Thursday night I had to sew the crest on my son’s jumper. In doing so, I broke five needles and most probably my spirit. I mean how can you break needles? Am I the only person in the planet who has broken a needle? Cheap, lousy needles. Ninety exhausting minutes I spent on that simple task, sewing a crest on the jumper. I shudder. Why hadn’t I listened in Home Economics class? Simply, all I remember from the sewing room in school was the ten minutes at the end of class the teacher made us pick pins up off of the hardest, roughest, carpet two knees have ever knelt on. If only I had remembered that magnet weekly.

Where is this going? Oh yes, the crest. There is a generation of women who would tut at my sewing skills and I assure you they were all present (in my head) when I was sewing on that jumper. They’re Italian mammas, Irish mother-in-laws, Polish aunties (aren’t I cosmopolitan?) Jay, look at the paw on her sticking through the needle. Is that how you thread these days? She’ll be there ’til tomorrow. It’s supposed to be flat on the jumper not crumply. They hang around, this symphony of nags in my head, when I’m about to venture a new domestic task that I know I’m not all so good at, criticizing my every move.

Here’s my answer to my symphony of nags. Who cares? Why didn’t I just give it to someone expert at this so that I could after a long day of looking after children and cleaning a house just sit down and pour myself a glass of wine? Seriously. Beating myself up about a crest? And I know I’m not alone in this because everyday, every time I see a friend trying to wrestle with a cranky toddler or present a child with her lopsided attempt at cookies, I think really, are you judging your domestic abilities again? There you are (for example), all PHD-ed up berating yourself because you can’t remember the second verse of Jack and Jill. Something, something, balsamic vinegar and brown paper.

So sisters, if you’re doing it yourself, try not to judge your performance on impossible standards that were set in a different time, mood, in someone’s elses’ lifetime most likely. Just put the jumper in the bag and pay the lovely person in the shop to do it for you and concentrate on reminding yourself of all your potential, of all you have achieved, that you are not the sum of your domestic abilities. Phew. And for the love of God, don’t ever buy cheap needles.

Allow me this sentimental one. When I was getting married, I insisted on making a speech. Less a speech more the hyperactive rant of a bride to be but I’m sure the audience understood. Bet they’re still shrugging their shoulders. There was little material to go by, google marriage and there seems to be an ocean of Marx brother jokes on the institution, the Oxford dictionary of quotes adding further words of cynicism on marriage. So, there I was, almost nine years ago ranting on about my husband to be and our future life together. But in fairness, what did I know? What could I know?

I’m sitting here typing in my family home today in Cork, dodging out of getting the house ready for a forty year marriage anniversary party. Forty years. On the day I married, I looked down at them from my speech and saw them look at me with pride, despite the ranting, a product of their marriage and thought that’s how to do it. In his speech later on, Dad gave the credit (or the blame) for the daughter he was giving away to a Kerryman to my mom but really we were the outcomes of two people who just kept loving us and each other day after day, in and out, under skies of every colour.

They’ve spent the morning ranting and raving about getting the house ready and the misfortunate marquee blowing down in this Irish miserable excuse for a summer. It is one of the big days marking a marriage as long as theirs. They have six beautiful grandchildren after forty years and three loved daughters. I could say something about ups and downs but it goes without saying that in forty years, the blank canvas of a life together gets a powerful coloring.

We’re here to celebrate that fine match unless of course he doesn’t go up to the attic to get down that mattress. Off I go out of hiding now to join in the mayhem of this household, celebrating the day that Anthony Bennett married Betty Collins, forty years ago today.

There’s a fine line when eating out with children between them being adorable and deranged in the public’s eye. You have to decide either to eat in an establishment where children are welcomed and put up with incessant screams from all corners of the eatery or the location with nice enough food, some tolerance of your offspring and inevitable eventual humiliation. You decide.

Oh to digest a meal. This week we managed to escape the work of the farm for a few days break in our nation’s capital, Dublin. Traveling with young children, you sign up for highlights and lowlights wrapped up in a package. Go at their pace, don’t try to entertain them by too much effort and make an effort to enjoy it yourself. Easier said than done. We were kind enough to ourselves not to put the family through the absolute torture of going through an airport. No matter how organized I find myself on such an event, it inevitably turns to dragging and cajoling children in some obscure spot of anonymous airport. Not for wild horses or Brosnans. But I digress.

So after a week of alternating between shouty-screamy and semi sophisticated restaurants that say that they are child friendly but hey who are they fooling, we found ourselves eating our last holiday supper in a pub off the motorway on the way home. The facts were such, we were tired, hungry and generally in need of some TLC. A tall order for any restaurant you might say.

Three little Kerry boys, aw, how adorable. Look at them colouring. The baby is so sweet, ash blond hair. Do they all have matching blue eyes? Aw. Look at how they’re eating their rice and devouring those sausages. Oh they must be hot. A delay meanwhile in bringing the food for the cranky parents (well actually the mother), coloring pencils, a capital idea. Could the baby get lead poisoning eating that one? Eat up your veg, and yours and yours. Still no meal for the parents.

There’s a window here people, it’s a ticking time bomb, timing, it’s all about timing. You want your icecream, not until you finish your dinner, and yours and yours. Parental dinner arrives. What about icecream? I’ll order some. The toilet, ok? You eat, I’ll bring this one. Don’t spill that glass. I’ll get the waitress. Why didn’t you say you wanted to go to the toilet when I was bringing him? No, no, you eat. Mind the baby. Not so adorable now. Another spill. The gentleman in the next table who has been cooing at the baby, decides to help up the cleaning with a bundle of napkins, don’t stand on the man’s fingers, say sorry. I feel like we’re in a glass tank with the owner over feeding us. Just leave us alone to feed these people so that we can get on the motorway and try to put them asleep and drive through the rain, awake whilst driving people. Just bring the billllllllllllllll.

Thank you so much, we really enjoyed our meal.