This my friends is a good day to be a farmer. During the winter and long Spring, on a bad day, we spread fertilizer and watched as it washed away. On another such a bad day, or many of them, we watched as the slurry tower filled up and up with rainwater upon rainwater upon slurry. The cows, have only in the last few weeks, made it out by day and night. The silage field had to be opened (the fields kept aside for providing the grass for winter silage) to let the cows graze on. We had to walk the cows back to graze on the furthest fields from the house (our thanks to very very patient neighbours) but the good news if only for today is that there is warmth, a little mist, and growth at last. You can even see the grass wave in the warm May breeze. Phew.

We’re not drowning the grass says, just waving. At long last. And long, long, long may it last and grow and grow and grow.

Being Irish, you live in a very small community. You have different groups of friends, family, first cousins, acquaintances, colleagues, neighbours in generally a small area. You probably frequent one area more than others for most of your life. You move around, you see how others live in the country, in the next county over and realize that have one very common and special bond, being Irish. Even if you move away, you have one eye over your shoulder to see what the mood, the form, the craic is at home.

The celebrations of the Easter rising last month were special. We celebrated being a nation one hundred years and commemorated the people who gave their lives that it might be so. And more than a collective coming of age it celebrated a country who at last is very much, as the French would say, feeling good in her own skin. In the celebrations, the nation’s trek to the capital or the local commemorations of our own here in Ardoughtar, there was an air of confidence that was never, in my memory seen before. We rallied this last century trying to feel at home, understand at length what it means to be Irish, rebuilding broken spirits, settling into ourselves, growing up. And there, in our casuals, on stage, in the audience, on the streets, on parade, waving tricolors we were, at last, quietly and cooly confident to call ourselves a nation of Irish citizens.

And with that comes, as always, great responsiblity. It goes without saying. Every country, especially a little one on the periphery of a continent must do it’s best to represent its population and will, as a country on this Earth of humans make mistakes, fall foul to pride and then get back in line again. So here we are, open for business as always, in the aftermath of the party, clearing up with the memory of the lovely festivities that allowed us to party and call ourselves Irish in a new and very special way. Realizing that we have a lot to offer, are beautiful and are now mature enough to really live it.  Is mise Eire freisin.

And that ladies and gentlemen was March. We’re glad that’s out of the way. Now on walks back the road, we’re assessing the fields. While you’re on the way back the road, he says, tell me what way is Sallies. So we walk our usual route and pass our small river that divides Hearthill from Ardoughtar and watch as the water that has poured down on us during recent weeks runs out of the fields. That’s a first good sign. The water is draining. Now for the main test, walking through the fields.

There is a scientific way to do this but I’m not the strong student of agricultural science yet that I have the authority to describe it so forgive me if I skimp on the detail. I begin by telling himself that the lower field, Sallies, was waterlogged by the gate. It always is he reassures me easing my dramatic tendancies that ten years a country woman continues to cling to me for effect. Our eldest son tells him the grass was picky. The two others boys tell him by the muck on their boots that it was soft enough but it was good exercise as small legs had to lift high to make their way through the fields. Enough grass. Is it fit for grazing? You’re asking me? Well, I’d say yes. Em. Yes. We’ll see the cows back there this week. And the higher field in Ardoughter? Could I put the yearlings in there? Oh, the pressure. Yes, I’d say yes. Strong enough, plentiful I add trying my best to describe it accurately for him before he confirms it with his own eyes. The yearlings could go back there.

Yearly, I become more accurate (and more interested) in describing the condition and quantity of grass though you might agree that I have a bit to go. But who would have thought that watching the grass grow on an Irish farm in North Kerry would be an interesting occupation for a former city girl. Although stranger things have happened. The going is good to soft. We’ll take it.

You are chosen. There is a special place reserved for you in Heaven, if you are to come back in the afterlife, it’s as a Princess, in a castle, surrounded by chocolate and a ridiculous metabolism that means you never put on weight.

Your name is not ‘Hungry’. Believe me, they might tell you it is, but it isn’t.

One day, you will appear in public again and you will look sane. You might even have handsome grown up sons with you and in my mind’s eye, you’ll shirk and say, ‘aw, it was nothing, they were good boys.’

On another such fine day, you’ll stop standing on lego on arising from the bed, you’ll not trip over car toys at every step.

Nobody, darling, knows what you go through with laundry. No, it’s not possible unless they own a launderette across the road from a construction site, nobody could understand the amount of clothes you have to wash, daily, weekly, monthly, yearly. Nobody.

There is a world out there yet for you to travel where the people don’t speak fluently the language of poos, farts (excuse me) and wees. Normal people don’t find bodily excretion as funny. Imagine.

Only you have the knowledge that comes from the sidelines where, one, two, three boys and sometimes their father roll around on the floor wrestling, giggling, hurting each other, you know to shrug and walk away. You know, though others don’t, that this is perfectly normal. It gives you a chance to fold some more washing.

