Little

I've made no bones about the fact that I have no idea whether I want kids or not. 

I go through phases when I do - when a family member has a baby and it's cherub-like features tug at my maternal heart-strings.

I go through phases when I don't - when that same family member's little angel turns in to an absolute little shit and progresses to ruin its own life and everyone else's. 

I mean, how could you live with that? 

Children themselves put me off really. I pass a primary school every morning on my way to school. I witness, first-hand, as mother/fathers send their little darlings off with kisses, cuddles and 'I love yous', only to get nothing in return. Not a goodbye. Not even a wave. Off they scamper into school - the ungrateful little prats. After that man/woman just woke you up, dressed you, wiped your cereal off your manky face, made sure you had all your crap for school and that you weren't late, and you basically give him or her two fingers at the gate. I don't care if you're four or five and can barely form a sentence: you tell your mammy or daddy you love them! Every single morning! There's many a child I have wished to kick for their cheeky behaviour - just think what I'd be like if one of my own did that!

The toys would wreck my head too - the noises, the flashing, the small parts which 'may be a choking hazard'. It's all well and good running around a toy shop when you're five or six or seventeen pressing all the 'Try Me!' buttons on every single toy in sight to annoy the shite out of every employee and customer. I can't imagine how amusing it would be being on the other side. I mean, there's only so many times you can hear Elmo sing a song before you want to punch him repeatedly in the head.

Little kids are strange. And grubby. Realistically, I'm not exactly one to talk here, as my clothes seem to attract stains, (and my hair food), but they really are dirty horrible creatures. A former friend of mine once had a three year old stick a lollipop in her hair. Having said that, she was manhandling the child like it was some sort of handbag, so, in hindsight, I don't really blame the little thing. She deserved it.

Scenarios have played out in my head of my little son or daughter having miserable lives. Being friendless weirdos and myself being able to do nothing about it (it's not as if I could be their bestfriend - can't imagine that would do much for their 'street cred'). I'm perfectly aware that I wouldn't be able to live their lives for them, but when I imagine circumstances like that, I almost wish I could. It would honestly kill me, and I would hold myself utterly responsible. When it boils down to, it is this fear that holds me back ultimately. 

But then there are other things ...

It's the little crayon house with the little crayon windows, proudly pinned to the fridge. Little crayon mammy and daddy stand outside, holding the child's slightly disproportional hands. Smiles on all their faces.

Little laughs, at the things you now consider insignificant. The 'peek-a-boo', the 'aeroplane', the bizarre children's TV shows with their cringey presenters. The very first joke they tell that isn't all that funny and makes little or no sense. You'll still laugh. Even when they say it over and over and over again. 

The ones that say those four little words that make you feel like the best person in the world - "I love you mammy".

Little hands. Little fingers. Little feet. Little toes. 

Little tears stream down little cheeks. Little smiles light up little faces.

Watching them go from 'little' to 'not-so-little', collecting memory after memory as you go.

After all, it's the little things in life that matter most, isn't it?

Version

One of these days, I'll write a list. A list that I already take with me everywhere I go - though not in the physical sense. It's a long list. Everyone has one of their own, I'm sure. They won't compare to mine though.

One of these days, I'll write a list of everything I wish I could change. It would take up reams and reams of paper: from my appearance, my traits, my words, my actions, my abilities. I'd look at it every day and ask myself:

What would it take to be the best version of myself?

To be honest, I have no idea. But I'd love to meet her. It would be like meeting someone famous. I would be gushing over her and hanging on her every word.

"How do you do it?" I'd ask her, "How can you be everything that I'm not?"

She'd have all the right words. She'd know exactly what to say at the exact time. She could comfort in you ways that I couldn't possibly manage.  She would never be afraid to speak, in fear of causing an argument or offending someone. She wouldn't run when she had no idea what to say. She would be open to everyone, and utterly transparent to you.

She would listen. And I mean, really listen. She'd remember everything about everyone to a tee. She'd concentrate on every single word that left your lips and made a point of never forgetting a detail. She would be conscientious and considerate.

