The drive to write has mostly gone. As I predicted.

The pills have done their job though. Feelings have been mostly squashed, so I’ve been a lot calmer, more productive and handled people and situations like a proper grown up. At least some of the time. There is now a brake on the urge to spill and I’ve realised that time sorts out most issues. Of course that can mean years, and I suspect it will in the case of the biggest worry in this family.

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Despite the chaos in the kitchen, I am actually still smiling. It’s been an eventful week, and the detritus of it all is still cluttering up the counter tops. But in between all the head-wrecking stuff, I found time to meet friends when I had a free hour on Wednesday morning, and brought Smiley to a coffee morning on her Friday off in aid of a local autism charity that has supported us. Smiley was in cake heaven, but manage to confine herself to just three, and I bagged the best raffle prize ever.


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I’ve always had a love hate relationship with my dishwasher. I had to be persuaded to get one, and I sometimes wonder if men like them more than women. Loading and emptying them seems to be one of those jobs that men volunteer for, and believe should be given priority over all else. At least in my experience.

To me the dishwasher always seemed like an insatiable monster that had to be forever fed with dirty dishes. And yes this family were great at satisfying its needs with up to three loads a day during the holidays.

Until it went wrong.


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So smacking has been banned in Ireland. And I approve. It wasn’t part of my parenting plan: it just made me angry and resentful as a child, and I agree with all the other arguments against it too. But I know parent who do smack, and who believe that it is their right , and that sometimes it is the only thing that works. I wonder what they will do now. I suspect many will continue, just not in public.

I also suspect that most of the people who support the smacking ban have no experience of children who behave in ways that push their parents beyond their limits.

That includes another taboo topic – children who are sometimes violent. The Irish charity Parentline has reported an increase in child on parent violence in recent years, but there is little coverage and even less being done to help families in this situation.

Smacking is NOT the answer to this problem either. At least in my opinion.


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It’s been a long road to this test, with many twists and turns, and we’ve both learned a lot on the way from that first bumpy session in the IKEA car park so long ago.

It was the best of days and the worst of days. I’d planned for everything except the weather. Do you remember last Saturday? There were rivers running down the streets with the kind of rain that would make a duck paddle for shelter.

In between, the sun shone. Making everything pretty and blindingly silvery and shiny. Perfect for an anxious 23 year old sitting her driving test for the first time, no?

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Did you read it? The letter from a mother to her 10 year old son complaining of his lack of respect towards her. It caused a predictable twitter storm and a rush to judgement.

I found the letter an uncomfortable read: initially I felt like a second class parent as I failed many of this woman’s parenting essentials. My second thought was relief that I didn’t breast feed. But it’s not that bad surely? I also began to be uncomfortable with the tone of it, and felt sorry for her son because of her martyred tone, and I recognised myself in her too. Then I caught myself on. Like everyone else on the internet, I was judging this woman, while knowing almost nothing about her.

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My garden is a mysterious place, rarely visited, except to hang out washing and water pots. My habitat these days is the kitchen, where I look out at the bins and ivy covered walks, where nothing else agrees to grow, and that little patch of sky above the next door chimney pots. There’s a hundred years of history in the garden, china fragments rise to the surface, plants unplanted appear and flourish. In fact they flourish too well. The bottom of the garden used to look like this, with wild flowers enjoying the dappled sunshine and shade provided by a beautiful yellow-blossomed laburnum tree. But sadly it never recovered from the snows of 2010 and 2011, it just limped on like a raggedy old scarecrow.

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