How to thank a Teacher - finding the perfect gift

I feel like I have run a marathon. My legs ache, my head is heavy, I am taking to my bed at seven at night and I have the energy of a sloth. It’s not only me. The kids are literally walking into walls, crying without hesitation, whining like they’re going for a world record and dropping like flies. The daily fight for a hairbrush between the girls in the house is now a full-blown Katie Taylor inspired brawl, leaving carnage and hairballs on the kitchen floor before nine in the morning. All of this is because it is the end of the school year and since last September we have been slaves to the school calendar. A few more days to go and we will be free. Free to lie in until midday, free to wear pyjamas for the entire summer and free of the constraints of the school lunchbox.  Roll on long hazy, lazy days of the school holidays (realistically that feeling lasts until week two by which stage I am ready to be airlifted out of the house into a strait jacket and committed to a facility for the temporarily insane).

“I’m going to make a cake for my teacher” announced the ten year old last week. “Everyone in my class is making her a cake.” It was the annual stress of how best to thank the teachers. For a year I have handed my three little fledglings over to the teachers. They in return have spent a year educating them well and they seem to know what they are doing.  Thank goodness, because I really don’t have a clue. In our house, parenting comes in equal measures of luck, guess work, self help books, peers, grandparents and Dr Phil. Like a load of other parents we cling on to the hope that our particular method of child rearing will be enough and they won’t end up on Prozac. The detailed, thoughtful school reports that came home this year meant a great deal because it reminded me that all in all my kids have had a good year. They genuinely love school because they have had three great teachers.  They are thriving in class and for that reason alone, teachers should be thanked; it is basic manners.

A cake would be a nice gesture but the over analytical person that I am thought about it. If every child in the class were to make a cake for their teacher, that would be somewhere in the region of thirty cakes, that’s before we’ve even established if the teacher likes cakes. What if she is diabetic? Wheat intolerant? Is allergic to eggs? The gift of a cake would be a big sweet risk.  “Buy her a smelly candle. Teachers like them” piped up the teenager. Once again my mind went into overdrive. If everyone gave their teacher a nice scented candle that would be thirty candles, imagine the danger she would put herself in if she lit them all at once. A teacher friend of mine received twenty candles one year. They all went to a charity shop a month later. “Body lotion?” “Perfume?” “A pen-knife?” The suggestions were coming thick and fast. I could feel a headache coming on.

I know a woman who bought her child’s teacher a designer handbag last year. Another sent teacher for a meal for two in a restaurant. Another mother sent in a case of wine. “I like to keep them sweet” she shared. I am sure that most teachers would love a bottle of wine but I am not sure that sending little Johnny in clutching a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Tesco is sending out the right message to young children. I did it one year but it felt wrong. “You’re the best teacher. Now get trolleyed”. What if the teacher ended up in rehab? I’d have yet more guilt to carry around on my already over burdened shoulders. One year I gave them lottery tickets. Upon reflection it was mad. If they had hit the jackpot they'd have left the school for Barbados. The kids would be have been devastated.

I decided to take inspiration from a teacher who a little while ago, for no reason whatsoever, sent some considered, handwritten letters home. These letters were sent to let a few parents know that their child had done something special in class. The result of this gesture was that for a short while, parents sat and read someone who knew their child well, to point out a simple but wonderful achievement that he or she had accomplished. As parents we don’t spend enough time celebrating our children. I know that the letters are still kept today by those parents. They are cherished because they are a true gift from the heart, not TKMaxx.

So Deidre Chute, Linda Marshall and Jenny Kavanagh at Scoil Bhride, Athgarvan, I shall not be buying you candles, perfume or a bottle of wine this year. I shall not be buying you a necklace that you might never wear or a voucher you’ll forget to spend. I shall not be buying you a handbag or scented draw liners and definitely not a pen-knife either. Instead I shall take this opportunity to publically praise you for your kindness, intelligence, patience and skill in making my children very happy this year and on their behalf I am taking your kindness and paying it forward. This is not a new concept but one I hope you approve of. As part of the SVP Gift of Hope campaign, in your names, some mosquito nets, chickens and a few fruit trees will be going to a small village in Zambia to feed and protect a not so lucky group of children.

Enjoy the summer holiday and think of me. Because I shall be spending it hiding under the kitchen table with a cushion over my head wondering just how on earth you teachers do it. Thank you.

Do you have a bitchy resting face?

