Did you know, there are websites dedicated to nappy changing? Someone out there, took the time to compile paragraphs of words to deliver you information on how to change a nappy or diaper depending on your location. Information overload? Perhaps or perhaps not. Have you found yourself with a baby not knowing what to do. Maybe you were in a busy hospital where there was no immediate nurse available to show you how to do this? What do you do? Google, nappy changing.

Just in case you’re under any illusion that I’m sitting here knitting, baking, writing three books at the one time, I’m not. I’m stuck in a house with three little boys who cannot leave the house for anti-biotics or rain. I’m climbing in and out of the same day while the farmer calves the cows. Hey, it’s his job. But I’ve have corrected pooh pooh pants for the last time today, now I’ll ignore while I ponder on what a terrible mother I happen to be. That’s how it goes right?

If you listen carefully, that’s the refrain. As rapid as long skirts became minis, society is changing. From extended to nuclear family in micro minutes. In the absence of the mother/ mother in law barking at you in the corner to put a hat on that child or to start peeling the potatoes, we’re making our way through the maze of motherhood, often alone. Certainly, in the countryside this is the case. And what’s more, there is very little support in the way of care for your children, care for you or indeed facilities that will help you do either without a significant drive in the car.

I find myself feeling around in the dark mostly hoping that I’m taking a good enough shot at the target. It’s hard though when two of said children are still in nappies and all three seem to be preparing themselves constantly for war. Fighting, bickering, certainly not loving. And doesn’t it seem that everyone else’s children are perfect or at the very least grand? Come on though, it gives us all a pleasure to watch someone else’s child throw themselves down in the supermarket and have a good old tantrum. For a nanosecond, I watch and think ‘that mother, no control’ until a moment later, a toddler of mine is mine is re-enacting the same number.

I reach for the top shelf of a library of books on raising children. T for tantrum, a scan through a paragraph and find it’s perfectly normal. Right. Oh, nose picking, n, n, n, nnnnnose picking, right talk to your public health nurse. All of a sudden, I’m a walking encyclopedia of sometimes useful facts about motherhood but completely ignoring my own mothering instinct on how it should all work.

As I type there is a wide eyed boy asking me to pay him attention. It’s his turn in the queue of three. Listen, if you’re out there reading this thinking I have the answer, I don’t. My body gave me the strength on three different occasions to bring these little people into the world. And I forget that I come programmed to do this. I don’t have the answers, sometimes, if I listen carefully though, I have some for myself. I need to tell myself, they don’t need organic food or linen baby grows or me singing them Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on a loop, they just need me. Don’t look to me for answers. You, my dear friend, have them within you.

Don’t wait for an occasion to tell her she’s great, hug a mother today.

You can also read more this week at http://www.farmersjournal.ie/weather-watching-lessons-175258/

It’s amazing the vocabulary you acquire on a farm each season, or maybe it’s the vocabulary I put down each season in order to remember the new words. With this month, there’s springing, the filling of the udders or dugs as cows become heavy with calf. Apparently, the pin bones are softening, indeed. They hear tell, that things are shaping up, coming along nicely, they’ll be sick to calf soon.

If only. The farmer is skirting around the cows and like the Dad pacing up and down the aisle outside the maternity ward, he’s waiting for news. Anything stirring? We’re late, overdue, pin bones not so soft. Indoors, whilst, I’m enjoying the extended break, I know that it will intensify the really busy period when the bovine maternity ward starts filling up. For when it’s busy, it is really busy. Picture not actually seeing your husband awake for weeks on end. Now that I’m an auld pro, I know it really can’t last forever, just a few weeks. A few weeks of nudging him awake at the breakfast table, dinners going cold, answering ‘where’s Daddy?’ pleas.

Springing. Sleepy farmers. Cows delivering lovely new calves. A Daddy less dinner table. Busy farmer’s wife. Days getting longer, weather improving. Fun outdoors, birds hatching, hedgerows growing.

Springing, any day now.

If anyone is to be put on a pedestal in Kerry, it’s the Rock of Common Sense. You’ll know them, they’re the face of austerity, sincerity and practicality in the community. By God, they don’t put a foot wrong, never eat a biscuit in between meals, burp aloud or say skittish things like ‘What a beautiful day.’ No indeed, a beautiful day is for painting a fence. The Rock holds his or her cards close to their chest.

Every now and again, I resolve to be more Rock like, less skittish and ‘Corkonian’, more stoic, guarded, practical, wise and thinking. To this end, I even developed a tone; one that scares the farmer. ‘Mind you’, I might start a sentence with. For good measure, there are ‘clearly’s’ ‘nonsense’ ‘that’s ridiculous’ and ‘incredibles’ rolling from the tongue. It’s hard to keep going though, there’s a lot of weather watching to make sure the washing comes promptly in from the line, lawns to maintain, funerals to attend. In truth, it’s exhausting.

Besides, ‘Rock watching’ happens to be a favourite pastime of mine. Who doesn’t secretly enjoy seeing the Rock of Common Sense trip over a lace or indeed get your name wrong. We are human after all. Fallible, real. And whatsmore, great fun. I want to love you Rock but you’re going to have to make a mistake to be my friend. Or at the very least, show me that you too, forget what day of the week it is and curse in private at the smartphone you may have just flushed down the toilet.