She would be reasonable and fair. She'd know when she was wrong - and, more importantly, admit it. She would be gracious in defeat and realise that not everything's about her, or having it her way. She would understand the difference between selfless and selfish.

She would not be immature, nor would she allow herself to be controlled or hemmed in by her family, her peers, or anyone else. She would be her own person, while still effortlessly dividing her time between everyone. Everyone would love her.

She would be everything you want and more.

Everything that I am not.

"One of these days", I would tell her, "one of these days, I'll be just like you. I'll change myself for the better. The way I act. The way I behave. I can do it. It's easy. In fact, why have I waited until now to be the best version of myself and make everything better? I'll be a different. Just you wait".

And you know what her response would be?

She would laugh.

One of these days ...

G-string (*)

You don't realise how good you are when you play.

That's probably not very reassuring, coming from me - someone who likes shit music and can't recognise any of the songs you play. But you are. Trust me.

I love how passionate you are, and how much you immerse yourself in it. You fit the image of 'broody musician' to a tee, (I think you're aware of that yourself though, you cocky bastard).

I wish I could afford to buy you a new guitar, or your own piano to play when you've had too much to drink and you think you're Beethoven/Peter Griffin. They're bloody expensive though - I'll have to set up some kind of fund for you, my impoverished musical prodigy.

I'm about as useful to you as a guitar without a G-string -  but I'll always be listening. Always.

Trouble sleeping

A night is an eternity when you're dreaming of sleep. When you're thinking of the things you should have said & the things you shouldn't have done.
I watch as the hands cling to the clock, the slow rhythmic dance of the minute hand growing ever more torturous. I'm treading that fine line between exhaustion and immense sadness - when the choice between crying and sleeping is not only undistinguishable but unnecessarily difficult. My head is growing increasingly vacant of productivity and rationale, only to be topped up by neurotic thoughts.
I just want this night to fade and fall away, instead of lingering and insisting on keeping my perilous mind company.

It's just a phase.
It's just a phase.
It's just a phase.

Guidance

I need you to do something for me.

I know I ask a lot of you as it is. I can only hope that you will oblige me this on top of everything else.
I need direction. I need you to tell me - no, I need you to show me what to do, until I start getting things right. Until you do, I will only continue to falter and struggle with my decisions and actions.

It frustrates me that I have to ask for help; that I can't do things for myself without disaster following. I feel as young and naive as my short years. I would love to be as independent and sensible as I make out to be. But I'm not. Far from it.

You know what the most frustrating thing is? When I don't even realise that I'm doing things wrong. Which is almost all of the time. I continue to offend and hurt people with the decisions I make, and I am oblivious to the extent of the havoc I cause. I'm the idiot at the end of it all wondering why the hell everyone hates me.

I need you. You always know what to do and what to say. Always. You make good decisions. You have managed to navigate your way through life thus far without ruining everything you touch.
Is it really that easy? Is there something I'm missing here? Was I born without common sense? This elusive thing known as 'street smarts'? Greatly lacking in intuition? I am truly at a loss.

Some people flounder without guidance. I am one of those people. Show me the way, before I drown.

Treading water

As someone who has struggled with body issues growing up, I have tried almost every diet and exercise fad under the sun in order to obtain a somewhat satisfactory physique (I'll let you know if that ever happens). I know too much about calories and supposed weight-loss techniques than any average teenager should. Seriously, I cry watching The Biggest Loser - I'm pretty sure I have a problem

So, when my sister suggested I join her and her friend at an aqua aerobics class, I jumped at the chance. I won't bore you with jargon, but basically, it's supposed to be a great all-round workout, and I was just after eating an entire packet of biscuits ...

I would HIGHLY  recommend aqua aerobics for several reasons. Firstly, you will not have the misfortune of seeing any of your friends/schoolmates at the class, and will therefore not be ridiculed for the rest of your life for going to an aqua aerobics class. In fact, you'll probably be the youngest person there. By a country mile.

