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In that Pint of Milk

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In that pint of milk is the ponderings of a Dairy farmer. Where will the cows go next? That field might be a bit wet after the recent rain, best put them in the High Field for now.

There is the watchful eye on protein and fat content, is there enough, is it good enough?

Behind that Pint of Milk are reams of paperwork, waiting for the farmer’s wife’s attention. Incomings and outgoings, all to be put in order, as soon as you can.

In that creamy milk is the call from the boys for the creamy bit, the nightly hot chocolate, the pour at breakfast, the sour milk for tomorrow’s bread, the icecream on a Sunday.

The farmer wipes the cow’s udder, places on the cluster, rubs a pap and the milk flows as the cow feeds on some ration. A gentle squeeze on an empty pap, cleaning, some dip, she feels the tap on her leg by the farmer’s hand, telling her to move on. Her milk moves through the dairy pipework into the bulk tank, to the tock, tock, tock of the machine awaiting collection. She saunters into the yard and towards the field again.

Back into year’s green green grass. Grass that brings on her creamy milk for that evening’s milking.

All in that pint of milk.

Keep her country

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By my reckoning, it takes you a couple of years before you get into the swing of this country living business. The first year you might find yourself opened mouthed, at times awestruck, sometimes dumbstruck, perplexed and amazed. It is without a doubt a culture shock. I’ve known culture shock, I’ve travelled a bit and so I thought, hey, it’s my own country, how different could it be?

Different. To say the least.

So what’s so different? Let me illustrate with a few examples;

In the country, everybody knows everybody else. What? In the city, I knew my immediate neighbours plus a few more. That was it. I knew those neighbour’s offspring and maybe the odd eccentric aunt. In the country, you’re expected to know everyone and that everyone seems to be in someway connected to half of the village and you have to remember this. You really have to remember this she types cringing.

Country people love funerals. It’s not actually about the deceased, well it kind of is. Yes, you attend a funeral to support your neighbours, show your face, lend a hand but mainly it is a bit of a social gathering outside the funeral home. Was there many at it? How did she look? Were you talking to anyone? Be they sad, tragic or in celebration of a long happy life, they are the reason to put on a nice scarf or clean shoes and meet your neighbours. They bring moments of solidarity to a community in sad times and a nice chat on a bright evening at others.

The countryside is very quiet at night time. You might hear a cow bellow or a milk truck of a morning but there are no drunken brawls (more’s the pity) to speak of or cars zooming past on a nearby street.

Anyone can drop into the house, anytime. The general rule of thumb in the city is that if you find someone in your house uninvited, you call the gardai. Here, depending on the day, someone in the farmhouse kitchen; ask them if they would like tea. They will, on the odd occasion, wonder in the door and see if there is anyone there. Beware of the city woman yielding a hurley.

Everyone waves at you when you drive past them. I love this, I have loved it forever. As a young girl visiting country cousins I thought it just so lovely and would practise giving the little lift of my index finger in a parked car alone. Hello neighbour, how are you? Be it from tradition, habit, good manners or acknowlegement, it gives me a little chuckle as I do it habitually on the school run each morning.

So there you have it, some few examples of why you might find your local city woman perplexed in the countryside. Go easy on her. She’s just seeing you countryfolk in a whole different light, getting the hang of your turn of phrase, your quirks, your family tree and your unquenchable thirst for tea.

Keep her country.

Walking into Light

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Somebody, somewhere (which is a lazy way of saying that I couldn’t be bothered googling it at 6am in the morning) came up with the idea of the Darkness into Light walk. Starting at 4am, over 100,000 people in our country began walking a 5km pilgrimage into the light of the morning in aid of Pieta House, an organisation that helps those who are feeling suicidal or are self-harming.

That spark of inspiration, an idea that grew in the mind of one very clever person motivated over 100,000 people to awaken from a deep sleep at 3am to get to the starting line to walk for those who need help, support, the love of a community who believe with intervention that they can in no little way help to show those in trouble the way back to the light.

