Tag Archives: Sharyns’ Hillllarrrrious (!) Blog

A Model Vagina

We moved house last year and haven’t had great luck with finding a new family GP. The first one we tried out was a bit silly – the doctor for my antenatal care, plus those first couple of new baby visits was located up not one, but two very narrow flights of stairs. Whatever about dragging my heavily pregnant and dementedly overdue ass up there, expecting a new mum to haul her broken lady bits AND the baby in the wretched car seat (what is the situation with them being made of lead?) is criminal.

Then, of course, there was the time they charged me €90 for a fifteen-minute visit with Eva because I also asked them to sneak a peek at a rash on the back of Jacob’s knee. The reluctant toddler probably let them take a look at it for all of a second – ok, maybe two seconds, but did it warrant charging this new mother an extra €45? It did in its hoop.

So we moved to GP Number Two and I had it on good advice that this one was very family-friendly, had an open door, no-appointment-necessary policy and that they used their discretionary fee-charging powers with caution. I said ‘Brava! Sign us up’.

Our first visit was for one of Eva’s vaccinations. It went fine; I asked the nice lady doctor if she would check Eva’s chest while we were there as she’d had a constant cough, and she obliged. We left reassured that nothing sinister was at work.

Our second visit was for Eva’s next vaccination. Again, all fine, and when I brought up the cough (which was still lingering months later), I had a prescription for a baby-adapted inhaler somewhat flung at me. Mmmm…sure I let it go. Maybe she was stressed, maybe someone puked directly onto her shoes that morning just as she was leaving the house, you know?

I had one final question for Lady Doctor, since I was there and all, so I chucked it in.

‘And one last thing’ I ventured.

‘Did you want to have a consultation?’ Lady Doctor snapped.

‘I, er…what?’

‘I mean, I am happy to do Eva’s vaccinations and everything, but if you need a consultation, I will book you in.’

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I’m about to have a confrontation with someone who is in a position of ‘higher authority’ or ‘greater status’ than I, I like to try to look the part. I like to look like I can match them, that I can whip out some jargon from my legal studies diploma or my years in customer service and deliver it with force and a full face of make up. Unfortunately, on THIS day, I was wearing ‘that’ tracksuit (you know the one), hadn’t a scrap of make up on and hadn’t slept in…what is it now, oh yeah, three years.

Anyway, you get it. She was in head-to-toe professional garb and was giving me grief, and I looked like an extra from Shameless. But on this day, I dunno, I wasn’t really having it.

‘Oh I’m sorry’ I responded. ‘I actually just had a question but did you want me to pay you in advance for it?’ (I know, eek!)

Strangely enough, Doctor Lady was taken aback enough to backtrack a bit, and started mumbling and stuttering that I should go ahead and ask her that question.

No, no, I protested, getting my fleece on (it goes perfect with the tracksuit and is has the added benefit of being baby-stain-removal-friendly), I’d go back out to reception and make an appointment and schedule my question in.

No, no, no, she insisted, go on.

‘I was just going to ask your advice on the Mirena coil?’ I shrugged. ‘But it’s grand, another time’.

I was halfway out the open door, car seat on one dead arm, wailing just-vaccinated-baby in it, trying to keep my dignity whilst noticing that my tracksuit bottoms had what looked like a piece of encrusted Rusk stuck to the hem.

‘The coil!’ she trilled, ‘of course, no problem’. And, as if by magic, she whipped out a cardboard cutout vagina and started spewing out all sorts of information on how the coil is inserted etc. I couldn’t tell you a word of what she said, because I was genuinely trying to suppress my giggles.

I would nearly have changed doc a third time, but for that panicked cardboard-cutout-vagina display alone….I totally forgive her. What a comeback ;o)


***This article first appeared on the HerFamily.ie Website***

***Going on hols this year? Bringing the kids? ARE YOU SURE? Read THIS first!!***

Infant-induced alcoholism

My name is Sharyn Hayden and my baby makes me drink…

You know, before I had Jacob and became a mammy, I used to like to party. Oh, and dance. I used to love to dance. I’d be that girl, who was still up at 7am at a party in Ibiza, dancing my ass off, while all the others who had gone to the trouble of taking energy-promising drugs were fading in crumpled heaps on balconies, clutching on to the crotch of their pvc hotpants for dear life. (There was a lot of pissing of oneself in those days). Eventually, lonely and exhausted in my quest for dance floor company, I would head for bed… somewhere around the same time that the respectable residents of Ibiza were bringing their children to school. I had long discovered that a gay man who has taken 3 pills and smoked several million joints during the early hours of the dawn, was the perfect bedfellow in this type of situation and would locate one to crash beside. 1. No fear of them waking up for at least 10 hours. 2. No fear of them risking a sneaky hand-down-the-pants. Try it and see, kiddos.

