’t wake him up and ride it out; that he’d grow out of it. So we did that, for a year and a half. We were absolutely shattered but without any real practical advice from anyone, we just sort of accepted it as our reality.
When Eva came along, the terrors got worse. I would just get Eva to sleep, and, hoping to catch some Z’s myself, Jacob would almost immediately kick off. He wouldn’t let Ass Monkey in the room with him at all when he was having an episode, I was the only one who he would scream the LEAST amount around. He was still screaming of course, just not as badly. Then his screams would wake Eva, she’d start crying agin, then I’d have to feed her, then because I hadn’t slept for fucking ages my breastfeeding was suffering and my brain was suffering and…we were all suffering.
Jacob’s night terrors stopped on account of one, all or none of these things happening (who can really say, they just stopped all of a sudden):
We contacted a €300 sleep therapist.
I started crushing half a tablet of camomile into his milk before bed.
My friend said a prayer to her deceased mammy for me.
We cut out his day time nap.
We re-instated his day time nap, but only for half an hour.
We started giving him milk and cookies before bedtime (he used to only want juice, a big dirty habit we’d gotten him into).
I moved Eva and her moses basket into our room with Daddy, because being awake for five hours on the trot with my two kids while he snored was not part of my life plan.
Did I mention the sleep therapist? Don’t worry, we didn’t pay the money in the end. But just like bringing a car with a ‘funny noise’ to the garage that disappears as soon as you get there, Jacob stopped having terrors THE DAY AFTER I sent my enquiry email.
Anyway, I came across THIS ARTICLE ON NIGHT TERRORS today from Lucie’s List, and I wish I’d seen it last year when we were in the thick of it. I haven’t tried the product, I haven’t a clue how it works, or if it works, but if you are dealing with a toddler who turns in to the Exorcist at 10pm every night like ours did, then I’m sure you’ll try anything too. Good luck!