Today, though deliciously, I got to chat to many local people that I’ve come to know in my new role as a ‘Kerry woman’, I walked for the most part alone as the community of Listowel came together. In doing so, I was able to partake and eavesdrop in on many early morning conversations in the spirit of giddiness (what are we doing up at this hour of the morning in the honour of God) and good intention.

Birth stories were exchanged, ten stitches in all, war wounds, lost high heels at last weeks wedding, the sausages that were awaiting him in the fridge, her shiny medal displayed on her jumper as she walked in from school, the ankle that was starting to give him gib all in the most melodic North Kerry accent.

Normally, at Listowel race course, we’d be gathered to check out the fashion at the races, meeting up after the harvest in September to place a token amount on a horse without really having much of an idea about races but knowing a lot about community.  The same familiar faces there to show support. The message was clear though nobody really needs it spelt out.

Walking into the light, I remembered how I was complaining all week about having to do this, this chore. But was so glad I did. It is a reminder to do good, to offer kindness (too often undervalued),to love others. Maybe it’s the adenaline which is quickly wearing off, but it was a lesson, once again, on the beauty of humanity, the capacity of people to come together to do something so beautiful, so kind, to show that there is always light. There is always light.

The babies are waking, the cows are bellowing, this light, along with a lot of coffee will fuel this morning but for now, I know that it is great to be alive, to be a part of something inspired. Now, for a quick nap, let me tell you, it’s tiring being this great.

Enjoy the light.

What’s Wrong with Walking?

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We all have our obstacles that stop us from getting out on the road and exercising. Be it the boyfriend who eyes you funny when you don those lycra sweatpants or the thought of the hill climb back to your house, we meet them all the time. Mine is the lady, a walking obstacle, driping with judgement, who pops up on occasion on my road and asks ‘What’s wrong with walking?’ as I run past.

Somedays, what I’d do for some city anonymity?

‘What’s wrong with walking?’ is a phrase I’ve heard before in Kerry, especially seeing as there are more runners on the country roads and so there is a bit of a backlash to this new ‘fad’. So here is my response, though I doubt if this lady ever reads my blog unless of course I become a world famous writer, thus giving her the chance to ask me ‘what’s wrong with reading?’

So my Lady, in order to get out on the road today, I procrastinated by eating my lunch, thus giving me an extra hour to digest. I then had to find a cleanish pair of socks (though not matching) to wear on my run, I had to change a nappy, pass the baby over with instructions, beg the baby to return my soaking wet earphones from his mouth (which meant I only heard every second word of my running soundtrack today) and avoid fifty questions about, well, the world in order to get out the door.

I ran as always out the door, into the air, which today looked like it might pour on me and I ran and ran and ran. I was feeling really hot and sweaty and to be honest a bit miserable and about to give up when I came across my walking obstacle poised, like the meany girl in the school yard, waiting to deliver her blow. I sped up (wondering why I hadn’t just avoided this route on a day when I wasn’t feeling the running love), waving a hello, warm day isn’t it, only to be delivered my ‘what’s wrong with walking?’ blow again.

Not that I owe you an explaination but here it is, I run so that I lose the baby fat that after three pregnancies and labours have left me, well soft, as they like to say around here. I run to get out all the pent up energy that builds up during the day of doing stuff for everybody else. I run to feel alive, I run to have more energy, I run to have a waist again. Someday. There’s little wrong with walking Lady, I do it all the time but as per my choice, I run, run like the devil around the country roads around my farm because it makes me feel and eventually look good. So there.

So ignore that obstacle, that pair of tight trousers, the blushing at the boy you have a crush on as you run past sweaty and unkempt, that steep hill or that passive aggressive neighbour and walk, dance, run, summersault like you just don’t care.

And one day, my Lady, I’m going to run past you, like an Egyptian.

The Bellow

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At this point in the year, the promise of the pillow is everything. The adrenaline has come and gone and has left us a farmer who is tired out, body and soul. Once again, I fell asleep waiting for him to come into us. He ran behind, there was a calf sick, the tractor gave trouble, spreading went on. There are a number of reasons that would delay a farmer from eating a supper and sinking into a well deserved slumber this late in the Spring.