Secondly, if you're in any way self-conscious, rest-assured: this class will make you feel like a goddess. You are surrounded by overweight middle-aged women (and a man, in my case), in ill-fitting swimsuits, happily bobbing, jumping and running in the pool as if their lives depended it on it. Next to them, you will look like Mila Kunis.

Thirdly, you will more than likely find the whole affair bloody hilarious. Let me set the scene: you are in the pool, surrounded by said middle-aged women and man, following the instructor, while "Maniac" from the movie Flashdance plays loudly in the background. Just before the chorus starts, the instructor orders you to sprint as fast as you can. Now visualise this group of people sprinting like hamsters on wheels for the entire chorus. In water. Yeah. Exactly.

All jokes aside, it is quite tiring and you do work up a sweat; although the last class I went to, a man swam past me, wheezing, "You're far too young and fit to be here!"

So who knows - you might even pick yourself up a hot pensioner if you're lucky!

Home

There's something about hotel breakfasts that I love.


Maybe it's the lukewarm slices of toast smeared with those measly packets of butter, cut in to triangles to increase it's deliciousness. Maybe it's the wide array of fruit juices that would never be available to me in my own home, (it's water, milk or tea on offer, and you'd be lucky to get that even on a good day). Maybe it's those miniature boxes of cereal that contain barely enough cereal to feed a small rodent. Maybe it's the fact that you have to get up at the crack of dawn just to experience the whole affair - hotel breakfasts do NOT take hungover weddings guests or screaming children into consideration.

I love everything about hotels. Everything about them reminds me that I am currently on a micro-vacation away from the stupid people and stupid stresses of my everyday life. The unnecessary bedding in the rooms? Love it. The uncomfortable lift rides with fellow holiday-goers? Just another opportunity for me to act awkwardly around human beings. The poor selection of TV channels in the room? You're on holiday, why would you be watching TV anyway?

I have many childhood memories of staying in hotels with my family. On one occasion, I stayed up until all hours with my brother, watching WWE Wrestling. On another, I ran up and down the corridors of the hotel with my brazen cousins, knick-knocking on every door we passed. Ah. Those were the days indeed ...

Yet, I think you will all agree when I say the night's sleep you have when you finally arrive home, in your own bed, under your own excessive bedding, feels like the best night's sleep you ever had.  

An open book

I've been told that my mood is infectious.

In some ways, this is a very good thing: I've been told that I'm funny, and that I have a knack for cheering people up in their times of woe. I need a license for my laugh - very loud, boisterous, often left hanging in the air long after the conversation has ended.

However, my sister made a point to me the other night that, when I am upset or angry, it is apparent. Not only that, but it affects the people around me and rubs off on them, to the point where they are put in a foul mood. Infectious? Sounds more poisonous to me.

It is not my intention to labour people with my bad moods and my issues - not at all. I can't help it. I wish I wasn't so bloody transparent. Sometimes, I'd much prefer just to be left stewing with all my angry, hormonal thoughts, unbeknownst to anyone else, without disturbance,

There are benefits, mind. Even my least intuitive of friends knows when I'm sad or pissed off, (sometimes just by how I text them back), so they can talk to me and attempt to cheer me up, as opposed to the other way around. It's reassuring to know that I don't have to struggle with whatever anxieties I am dealing with alone.

Ever since I can remember, I have been a sensitive, (some may say 'overly'), soul. It doesn't take a lot to upset me. I have a bad habit of taking other people's problems to heart and trying to rectify them as though it were my own personal mission. Prioritising is most definitely NOT one of my strong points. I am easily stressed, and, admittedly, a lot of the grief I deal with is brought entirely on by myself. It has a dominoaffect - I try to help others, leads to me getting upset/stressed, which leads to me infecting everyone else in my household with my bad vibes.


 So technically, it's everyone else's fault I'm such an open book. Haha!

Party hard, suffer harder

You know how there's always that one idiot at a party who drinks their own weight in alcoholic beverages until they lose power over the limbs? Yeah. Last night, that was me.

It was my boyfriend's friend's birthday. I didn't know many people. There was drink in abundance. I was like a kid in a candy shop, with a pathetic point to prove. It was never going to end well.