In my neighbourhood, a few women really do have this terrible problem (I have been told that I am one of them unfortunately). This has to change. I am working on my resting face and going for something a little more friendly. Be patient. It may take some time. Please share this post and we can put a stop to this condition.  

Body and Soul Festival 2013

I missed this today at the Body and Soul Festival in Ballinlough Castle, West Meath. Shame. I bet it was fun.....

Waiting around in the woods for Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

Backstage with the 'Fuck Buttons'

Went to this.....

Made this.....

Listened to great music and ate uncooked food at Natasha's Raw Food Tent 

....and smiled when we saw this. 

Kildare County Show 2013

Sometimes words can not do justice to an event. That is exactly how it feels today, the morning after the Kildare County Show in Athy. The show is now 100 years old and going strong. 

Thousands of people turned up yesterday to watch, shop, compete and soak up the atmosphere. Here are some of my personal highlights. 

First prize in the 'Best Decorated Spoon' competition,

First in the 'Hand Crochet Children's Garment' competition,

and some delicious Hungarian Chimney Cakes. 

Children's Boxing,

 

trailer based Zumba classes,

and hair braiding.

We saw a woman with an owl....

a teenager with a rat,

a man with a fluffy bird and

a shaved Alpaca.

A hungry cow, 

a drumming workshop,

and a dog show.

We will be back next year! Thank you Athy!

PJ Harvey at Borris

As we took to our seats to hear Martin Amis talk at the Borris Festival of Writing and Ideas, a petite woman dressed in black (on what was the hottest day of the year in Ireland) sat in front of us. She was slightly blocking our view but we didn't complain. It was the legendary PJ Harvey. 

Martin Amis at the Borris House Festival of Writing and Ideas 2013

On Saturday 8th June 2013 Martin Amis came to the Borris House Festival of Writing and Ideas where he was interviewed by Sinead Gleeson. Here are some quotes.... 

On Women

"I am a gyno-crat"

On Thatcher

"My father had sex dreams about Margaret Thatcher. She was like the nanny who would spank your bottom. Christopher Hitchens told me once, "She stinks of sex".

On Katie Price

"She tried 100% as a mother. I struggled through four or five volumes of her autobiography. She updates you on her boyfriends".

On Christopher Hitchens

"He was the best company on earth. We made friends in our twenties. We lived our lived in parallel. We married at the same time. We had kids at the same time. We divorced at the same time. We got remarried at the same time. We had more kids at the same time. You lose a double. A secret sharer"

On reviews

"I don't read them. I get a level of insult that no-one else gets. I'm like Prince Charles. Kingsley is the king. I don't give them headspace. I need my mind to myself".

On himself

"When I was 30 the idea of a bottle of wine and a five hour read of me was the perfect evening"

On Writing

"Writing is ambition and anxiety in equal parts. There has to be that tension within you"

"When we say we love a writers work, we really only like half of it"

"A novel comes to you like a little de ja vu. A scene, a character, a moment that strikes you oddly".

"Write about what you know"

"A novel complies itself. Once the structure is there, it feeds on itself"

"Writing is celebratory. It is saying, isn't this worthy of wonder?"

"English poetry is the greatest on earth"

"Writers go off around the age of 70"

"Artists die twice. Once when the talent dies, second when you die"

"A poem stops the clock. It says LOOK AT ME, let's have this interaction"

"I'm not a reader of the young.  I read the dead".

"I would only write a children's book if I sustained a very serious head injury"

Dogs on Bikes

My 73 year old father has just got a new dog. He has been a biker all his life so when he told us that he had found the perfect way to get about town with 'April' we were intrigued. I searched the internet for ideas. 

1. Wrong type of bike. 

2. He only has one dog. 

3. His dog would not fit into a box. 

4. Too 'showy'

5. Too bulky.

6. His dog has not passed her driving test. 

7. He doesn't do three wheelers. 

8. Too snug. 

9. There's a safety issue here. 

10. This is what he has bought. Here's my dad and April. His and hers. The ideal way to travel.

HELP! Cats and dogs are taking over my house

This month has been an historic one as another daughter turned thirteen. That means there are two teenagers living in the house. That makes two young children, two teenagers, me, the dog and my husband under one roof. I am not sure whether to laugh or cry. Last weekend outside it was raining cats and dogs whilst inside the house it was an accusation from the newest teenager that was causing a cloudy atmosphere. 

