I’m feeling lazy. Too lazy to type. Too lazy to pull myself out of Winter to what’s to come. There are busy days ahead. Yawn. Busy, busy days. But it’s so cold. He’ll have to go out on the farm again. Stretch. And leave me alone. Yikes. With the children. At breakfast, dinner, bedtime, bath-time, story-time, schooltime. I better get up. And attack it, this coming Spring business. Or maybe we’ll have one more cup of time before hibernation ends. That’s more like it Winter, five more minutes rest before I hear that first cow bellow the arrival of the season’s first calf. One last chocolate biscuit so before our ‘holiday’s’ over and the new working year starts. Delicious lazy winter; Goodbye.

The New Year’s sales have me looking around the shops for home improvement. A lamp here, a curtain there, definitely some new tea-towels. We officially moved onto the farm when my first son was three months old. I had avoided the domestic life and talk of tiles very much before that. In one foul swoop, I found myself in a tile store, with a new baby and the task of equipping a farmhouse for a life of dirty wellies and farm odours. Oh dear.

And I certainly didn’t understand the considerations that one had to make when purchasing furniture for a farm home. Could I extend that table for silage days? Is that teapot large enough? Which tile will take the dirt? Is that freezer big enough to take the amount of meat it takes to feed a farming household? It was a whole new world of domestic life that had me making decisions that now has me shaking my head at my younger farming novice self. Really, those chairs, they didn’t have a chance. But the tiles were a good choice. That same younger self throws her eyes to heaven.

Some weeks back, I found myself in a home and hardware store in the city. A delight for this farmer’s wife I tell you. Having spent an hour perusing the kitchen utensil section (I wish I were joking), I found it; the tea cosy. A Christmas tea cosy (which I’m afraid betrays the city girl in me for it is not at all practical to have a seasonal tea-cosy). For those of you not in the know or for those of you thinking that the tea cosy was a figment of your grandmother’s imagination, the tea cosy is a snug piece of material, normally cushioned, or knitted that fits over your teapot to keep the tea warm. God be with the days I put a tea bag in a cup. It is the most essential item that resides on the dinner table. Tea is made before the men come in for dinner to make sure it’s strong (like porter as one tae drinker put it) and hot. The tea cosy holds the pot hot given that our farmer may not always make the dinner call directly. Ahem.

So I made my way to the till like the cat who got the creamer with my tea cosy in hand, beaming. Delighted as I was to find this festive variation of the tea cosy and giddy at shopping in the big smoke, I told the shopkeeper of the delight of my find. Busy as he was that day, he found the time to join in in my enthusiasm for the red tea cosy, adding in the most melodic Cork accent ‘if we’d ever used a tea-bag?’ and the usual ‘why in the name of God did I end up there (i.e.not Cork city)?’ As it turned out, he knew my father and was glad himself that the tea cosy was going to a good home, although the glint in his eye suggested that he may have just wanted me to hurry on. I can’t imagine why.

So there it resides on our dining room table, snuggly keeping the tea pot warm for the festive season. Soon, it will put away with the winter tablecloth and Christmas decorations signaling the end of a wonderful Christmas. Now where did I put the other one?

The message friends for the new year is this; may your troubles this year be little. Happy New Year to you and yours.

There is wonder in every new decoration that comes out of the box all week long. That broken nutcracker soldier a jewel in the hands of a four year old. They see this Christmas with eyes un tired and with eager souls. Through their enthusiasm and vision, we see it too. We hold baby Jesus from the crib, my grandmother used to say it. Baby Jesus does not go in the crib until Christmas morning and they’re delighted to learn it too. And while the Baby Jesus finds sanctuary into the ‘everything’ drawer, it is obvious to us all it’s a waiting game.

The days are flying in and the cows are being dried off. They stop milking in other words for the month of January giving both them and their farmer a break in January before the calving season begins. This is a busy week. I’m busy indoors getting the house ready, himself is busy out getting the ‘yard’ right so that the Christmas season comes and goes with him not having to do too much work outside of the daily chores at Christmas. It always surprises people (or at least this city girl) that farmers have to work on Christmas day. But. But. But. Yes, yards don’t clean themselves, silage needs putting in front of the cows this time of year, the cows continue to need his care. Milk doesn’t pour itself into milk cartons automatically. But. But. But. It’s ok. It’s our way of life. And actually, funnily, he loves it. While I’m chopping carrots and parsnips on Christmas morning with a glass of something sparkly, and the children are busy playing (if Santa comes mind you), our farmer will walk into the fresh air on Christmas morning to feed the ‘girls.’

Did I ever see myself sitting here typing while my children unpacked Christmas decorations telling you about the Christmas routine of a farmyard? No. And yet, I hear my country grandmother telling me to hold off putting Baby Jesus in the crib. Hold off for the good stuff and see your life through fresh, un-tired eyes.

Six more sleeps…

I’ll just run to the creamery he says, anytime we have to go anywhere in a hurry. When timing an event on a farm, well on this farm in any rate, you have to factor in the ‘just’ time. Just one more round of slurry to spread. Just one more round of cows. Just one more load of silage to give out. Just one more cubicle to clean out. You’ll never, I was told by a neighbour on marrying, have empty hands on a farm. In a given twenty four hours there is so much work to get on with. And it never ends really. You have to give the farmer plenty of notice as he will always find another job that needs doing as priority when he’s about to leave the yard.