Pacing myself didn't come into it - I drank whatever I saw as if it was water. Even after my boyfriend begged me not to drink any more, I went back and had more shots with my friends. I thought I was invincible. (I'm not going to say what exactly I drank and how much, just trust me when I say it was a ridiculous amount).

All actions have consequences. Next thing I know I can barely walk, and I am after puking all over myself, my dress, and my boyfriend. My boyfriend text my dad and told him I would be home in ten minutes. I was given a lift home off my friend's very obliging mother, and was sent in home, tail between my legs. My whole family watched me collapse into an armchair, make-up and tan smeared to hell, dress soaked in vomit - I can't imagine that was an easy thing to watch.

As my mam undressed me, (I kid you not), took off my make-up, and put me to bed, I remembered all these times when I was younger. Like how I couldn't go to sleep until her and dad came up and cuddled me and chatted for a bit. Or how my dad used to tie my shoes because I could never quite get the knack of it. Now here they were, their 16 year-old daughter almost passed out on the chair. Thinking of the position I put them in last night, I could not feel any more ashamed or remorseful. Having said that, it just goes to show how much my parents love me and how they really would do absolutely anything for me. Thankfully, they weren't too angry in the morning - just disappointed, which is probably worse.

There is no cross on my back. I am not writing this because I got caught. Realistically, I'd still hate myself either way. I can't imagine what I'd be like if someone did that at my party for one thing. I ruined my boyfriend's night, a night he'd been looking forward to, because I refused to listen to him and worried him half to death. I made an absolute twat of myself in front of a group of people who I've never met, not to mention the girl's parents. I hate myself. I never want to leave my house because I am too embarrassed of how much of a show I made of up myself.

I suffered this morning, deservedly. Considering I hadn't eaten anything at the party, I was surprised how ill I was. Swimming head and stomach. Rest assured karma, you did your job and you did it well! 

I don't plan on drinking for a very long time to come, if at all. As my dad said, it's really not worth. Practically lost my boyfriend, ruined my dress, disgraced my family - and myself.

It's funny how you never see this side of the party in music videos, huh?

Dog's life

Why do people who are older, more experienced and in a position of higher authority feel the need to talk down to other people?

I am related to someone who has an awful habit of doing this. I wouldn't expect a stranger to speak down to me, let alone someone who shares the same family as myself.

It irritates me beyond belief. I accept in many cases that the person is wiser/more experienced/has more authority than me. And you know what? I am thrilled for them. I can only hope one day that I am as wise/experienced as they are. I really do.

However, that doesn't mean that everyone else is lesser than they are. Nothing makes them any less of a person. Why then, do people feel that it's ok to treat people and speak to people like they are dogs? I can't fathom it.

Respect is a two-way street, believe it or not. When I, for example, disrespect these same people, I am quickly reprimanded and made to feel even smaller than usual. Double standards, anyone?

Treat me as equal and you can expect the exact same in return - it's as simple as that.

Hope is a sustaining human gift

It has been said that the only real things in life can seen with our own eyes - even in the dark. How does one describe hope then? Hope is a very real thing, seen every day, every where, in everyone. It has the power to change minds, perspectives - even people themselves.

Hope is a sustaining human gift. It can be given and received by all. We, as people, rely on hope as much as we depend on food and water. We breathe to believe that things will better; that every cloud has a silver lining. Maybe there is a pot of gold at the end of that elusive rainbow.

Hope, as a gift, is a contradictory one. It is selfish and indulgent - who doesn't wish for one's own personal success? We hope we achieve good grade, good exam results, a good college course, a good job. Even more-so, we hope for the downfall of others - especially those who are succeeding in areas where we are not.

On the contrary, hope is selfless and altruistic. To give or to be given hope is a joyous experience, making it one of the greatest gifts of all. A person's reassurance in times of high stress and anxiety gives hope in abundance. 'Things can get better from here', 'the only way is up', among other clichéd phrases have been uttered to one or other of us before. Don't you feel better after hearing them - maybe even a little more hopeful?