The pillow had just taken the weight of his weariness as that blasted cow gave a bellow. A long, relentless bellow that had both myself and himself sitting upright in the bed trying to figure out the bellow. Where are they? Do they have grass? I thought I heard it to the left of the house? Is there a cow in to calf? And so, despite my insistence that I go in his place, my farmer dragged himself from the bed to make sure all was as it should be outside.

It could go any way I thought, those misplaced bellows have previously had us rushing into clothes in the middle of the night whereon we’ve chased errant animals back to their patch.You always have to follow up on a bellow. Tonight, I begrudged the cow her bellow, one that took my husband from his much needed sleep. A while later, I hear the back door shut again and his heavy legs pull up the stairs.

All is grand he whispers as he soaks back into his side of the bed, to much needed rest.

Blink

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It’s been a long day and I’m rambling here, trying to stay awake. The farmer is still outside as it continues to be our busiest period of the year. Honestly, how does he keep doing it? Today, I brought our two youngest boys to our nearby town, Listowel, to do a few messages, as my mother would say.

And there I witnessed something incredible. Remember, it’s late and I’m tired so hold your judgement on what I might find incredible. Low and behold, I found that my toddler had turned into a young boy. I mean a proper young boy. Outside of the incident where he showed the lady in the hotel his eyeballs (could have been a lot worse), he was dreamy.

Ok, I’ve been holding back on you. Up until now, I haven’t been that honest really because as I’m his mommy, it’s my job a). to love him and b).to be his PR woman by way of telling you ‘Oh, he is a little rap-scallion, a rogue’ etc. etc. but let me tell you when it came to the terrible twos (which by the way carries on for a good two years), he was awlful. He is what a boy is meant to be, uproarious, boisterous, spirited times ten. I no longer own a functioning lamp in my house, this larger than life Tasmanian devil has broken it along with a television, several telephones and so many pretty cups I’ve stopped counting.

And I know, it’s easy to judge and think that boy is just unruly but mainly he’s just a real character, taking over the room, a force to be reckoned with. He will break your heart and then take it back and fix it up with a hearty laugh and a hug. That said, it has been really stressful taking him out. I mean really stressful. So today, prepared to cajole him along the streets in Listowel with narration, plaumause, promises and ashamedly sometimes threats, he defied me ultimately by being absolutely adorable.

I had forgotten that it happened with my first son too, overnight, he turned from ‘terrible three’ to ‘fabulous four’ and life got a lot easier. So hold tough Mommy and Daddy if you’re reading this thinking you have produced a little heir who you will be most likely visiting behind bars someday, for unexpectedly, one day, something readjusts and they turn into the lovely boy  or indeed girl they were meant to be and you think, well you don’t think, you take a gigantic sigh of relief. Phew. That was hard work. Now, go and enjoy them.

‘Til the cows come home

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Walking the cows in for milking has to be the best part of the job. It is, especially on sunny evenings, a bit of a family affair. This evening while the father of the house was getting the parlour ready for the arrival of the cows, I watched on as our sons cycled wildly around the yard. They screamed, oinked, woo-who-ed into the late Spring evening, uninhibited, drunk on the freedom of the open air.

They cycle with their Dad back the road, chatting animatedly about their day.  Our six year old who has, since the weekend, cycled without stabilizers, come to realize that sunshine and outdoors does an everyday adventure make. ‘Look at me’, he squeals, ‘check it out’ he shows off to us, his adoring fans. It doesn’t feel like that long since I waddled back the road for the cows with him tucked up inside me and now here I am with the three of them marching down for the cows. The baby and I walk in front of the cows as the farmer lets the them onto the road. The cows, mind you, are not in any rush as they meander up the road for milking. Sometimes, a neighbour might be stopped waiting for the cows to pass and self consciously, I will the cows to move a little faster, but they rarely oblige. All in good time. Luckily, we have very patient neighbours who wait for the cows to make the turn into the yard followed by Dan and his little cyclists so that they can pass by safely.