I was once upon a time punctual, most likely ridiculously so. I would stand over the clock-in machine with minutes to spare so that I wouldn’t be late back to my desk in the office. And then I learned cow time. Twice a day milking came to signal morning and evening. The flexible clock showing lunchtime and dinnertimes as movable feasts and bedtime comes when you find your body involuntarily throws itself down with the tired at the end of the day. And most likely, you’ll never be on time for any event ever again. Before you know it you’re on the mountain road between Lyreacrompane and Castleisland, Kerry’s own natural rollercoaster, with three young children in the back roaring at the time that has caught us out again. The audacity of the clock to move so fast. Santa Claus will wait for us don’t worry boys.

And when finally you reach your destination, this evening to meet a certain fella in a white beard, you relax. You enjoy immensely your time off the farm, when paper work and pitchforks are that little bit out of reach. Time off is so precious that we take our time over conversation with others, enjoy that bar of chocolate with coffee and watch our children out in the world. I’ll just have one more cup he says and we settle down, just in time.

You have never experienced anything like a North Kerry storm. The same Atlantic that invites us to dip our toes in it in June asks for payment come December. There she is, blasting her salts at our windows and banging at the door as the whole house shakes with the roaring from the Atlantic’s latest gale. And outside there is black but for the light in the shed over the cows. The cows are in their winter home chewing away at the silage before them mostly oblivious to the storm overhead.

With his tractor parked up for the evening, our farmer crawls around after young boys on the sitting room floor. Relieved with the break, I potter about the kitchen preparing the place for the holiday season ahead. There are lists to be written, mince pies for the freezer, the odd wall to be washed. There is much to be done for the arrival of Christmas and I’m glad of it. Winter I think can be hard in the country and find it perhaps little coincidence that such festivities (although theologists may disagree) take place during the darkest times in the year to remind us that there is light.

‘Light the candle’ the middle boy says as his head peeks over the counter top at me. ‘Burn another day.’ We burn the candle further down on its wick until it reaches number five telling us where we are in our preparations. We’ll have to go for the Christmas tree soon and the crib will go up. All the activities to keep us busy in our home until the light comes back and the heavy work begins again. All the activities that bring us together reminding us of the good, of how it is being together hibernating in the winter, of all the light we have in our lives.

Twenty one more sleeps.

We have a thinking mat at the front door, you might call it a metaphoric thinking mat since it was left outside the door recently and now it belongs to the dogs. On that thinking mat, you have to think of what you might need running out the door for the day ahead. It came about as I worried the children would inherit their mothers’ talent for misplacing things namingly, keys, wallet, glasses, hat. It is also a vain attempt to organize three young boys getting out the door in the morning.

Right, out the door, onto the thinking mat. Do you have lunch boxes, lunch bags, drinks, hats, coats? Yes, Mum. Right, straight into the car.

Opening the door you have to stand back this time of the year as in through the door comes a storm that has been building from somewhere mid Atlantic and blows full force in our front door. Windy you say? Grab the baby. We pay in Winter here in North Kerry for the summer’s day by the beach. In full.

On such a day, I carry or sometimes push each boy to the car. Go on, run. Tie yourself in. You too, go on, run. You can tie yourself in. Where’s your hat? Oh for Gods sake, what about the thinking mat? And where’s your lunch box, tie the baby in. Close the door, you’ll freeze. Hurry up and sit back so that I can tie you in, I’m catching my death here. Ok, tie yourself in and I’ll get the hat and what else? Oh yeah, lunchbox. Did you not brush your teeth? Didn’t I tell you to brush your teeth? Go on upstairs and brush them. You want a tissue? Code orange storm warning people. Okay, get in so and tie your belt and his. Zip up your jacket. Use your hanky. Where did you leave it? What will these boys come to if they can’t put a hat on their heads. Don’t have the time to worry about that now.

Right, Off we go? Whose bike is that in the drive? Didn’t I tell ye to park your bikes last night. I’ll go. At this point, there might be a little rain dance outside the car as the mother of the house ‘says a few prayers’. Calm restored, are ye all tied in? Ok so. Off we go. A rainy, windy, miserable day in a farmhouse in North Kerry. Thinking mat how are ya!

But for the humming of the fridge and the odd bellow outside, there is silence. The older boys are in school, the younger in a soft sleep. Through the window, winter gets on with it’s resting as grass slows down in growth and the fields take on a lighter green and in places yellow in it’s sleeping state. The tractor is parked, the parlour is empty, the cows are chewing on the mornings’ feed.

There is silence but for the humming fridge and the fingers tapping on the keyboard. At some point, the mind will up and at ’em at the washing up and the washing machine, the thoughts of lunch and dinner. For now, there is absolute quiet in the world. No ‘what happened?’ or ‘what will happen next?’, not for me the witty share in social media. Just this quiet, still moment painting the day clear.

From this place of quiet, there is less ambiguity. There is just good and bad. None of it in my control or yours I’m afraid.  I’ll be up soon and see the gate that was not painted, the Christmas list unfilled, the cupboard that needs cleaning, the little child that needs playing with. But I’m so happy to be here for this window of calm that colours the world lighter pastels for now. A door bangs, I hear the clock and stretch the creaky winter bones, glad of my rest with the winter day that lends me its quiet.