Young, old, male, female - regardless of who we are, our capacity for hope unites us. What do gamblers and the terminally ill have in common? Nothing, you might think. You would, however, be wrong. Hope is the most common fibre of our being. Both rely on hope in grief and loss - be it of the physical or the financial sense.

Probably a more significant question then the definition of hope - "what is hopelessness?" Hopeless could almost be described as an illness as severe as pneumonia, as chronic as a cold, as debilitating as scoliosis. We tend to lose hope in the face of adversity. This is a dangerous path.  Mental illness, depression and suicide all stem from the roots of hopelessness. Hope nourishes as well as any meal that will ever pass your lips. Those who are starved of hope live unsustainable, unfulfilled lives.

How many of you reading this have ever been told not to get your hopes up, by a peer, an authority figure or even by a parent? I condemn this hypocritical 'advice'. Young people are always being preached to about having high aspirations, to set goals and achieve them and (going back to some good old clichés), to reach for the stars and follow your dreams. So pardon me if I find it hugely patronising when an adult informs me I should go against this entirely, for fear of being disappointed. Disappointment is not something that should be feared. It is part and parcel of life. It shapes who we are as people. How can we expect anything good when we don't expect anything at all? High hopes sustain us to drive us further, work harder and dream bigger.

I sincerely hope I have not prattled on for too long, and I especially hope I have not bored you to tears. I hope you have gained something from this piece. Hope is a sustaining human gift. It is free to everyone, for as long as they walk this earth. Hope does not come with terms and conditions or strings attached. hope propels us to give our best in every aspect of our lives. In the words of Albert Einstein: "Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow".

Not 'goodbye', just 'see you later': how emigration has effected me

How many of you, given the current economic climate in Ireland and abroad, have had someone close to you emigrate recently?

2 weeks ago, one of my closest friends for 10 years emigrated to America with her mother, stepfather, and two younger brothers. Hand-on-heart, it was one of the hardest things I've had to do in my short life.

The move was not motivated by the economy. There were many personal reasons for the move, and it would not be appropriate to discuss them here for public viewing. They found out shortly after Christmas that the step-father's name had been drawn for the Green-card Lottery, and had just under 5 months to prepare for the biggest move they had ever faced - individually and as a family.

To be quite honest, the enormity of it all didn't hit me until the following days. It was the little details that upset me most. It was seeing the driveway empty of the family cars. It was seeing the refrigerator stripped of the amusing fridge magnets that I was so familiar with. It was seeing the shelves bare of photographs documenting each stage of the childrens' lives. It was seeing my best friend's room turned into nothing but an empty shell, full of boxes. It was knowing that this would be the last time I'd ever be in this house with my 'second family', as I had so affectionately nicknamed them. It was realising that this was actually happening.

Emigration has far-reaching consequences, and not just for the family themselves. The childhood best friends are left with lingering memories. Their large extended families are left without nieces, nephews and cousins. An empty chair in a classroom. A cleaned-out office space. It broke my heart a little bit to see them go.

Nowadays, however, thanks to the beauty that is modern technology, I can remain in contact with my friend quite easily, (Viber, Skype, I am forever in your debt), and her step-dad's regular Instagram uploads allow me to 'oooh' and 'awwwww' appropriately at her little brothers living the American dream. I've told her I'll visit next summer following the Leaving Cert. That all depends on whether I save up enough money and get a job, which, in this recession, is proving near to impossible. The economy is clearly determined to drive me away from my friend!

I can't help but feel on edge as to who'll be next, as it is inevitable - she will not be the last of my friends to emigrate within the next year or two. Be it for financial reasons or not, more and more people are emigrating every day. Who will it be next? Maybe it'll be even closer to home? My brother or sister perhaps? I'm not sure my poor little heart could bear it. Why whether the exact same storm somewhere far away when you can do it in the comfort of your home, surrounded by the people that love you?

Perhaps I'm just being selfish. Or perhaps the grass isn't always greener on the other side of the fence. Take your pick.