"YOU LOVE THAT DOG MORE THAN ME" she shouted just before slamming the door of her bedroom in my face. This was less than five days after she turned thirteen. I swear that she would never have behaved like this a week previously. The transformation from happy go lucky child to moody teen has literally happened overnight. "Of course I don't," I reassured her through the door, my nose stuffed into the corner so tightly that I could smell WD40. 

I looked down at my feet. Our little dog Penny sat there quietly looking up at me. "YOU CAN'T EVEN GET MY NAME RIGHT" the just thirteen teen shouted through the door at me. I could detect that she wasn't hysterical yet; there was no need for Kleenex or the need to phone for assistance. I have a habit of calling up Lisa when times get hard. She is also a mother of teenage girls and my 'Phone A Friend' in a crisis situation. 

"Of course I know your name!" I comforted her through the door, my nose squashed right up to the hinge.It's not that I forget any of my kids names, I just get muddled up. I have to look at any one of them for a good five seconds before the name comes to me. It's part of the ageing process, name badges would help but tongues would start wagging. With the family pet in the mix it is true that occasionally I'll call one of the children 'Penny' by mistake. The two youngest children came bounding up to me. 

"Can we go outside? Got any ice pops?" they asked, reminding me that it really is summer. They ran off outside in the rain eating Loop The Loops. I looked down at the dog who was still looking up at me with total and utter devotion. I had been talking to the hinge for a good ten minutes when I decided to give up, head back to the kitchen and switch on Jeremy Kyle for light relief.  Ironically, the show was entitled 'My Kids Are Black And Angry!' which I could half relate to. 

The neighbour's black cat walked past the kitchen, watching me watching the angry family on the telly. The cat sat on the wall and stared at me like she hated me. I offered her food, she looked at me with disgust. I tried to stroke her. She hissed her disgust. That ungrateful cat looks down on me whether she is on the wall or not.  If I fainted with exhaustion after my morning of ironing, moody teenagers and Jeremy Kyle, she would have walked over my body. That cat thinks she owns the world and is totally and utterly self absorbed. As I lack lustily tackled the ironing, my eyes darting between the moody black cat, the angry black kids and a pile of shirts, my other teenager surfaced in a 'onesee'. It was just after midday. I decided to greet her with something benign but friendly. I have to choose my words very carefully as she is easily distressed by too much verbal interaction. 

"Good Morning Sunshine!" I tried. She grunted in my direction. That's a standard response in our house. Grunts are good, it means that she is alive and breathing. Any signs of life are a positive with teenagers. She shuffled past me like she had heavy, wet sandbags glued to the soles of her feet and headed for the fridge. I watched from behind the mountain of ironing as she opened the fridge door, let out an "AGGHHHH" and covered her eyes. The poor thing was almost blinded by the fridge light. Her sleeping patterns are such that she may as well live in a cave. Natural daylight and the glow from the fridge almost blinds her. It's a vampire like existence. I watched as she poured milk into her bowl, onto the kitchen counter and onto the floor. She emptied cereal on top, over the counter and onto the floor. Then I watched as she went back to her bedroom with her cereal, glancing at me with the same look of contempt that I get from the neighbour’s cat. I shouldn't encourage cereal in bed but I am learning to pick my fights, maintain an air of calm and do my best to give the impression that we a normal, not the least bit dysfunctional, family.

The two younger children came bounding back in. "It's stopped raining!" Insanely happy, they went back outside immediately with balls and rackets with a zest for life, energy, enthusiasm and humour that vanishes when the biological clock strikes thirteen. They'll chase a ball, go for a walk, try new adventures and generally lead a carefree, happy, uncomplicated existence. They are still full of cuddles, think I am GREAT and like nothing more than to be tickled. When I ask them to "Sit", "STAY" or "FETCH", they really do. I could enter either one of them into Crufts next year. 

At the other end of the spectrum, the teens stay in their room for the bulk of the day, occasionally preening themselves but mostly sleeping. They only surface once the sun has gone down and GLEE comes on the telly. I mustn't complain. It's what teenagers do. I did it and it drove my own mother as mad as I am now. My earliest childhood memory is of her sobbing into the ironing pile with Elvis in the background, doing her best to ignore us. Here I am thirty years later doing the very same. 

A friend quoted Churchill back to me as I moaned later that day, "Cats look down on us. Dogs look up to us. Pigs treat us as equals." Now there's a topic for Jeremy Kyle if ever there was one.