The six year old continues to pontificate as his father ties a wire behind the cows in the parlour yard, his little brother agreeing heartedly with everything his hero says, while the baby pulls out of my arms, trying to join the gang. They cackle away, making their own voices heard asserting their own position in the family, as the farmer and myself share a ‘we did good’ glance at each other across the cows, our small people and the magnificent Spring evening. 

A Gift

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There are few days as beautiful as a sunny Sunday morning in April. If you rise early enough you catch it before the house builds up to its usual crescendo of activity. For now, it is still, sunny, wakening, calm. From my coffee perch, I hear a cow bellow, the birds twittering over green fields, the farmer getting the parlour ready for milking. The gate closes for the cows arrival, there is the familiar drop of buckets on the dairy floor.

The cows wait outside the parlour for their turn to bring us their milk. The milk tank will fill with their bounty and as they wander from the parlour out to the gorgeous green grass that April has brought here, the milk will be collected.  It’s off to its destination, a fridge away from here, filling another little boy’s breakfast bowl we tell them.

Here is the gift of another beautiful Sunday in April, fresh milk for our pancakes, growth in the  fields and good health for the family and animals in our care. No better gift.

Have a lovely Sunday.

Triceratops

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There’s not much I don’t know about dinosaurs. Take your Triceratops for example, for all its three horned head butting ability, it’s still only an herbivore. Around during the Cretaceous Period, it’s one to remember. I could go on, for pages and pages about Dinosaurs, all shapes, sizes, winged and un-winged, meat-eating or not. Ad nauseum. Mother of three sons. My specialist subject is extinct sauropods.

I used to be a contender but now put me in a room full of adults now and I’m a rookie. I think I might have regressed myself. I know all about it. My second son has taken months to toilet train (apologies if you’re reading this Secondo in the future but mommy needed an outlet), he regressed you see, to babyhood on the arrival of his cute, gurgling, nappy-ed younger brother. And it broke my heart. Seeing him a boy frustrated that Mommy had brought another blue-eyed boy to replace him. Not true, not true at all. In the past week, we’ve had a Eureka moment and he’s gone to use the toilet, all by himself. Like a big boy. I do go on, what hope is there for me? A contender, a contender!

You see, I’m now an expert on toilet training and dinosaurs but would you want to sit next to me over coffee? I wouldn’t. I’m like the self conscious eighteen year old again listening to myself as I speak to adults. Am I a bore? I used to be interesting, if I do say so myself but these days when I open mouth I say things like ‘climb off that couch’ or ‘take your hand out of there!.’ Not exactly conversation openers are they?

Lately, I’ve been dipping my toe into ‘real world’ waters again, teaching a bit, the odd conference, writing, but it’s difficult after you’ve been at home with young children for a while. For a start, you really can’t keep up with the who’s watching what on television. Before all this motherhood started, it was all about reality TV, are we still watching folk having inane conversation about toenail clipping on a couch in a random house in the UK for example?

And what are you wearing? I live in the countryside and don’t often get to the city which is eye opening I can tell you. What I’ve realized in a world post maternity wear is everyone is wearing black and white, I wouldn’t even call it check, but it’s check patterned.

Come to think of it actually, I quite happy here in my motherhood bubble for another bit talking about poo-poos and Tyrannosaurus Rex until the cows come home. I’ll take my second coming as a debutante in my own time. Practicing talking about grown up subjects to anyone who’ll listen. You can do without my tuppence worth for another while world, there’s more important work to be done. Rrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaarrrh.

Shoulds

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I should probably have him hold the bottle himself.

I should instead, go downstairs and run through the various household shoulds that steal my Saturdays and get the house ready for a busy day on a farm in Spring.

I should lie him down in his cot with his bottle and let him drink away. His bottle will be gone soon enough, independent enough on a job well done to do this all by himself.

I should hurry his brothers along. They should most probably dress themselves.

I should probably empty the dishwasher. I should certainly be folding that mountain of laundry.

I should, really.

He lies tucked as always his head lying on my left arm, staring up at his mommy, one hand scratching his head, his other hand scratching his mommy’s back.

I should probably make the beds. Or maybe I should wait ’til he finishes the bottle and falls asleep.

I know which should I’ll remember.

He sleeps in my arms, unconditionally.