The Greatest Love Song...?

It struck me this morning, as I woke from a scanty sleep and looked at my equal (not better - no way!) half, that Love is very over-rated. Not that I don't love my 'other' half, I do actually. I tried to sit up, and wrench my shoulderblades back into a more natural position, and he sat on the edge of the bed and negotiated the minor minefield of putting on his socks. The cause of our discomfort (apart from encroaching age) lay flat on his back, legs akimbo, arms astretch, oblivious to the pain he had inflicted during the night! Our son. Our darling boy - not so darling at four in the morning when he insinuates himself in between us and pushes the duvet down to our knees, but he says "love you Mom" as he does it, and you can't get cross then can you...

The wretch. But it was ever thus. I remember looking at my daughter when she was about 4 months old, and being convinced that babies develop the smile reflex at a few months old because otherwise the human race would have come to another dead archaeological end. They smile, and instantly, we melt. We coo, gurgle ridiculously and provide food, shelter, electronic goods, overpriced shoes... and of course, Love! I sound like a right curmudgeon, and it's true. Put it down to the pain in my neck that still hasn't gone away 16 hours later...

Being a curmudgeon is probably the reason that I can't read a Mills & Boon book. When the cool clean hero looks adoringly into her eyes and tenderly wraps a blade of grass around her trembling finger, I tend to think something like "Yeah, give it 10 years and 2 or 3 babies, and you'll be lucky to get that adoring look is when you serve up the hindquarters of a bullock on top of a mound of spuds, my dear girl".

If ever I wrote a love story, my hero and heroine would be so boring... I would model them on my favourite love song. Not by Celine Dion, Bryan Adams, or even Chopin... No, I'd have Seán Eoin Ó Suilleabháin as my choice. Here are the words of Mise 'gus Máire, a story of a man who loves his wife, has a twinkle in his eye and good range to his voice! I won't do it the injustice of translating it. It's perfect just as it is.

Mise ‘gus Máire

Táimse ‘gus Máire go sásta ‘nár n’aigne,
Ó nascadh i bpáirt sinn ag an altóir ró bheannaithe
Thug sise grá, thar cáirde ‘gus fearaibh dom
Thógas ar láimh í, ‘s go brách, brách ní scarfaimíd
Bead-se ‘seinnt cheoil dí, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.

Tá mo theaghlach san áit is fearr ar an mbaile seo,
I bPáirc an tShrutháin, a sharaíonn cead acra
Cruithneacht a’ fás ann chomh h-árd leis na clathacha
‘Is mé ‘feitheamh don tráth san go bhfeice mé aibidh é
Bead-sa seinnt cheoil dí, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.

Tá torthaí a’fás im gháirdín go slachtaithe
Úlla, spiúnáin agus cúiríní dearga
Siúcre i mála le ráithe go taiseithe
Chun subh is mílseáin don bháb, ‘is don bhanaltra
Bead-sa seinnt cheoil dóibh, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.


Sí mo chéile-se Máire, an stáidbhean mhodhúil mhaisiúil
A’faire ‘n chliabháin, ‘is an páiste ‘r a sheascaireacht,
Stoca ‘na lámhaibh, ‘is na bioráin innte preabarnaigh
Í a’cniotáil, ‘is a’crónán do’n leainbhín
Mise a’seinnt cheoil dóibh, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.

Sé mo ghuí chun an Árd-Mhic na grásta do scaipeadh orainn,
‘Is go leanfaidh an t-ádh seo, gan gátar ná easba sinn,
Nuair a thiocfaidh lá an áirimh ar Mhághaibh úd Jhosaifet
Go dtóga Dia ar láimh sinn anáirde go Parrathas,
Bead-sa seinnt cheoil ann, poirtíní beál agam
Reics fol dí-ó, reics fol dí ai de dil aigh dí.

Post NAMA Depression - the Remedy!

I realised on the 4th of April - Easter Sunday - that NAMA-paralysis had taken control of my brain. I woke up with the word Anglo seared onto my brain, honestly. I had spent the previous three days following every post, tweet, radio and TV interview on the subject.

I had dragged myself out of bed each morning, since I was off work (not by choice I might add). I dragged myself from my PC at 2 am, 3 am, even later... I had calculated and recalculated how much I would end up paying for Anglo, for NAMA in general. I had day-dreamed about what tortures I would inflict on Seanie (Fitzpatrick), Patrick (Neary), Fingleton, Drumm, Cowen, Ahern, Linehan, the list goes on and on and on and on... I was burned the hell OUT.

To make matters worse, I had promised my little boy that I would take him, and his two best friends, out for the day on that particular day - Easter Sunday. Well, the state of the economy, the world, the political landscape, are inconsequential trivia to a nine-year old boy. And so they should be. So off we went to Cool Wood in Killarney.

The drive was fine - not too long. The children didn't know where they were going so I kept the conspiracy up til we arrived. The lads ran after geese, who ran back at them hissing like mad. They searched for eggs and got tons of treats. The emus looked at me in that vacant supercillious way they have. The lama patrolled his patch with the watchfulness of a presidential bodyguard. The sun shone briefly. People nodded to each other and smiled to themselves while they watched the childrens' delight in finding a little plastic egg... and eggs means T R E A T S !!

When the rain started it was just a sprinkle, not a downpour. We were ready to leave in any case, so we made our way home and I fed the lads before taking them home. By then the rain really was bucketing down, but we'd had a good day, they were happy, and my brownie credit points were at Anglo levels.

Arriving at one of the boy's houses, I missed the turn and had to reverse... BAD MOVE. Distracted by the fog from the hot little lungs that had been screaming in the back of the car, the drivers side of the car went off into a shallow ditch on the roadside. It wouldn't have been a problem except for the rain.

I was stuck in mud as slick as an estate agent. Now this should have been when my depression, which had lightened during the time with the boys, should have kicked back in. Normally, if something goes wrong with the car, I'll sit in the driver's seat and bang on the wheel in frustration. But somewhere during the manoevering myself out of the car and knee deep in cold mucky water, gathering stones to shove under the wheel with cold mucky fingers, I started to giggle.

I called my husband when it didn't work and I dug myself deeper. My daughter sent me a text saying "What's up, what's wrong, r u OK? /" I sent a message back - "I'm fine, car stuck in the mud and me covered in it!" with a picture attached of me complete with mudpack. The giggling got worse, and I thought it was hysteria, and tried to hold it in. But when I slipped and got my bottom thoroughly soaked as well, with the concerned Mom of Boy 1 looking on, I just started to laugh properly.
What else was there to do...!

D'you know, that belly-laugh did me the world of good. The depression lifted. I'd still love to engage in a little light torture, but I'd do it through ridicule rather than red-hot pokers - and that's progress in my eyes.