Although in my late teens when Ecstacy hit our streets, I never took it. Firstly, I was paranoid that as someone who had had (extremely mild) asthma as a child, I would most likely be the one who died from taking their first half a pill. Then there was the vanity: I just didn’t really like the monged look my friends wore when we were out clubbing but wanted instead to be ‘sexy dancer girl’ on the POD dance floor. Not that any of the guys who were off their faces on pills noticed anyway, and I remained both drug-free and single until my late 20s.

However, drinking was my thing! I loved the ole hooch – pints of Guinness, rum and cokes, cocktails, wine, whatever I could get my hands on. Booze has contributed to countless great conversations that I may or may not ever remember, dance floor madness, outrageous sexual encounters with ridiculous people, sing songs, rows, meeting new friends, and on one occasion; a broken ankle. Oh there was that time I got tequila poisoning too… that was a difficult Day After, let me tell you.

But now that I’ve had my son Jacob, my previously happy relationship with booze has gone awry, and there are two major areas of concern that I’d like to share with you. The first is that it would appear that I’ve lost the nack: If I sit down to watch a movie with Ass Monkey after say, 9pm when Jacob has gone to bed and get a glass of wine into me; I can be guaranteed to be asleep by 9.45. Guaranteed. It would seem that the energy of yesteryears’ Ibiza days are long gone. I’ve thought this through and have concluded that the thoughts of dealing with a frightened or distressed child during the night with the ‘Mammy’s Had A Few’ head, doesn’t quite sit well with my moral conscience. It’s a sad and sorry day that I have to say this to you but: it would appear that I’ve grown up.

Unless. Unless my mother takes the baby overnight and promises to drive him back herself, but not until lunch time the next day. Then, as witnessed two weeks ago at a gig in The Sugar Club, I figure that I’m ‘free’ of the baby and any recollection of being a parent goes out the window, as I proceed to lose the fucking run of myself altogether. To paint you a picture of the flashbacks I have been having: I fondled young boys bums; young women’s boobies; I ate sour jellies til they were coming out my ears; I met my friends brother-in-law and couldn’t remember his name; I confused another friends’ baby daddy with someone else entirely; I offered to officiate at a lesbian’s wedding as Shazwanda (erm, because they won’t want a classy affair?!); and worst of all – I flashed my arse to everyone at the venue.

That’s right. This ‘respectable’ mother put on a little sexy show for everyone, and if the photo evidence on Facebook is anything to go by, my descent into Girls Gone Wild territory was gratefully received and everything, but I am mortified. By 4am, Ass Monkey and I were in DiFontaines Pizzeria on Parliament Street, where they were having what can only be described as the coolest disco where pizza is served, ever. People were shoving slices of pepperoni and cheese into them and bouncing around to the latest Rihanna. ‘It’s like being in Ibiza, baby! Wooo!’ I screamed as I ordered my slice and joined the party. I’m pretty sure I could have danced til 7am…

I have literally been ill from this one night for the past two weeks. For the first seven days afterwards, I couldn’t drink a hot drink because my throat was on fire. Somewhere around Thursday, I remembered the Jaegar Bombs. Somewhere around the second week, photos of my stripper ass started circulating around the internet. If I was still 23 and working in Planet Hollywood, this wouldn’t be so bad, but now on top of The Fear, I have the Mammy Guilts too. If Jacob was at home or if I had had to collect him myself the next day, I would never have gone so bananas. In fact, if I was still a single girl and there was no Ass Monkey or Jacob, I wouldn’t have gone so bananas. The idea that I was ‘free’ for 24 hours prompted this completldness that I had to entertain, and subsequently fucked myself and my body over for weeks.

All in all, I’m blaming Jacob.




The Sugar Club, Dublin

The Sugar Club, Dublin