Only you know what it’s like when your four year old tell you that when he’s big, he’ll marry you because you’re his heart. You’re the one the seven year old runs to with tales of the schoolyard and classroom after school. Your face is the one your baby searches for when he cries from his cot. You know what it’s like to be in a cuddle sandwich when one of them shouts ‘group hug’ and although it might hurt, you revel in the glory of it all.

And finally, they always try to make you laugh or surprise you or impress you. You are a bit of a Queen Bee in a hive full of busy bees. So flick on the coffee maker and try and smile when they serve you cornflakes, cheerios, jam and milk as a treat for mother’s day; you are chosen after all. Believe it.

Happy Mother’s Day to you.

I could photograph it but already some nine hours into March and it seems this month is not in the least bit photogenic. March is volatile, March could go anyway, March could be the makings of us, March could be the beginning of the end. That’s March for you.

If I were to photograph it, it would look messy. Our farmer arrived in at midnight last night to a wife collapsed with the tired on the couch. At one hour into March, I nagged him up to bed. At seven hours in with children coughing and fighting in our vicinity, we wake up and realize we’re late. The house is running late. He goes out and realizes that two more cows have just calved without him, he is cross because he wasn’t there. I’m cross because I could have gone out and checked them. We’ve run out of room, some calves will have to be sold in the mart tomorrow. He is trying to sort out the calves and their thankfully healthy mothers and I’m trying to figure which of the children are healthy enough for school.

March hangs its miserable old head over us trying to decide which way to go. Will it  continue raining or will it give us a few dry days to dry up the already very wet ground? The cows need to go on grass now to ensure that the milk is of a good enough quality to provide us with a good price. That first milk cheque of the year will need to be good and don’t let any farmer tell you otherwise.

In the kitchen in March mode, dinners become creative as we discover the back shelves of the pantry. In the office, we try to keep paper work in order to ensure that when the madness subsides, it might look like we had a hand at some sort of efficiency should we be inspected.

Wittering away and giving out at the kitchen sink, I see a daffodil out the window and I realize I’m being unfair to the month and she’s only in the door. Like the kranky old auntie, she’s settled herself in and is already looking for tea and empathy and I’m giving out about her already. But March has much to teach us, challenging us to become even better in our approach to it all. But mainly, we’ll just grin and bare her until she picks up her bags and wonders off the farm, spluttering, complaining and coughing as she goes. It could be a long month. Look, we’ll try our best anyway. She’s left a vase of daffodils in the kitchen for us to enjoy.

We were an elite group, the Thursday night film club crew, or maybe not so elite in that you’d join in when you had the chance. The organizer and cinema owner foresaw my dropout from the club. ‘When you have children’, Kieran said, ‘we won’t see you for eighteen years outside of coming to see the children’s films.’ Despite, or perhaps in spite of that premonition, I would try to get to the film club once or twice a year after the birth of the children.

The emails would come in announcing the line-up of films to come in the following weeks, French and Italian films (my favourites), arthouse and independent films that might not make it to a cinema outside of Dublin but would somehow end up being shown on a Thursday night around 8pm (because he’d wait for a while to let the people come) in Listowel.

Once the numbers had assembled, Kieran would walk up in front of the screen before the film started rolling, and deliver a lovely speech about the film. He told us why he chose the film, why it had made its’ way by detour to a small town in North Kerry (of all places), delivering his critique. He had heard about this film, found it and had to show it to us. I could cry it was so beautiful. If you are passionate about film, you would appreciate this lovely man, who, standing before us, without airs, told you about the film he had brought to his theatre for us to watch in our own Cinema Paradiso for the evening. We were blessed.

I always got the feeling this cinema was his labour of love. There was nothing fancy, cans of coke for drinks, popcorn at just above cost price and very affordable entry tickets. And at the end of the film, there he would be as you exited the screening, your eyes sore from crying or giving out, no matter, waiting to hear what you thought of the film with a glint in his eye. ‘What did you think?’ He really wanted to know.

Tonight, I heard of his passing, after a battle with illness. Kieran will be missed. He was a gentle reminder to us at the Thursday night film club, that people do and will continue to do work that they love, bringing beauty to lives in a very simple and elegant way.  If this afterlife business is anything like the movies, I’m sure he’s en route to heaven with a comfy seat reserved in front of a big screen and everlasting film reel. Say that it might be so. God rest you Kieran Gleeson and thank you.

If you are married, engaged to or dating a farmer, you will probably be familiar with Valentine’s weekend on the farm. If you’re new to it, i.e. in the first throws of love, your expectations are probably still high. God love you. If you are a seasoned veteran, or married for, let’s say, nine years, you know that no matter how much you try, the following scene is forever repeated.

When the cows start calving, the farmer is still half alert to his whereabouts, whilst he spends his day running between the calving house, the parlour and the calf pens, he is still aware that there is life outside the yard, in the house perhaps. This my friends is February.  By March, life is such a blur and you are so sleep deprived that St. Patrick himself or the Easter bunny might have taken up residence and you’ll not notice. So, in February, like it or not, we celebrate St. Valentines day and with it comes the obligation to do something lovely for your loved one. I say obligation because it has become a bit of a chore. Not so because we are a couple who are not in love but because we’re a couple who despite our protestations about the event, still feel obliged to tick thee Valentines box. And it most always ends in, well, something akin to misery.