Sometimes, you have to live in a place for a while before people let their guard down and then you’ll see the glint that says, I too, have made a mess. Got it so wrong. Lived. And they work their way into your favor, become one of the characters in the narrative that is your everyday life in a small village in rural Ireland. And maybe, if you’re lucky, you come to really know that person and come to count them as a friend. Incredible.

Brace yourself, it’s January. After the tinsel and mince-pie haven of Christmas comes decoration-less January. I defy anyone (mostly myself) to make January look good. But try we must. There is a red alert on, a storm howling down my chimney making the living most uneasy. Memories of last year’s worst storm that took 160 slates from the roof and left my little toddler with a memory of scary storm are in mind. Today, there’s no school. The county is closed for business. And I arose early to fix the place up for the day ahead. It takes planning to get through a day as such. Pre-empting krankiness, what to eat, who sleeps when, what to do with little boys who just want out. Indeed, what to do with their mommy who just wants out. Out into the world, ney, even the village. Away from the same day, in and out. For the chance meeting of a neighbour, a friend, a flower.

Package it as you might, January is difficult. But in that howling wind, we have to listen for a while to hear what it is teaching us. For there is a lesson, there’s always a lesson. What is this seasonal teacher pointing out? Shhhh, the ground is sleeping. The farmer needs rest. There’s a busy spring ahead. The bones are tired. The cows are heavy with calf and need shelter and feeding indoors whilst the ground sleeps.

Indoors, line up distractions; activities, movies, soup, good music and phones calls. As it turns out, city or country, we’re all in this January together. So brace yourself and do as the storm says. Rest.

At some point in their future, I will present a copy of this blog to my children, perhaps when they are about to have my grandchildren. Ahem, no pressure. They may at that point believe on reading it that I spent their infancy trying to avoid them. Not true. I spend their infancy trying to hide the fact that I was trying to avoid them. That brings me to a little ditty about a trip to my local book shop last November.

I’m a reader. An avid one. Most of my life I’ve escaped to a book to avoid study, teenage arguments, heartbreak and now children. No better place than in the care of a good writer. With that, I find good purveyors of books like a good waiter instinctively knowing what you’d like to sample from the menu. A good bookseller is one who can recommend exactly what you need in a book at a given time. Pure alchemy. I’ve found a good bookseller locally, a lovely lady in Listowel (Brenda of Woulfes Bookshop if you need a name). I was caught for time, as usual one day, and I must say looking the part, that is dishevelled, and rushed into the same shop. I need a book I say, post haste (I might not have put it in those exact words but it sounds good right?), something upbeat I say, easy, a city landscape, not necessarily romantic. The poor woman who had just opened her doors and used to a more elegant and considered customer I’m sure, leads me as always to just the right book.

Trying my hardest to remember my pin, she tells me the following; ‘You know I knew a farmer’s wife once that had a fine big farmhouse and a pile of children who used to hide in the hotpress.’ Finger on the nose, a nod and a smile. Understood. And whatsmore she added, ‘you’ll have time to read a chapter with a cup of coffee across the road’. See, a good bookseller, solid gold.

Have I used the hot press? Oh yes I have. Why just today when the crazy gang were simply crazy, I took myself off to finish a chapter with a coffee. It’s cosy in there, not the tidiest but warm and dry. The trick though is to make sure you’re not found out. In and about the third roar of ‘Mom’, they’ll start looking for you, you can time the little footsteps, exiting your oasis in time to cover the batcave up again. Finger on the nose, a nod and a smile. You heard it hear first. Shhhhhhh.

P.S Je suis absolument Charlie…

*Warm, dry storage cupboard you’ll find in an Irish home, quite cosy.

No better night to think on life as the solitary female in our household as tonight on this Oiche Nollaig na mban or Women’s Little Christmas. All over the country, ladies, after a Christmas of catering, running around, wrapping, breaking up fights and pouring drinks are getting a well deserved break. Here, I’m just not that organised. Instead I’m typing alongside the youngest man in my life, my seven month old as he settles himself to sleep in a new cot.

Here’s a new concept for you though, especially poignant for ladies of the farming community. Mi Nollaig na mban. Month of Women’s Christmas, also known as January. Apparently, our calves are late calvers by some standards but by my standards, February 1st is enough time to be welcoming the first of our new calves to the farm. And so, farming wise, things are quiet enough. Time for some much needed loveliness for the woman of the house. Sigh, these boys are busy. Noisy. Hungry. Dirty more often than not. I grew up amongst women and didn’t really understand what a little boy was until, well, to be honest, I’m still learning. Every now and again I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and think, you’re turning into one of them, go brush your hair! More often than not, I’m shouting to be heard and I find myself constantly cooking or baking. And they’re babies really. What’s to come?

So, onto loveliness. January has become the month when Daddy steps in to put the boys to bed and I get a chance to at least wash my face. January comes, as you know, before our Spring, a time when I become a lone parent, whilst the farmer is practically living on the farm. So, during this, my ‘month off’ I make plans, I visit a dentist (a luxury these days), a hairdresser, have a facial, go to the sales. Moreover, I get the chance to remind myself that I am deep down, a bit girly, one who likes the feminine, clothes, red lipstick and shoes that are far too expensive and coincidentally, not wellies. Time to myself.

So they’re asleep now, on this Oiche Nollaig na mban, three sets of blue eyes closed for the night and so, rest ensues.  Back to planning my month of some loveliness. But, blink, one pair of blue eyes open again. Say it ain’t so. Hold that lovely thought.