Dia daoibh mo chairde! I’ve just returned from my annual pilgrimage to my homeland to 1) ensure my 6 year old can brush up on his “Oirish”, which usually involves him saying “dia dhuit” to random strangers who invariably say “whah”? and him saying “howya”, 2) provide said child with ample opportunity to inform the aforementioned strangers that he’s Anglo Oirish but that he feels “more Oirish than English” (see Pete McCarthy’s hilarious book, “McCarthy’s Bar”, for more Anglo Irish angst and, 3) stock up on items from The Dunnes Stores Homeware range. Where else would you get door stops filled with ammonite rock in the shape of a leprechaun. For 5 Euro?
The day before I left for Ireland a piece I wrote was published in The Independent. It marked the 20th anniversary of the Rwanda genocide, as well as highlighting the current genocide in Darfur. It was scathing of the UN’s failure to learn from its mistakes. Cue a barrage of abuse and threats. Whilst supping on a pint of the hard shhstuff and enjoying a chin wag in a local watering hole, a relative commented on the minefield that is my chosen profession. But, the truth be told, the hardest thing I’ve ever done was becoming a parent. It’s a rare day when I can kick back my heels and pat myself on the back for a job well done. Invariably, the Mother Mary Consumpta, Ignacious, of the holy child of Jesus, voice in my head bellows, “shite, shite, shite. Must try harder. Shite”.
Since an incendiary device was planted in my head on the day of my first holy communion (guilt), it’s hard to shake off the proclivity for self reproachment. Especially when it comes to being a mammy. However, on my recent pilgrimage to Knock (the airport as opposed to the shrine itself….) I came across a little gem that has proved to be the missing link in my arsenal of parental armoury. You won’t find it in any of those nauseatingly “knowing” and judgemental parenting books in WHSmiths. This nugget of wisdom was wrapped up in a beautiful Irish poem that I had known as a child but since forgotten. It’s “Subh Milis” by Seamus O'Neill.
"Bhí subh milis, Ar bhaschrann an dorais, Ach mhúch mé an corraí, Ionam d'éirigh, Mar smaoinigh mé ar an lá, A bheas an baschrann glan, Agus an láimh bheag, Ar iarraidh." ("There was jam on the door handle, but I suppressed the anger that rose up in me, because I thought of the day that the door handle would be clean, and the little hand would be gone.")
So, now, when my child is, I don’t know, lassoing an OAP with his Bob the Builder belt in the middle of the spirits isle at Aldi, instead of pretending he’s not mine (God forbid) whilst making a frenzied B line for the nearest exit with a bottle of Paddys in one hand and an own brand chocolate gateaux in the other, I simply take a deep breath, think of the jam on the door handle and all the guilt inducing rage evaporates from my being. Then, I pretend he’s not mine and make a calm, composed B line for the nearest exit.
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