My expectations around Valentines have depreciated on a yearly basis since that first bunch of flowers delivered to the office. Mortified, I told him in future, that we could skip Valentines day or postpone it until all the cows were calved. I was trying to be a nice girlfriend and him being of the male variety and instinctive when it comes to understanding what a woman wants when she says ‘don’t mind me’ continued yearly to do something lovely for Valentines Day. Sigh.

I really do think there is a line in selling farmer’s chocolates and flowers for the wife when he goes to pick up his supplies at the local creamery. Two bags of ration, a bucket and roses for herself ahem. So every year the conversation goes along these lines;

Me: Look, there’s really no need to bring me anything this year, you’re under enough pressure.

Himself: Ah no, sur, if we can’t go out (don’t even try to organize a night out) can’t I get you something?

Me: Honestly, let’s not this year, I’ll make us a nice dinner, with wine. Bring wine. No wait, there’s wine here. No need to bring anything.

Himself: Oh right, instead of wine? Some flowers?

Me: Not at all. You’re fine, just go to the vets and bring on the (insert medicines needed) and whatever you do, don’t bring flowers or chocolates.

Himself: You want chocolates?

Me: I don’t want anything!

Himself: (Exasperated) No chocolates so.

Me: Look, if you’re in the supermarket, bring a small bar of nice chocolate, we can share.

Himself: (now knowing that he is in the minefield and everywhere he looks is garage flowers, cheap chocs and roses says) What kind of chocolate?

WHAT KIND OF CHOCOLATE?

DID YOU JUST ASK ME WHAT KIND OF CHOCOLATE?

I’ll leave you there in your imaginations to imagine the nuclear energy that might have been harnessed following that explosion. It’s the same every year. St Valentine, or Hallmark or whatever you’re calling yourself these days, you have a lot to answer for.

Happy Valentine’s Weekend whatever the day throws at you.

(Notice: No farmers were harmed in the writing of this post)

This post is for posterity’s sake, for the moment when I scratch my head and think ‘was it that hard?’; here is my answer to that future question of mine. I’ll need to answer that question when the veil of amnesia comes over me when my youngest is say, five years old and I wonder if it was difficult at all. This post is for that time, in answer to that question. Lest I forget. Lest I forget and wonder what the mother with three young children is making such a fuss about, why she looks like she’s just been dragged backwards along the farm yard by a tractor, why she always looks like she needs coffee and why you suspect she grabs chocolate bars in the quiet refuge of the pantry.

Yes, it was most definitely hard. I can’t decide which is more difficult, getting them to school or dinnertime. It’s the flip of a coin. To set this particular scene, I need you to imagine the heaviest downpour of rain known to man falling over a farmhouse in North Kerry at 8:50am on a Wednesday morning. Ash Wednesday to be exact (we could go a step further by saying it was somewhat appropriately Ash Wednesday, but let’s not be dramatic). The eldest son is learning to tell the time and so offers ‘helpful’ reminders of the approaching deadline of 9 o’clock every time the long hand moves, which is every 60 seconds I can tell you. The middle child has had his first nose bleed, just as you are trying to squeeze wellies and coat on the toddler-baby who is wriggling around, frankly, being awkward. Nose bleed alert in place, I run (trying to be calm and upbeat about the bleeding four year old’s nose, how’s that for a challenge?) to find something to stop the bleeding, anything; toilet roll, tissue (if only), teatowel, a rug? Eight minutes to 9 o’clock the eldest announces, about to have an existential crisis on the speed of time passing. Nothing will stop the blood flowing while the bleeder now tells you there is no way he could go to school, while putting a hand to his forehead in a reclining pose. Crash, what’s that? Why of course, today is the day the toddler-baby-monster learns that the footstool helps him to reach the kitchen table and he can drop items on the floor and they make hilarious noises. Clang. Hilarious. Six minutes to go. Blood still spurting I would say. Baby type person has taken off his wellies and coat as the eldest looks on appauled, one eye faithfully on the clock. Clonk. Five minutes to go. Arrrrgh. Keep calm, visualize a calm seafront. Bet others mothers don’t have to deal with this? Why me? Is it just me? Crash? Nose bleed is stopping. Into the car. Pouring rain drowning all little people in the few metres it takes to get from the front door, luckily washing away all traces of blood on the faces concerned. Must remember to teach him, again, to tie his seatbelt. Lunchboxes? In the car. ‘I’ll wash you now with wipes’ I say while wondering if would be better to keep him at home? One minute to nine, we arrive at the school gate, wet, bloody, downtrodden from the trenches.

Everyday is not as such. Not so the scene of battle. I pride myself that there is the odd moment of calm but it is rare with three young boys. So here’s to you future self  posing that question, you did it! High five; you’ve survived. And I’m guessing if you’re reading this you might need a timely reminder of those days gone by, just for nostalgia mind you, and to remember when you see that girl with the three small children, well, you know yourself, you know what to do…