So, what have I been doing?

OK - I know it's been several months since there's been any insomniac blogger action. I was incredibly busy in work for the last few months before I finished up and went on maternity leave in November.

Baby boy number two was born at 8.26p.m. on Wednesday 29th November. He ended up being an emergency cesarean section and I had to have a general anaesthetic too, which was pretty awful. It took me weeks to get back to some semblence of normality after all that, but now (3 months later!) I actually feel like a human being again and I'm really enjoying being Mommy to my two wonderful boys.

I had my first night out with my husband since the new baby was born this week. I'd always wanted to see Dave Matthews playing live and the fabulous Conor had got tickets to his first ever Irish concert. We went with Gerry and Ursula and had a brilliant night. Mind you, I'm not sure which I enjoyed most - the gig, or having a night out with Con...

Anyhoo - now I've got broadband at home and very little excuse for not blogging more regularly, so I will make more of an effort to stay on-line while I'm not in work.

The Heimlich for Babies

I went into the weekend aged 29 and I arrived into work this morning, a haggard and care worn 40-something. I now have my first grey hairs and am walking with a distict stoop.

Why? Well, because we had a small stone-swallowing-and-choking episode yesterday, with a certain one-year-old who ought to know better than try to kill himself through maternal neglect at his paternal grandmother's house! (Talk about showing you up in front of the in-laws!!!)

Thank Christ, I knew how to do the baby-heimlich (i.e. Don't!) and got him to vomit it up pretty quick smart but scary, or what! I swear I lost half a stone from the shaking afterwards. And what was it about a nasty hard little grey pebble that looked so appetising?

I dunno. Anyway, all's well that ends well. I sent my child to his creche this morning clothed in bubble-wrap, with some well placed air-holes but nowhere for him to get a stone into his mouth... I'm a responsible mother, me!

I can't believe it's been a year already

I'm a bit late with this reportage, but can you believe that David is already a year old?
No, really, he is. He's nearly walking, chats and sings away to himself and is currently cutting his fifth tooth (yes, he's a bit of a late developer on the dental front!), which has made for some incredibly unsettled nights' sleep for Conor and I over the past couple of weeks.
(cf: Con's blog)

Anyhoo, better late than never, check out how cute my li'l boy is!

Scarle' fer ya!

I really didn't know where to put this story. It happened in the waiting room of the maternity hospital, so it could have gone under the Insomniac Baby banner. It involved a group of society that I don't have a lot of time for, so it could legitimately have been posted on the Insomniac Shit List. In the end, I decided it wasn't a tale I'd like to associate with my happy pregnancy and nor could I easily categorise it for the Shit List, so here it is, on the Tirade:

I was sitting in the waiting room of the maternity hospital for a few hours yesterday. It was really busy and lots of people were taking and making phone calls to say "I'm still waiting. I've been here for hours." The waiting room was incredibly busy and there were stacks of people waiting for visiting hours to begin aswell, so the whole place was jammers.

There was a young couple - aged anywhere between 16 and 20, their skin was too bad to be able to tell - sitting beside me on the benches in the waiting area, who had been getting streams of phone calls (about four or five each) all day. They'd had essentially the same conversation with each caller: "Naaah! I'm stiiill bleedin' waitin'..." or "Naaaah! We're stiiill bleedin' waitin' ta be seen by de dooooctor, bud..."

Eventually, she went in and was out again after 10 or 15 minutes. "Y'aaal righ'?" says he. She replied at the top of her voice, in the middle of the crowded room: "Yeah. I'm grand. 'S only de trush."

"Oh, my God!", I thought to myself. "I can't believe that you've just yelled that out in front of everyone. I am absolutely mortified on your behalf."

"Ah, just de trush?", says the boyfriend loudly, to be heard over the din of the waiting visitors. "Ah, jaysus, dat's alrigh' den."

"Oh, my God!", I thought to myself. "I can't believe that you've just yelled that out in front of everyone. I am absolutely mortified on your behalf."

Then, one by one, the girl begins to return the phone calls of her concerned parents and friends: "How'r'ya Ma! 'Sgrand. 'Sjust de trush!"; "How'r'ya Concepteh. Yeah, 'sgrand. 'Sjust de trush!"; "How'r ya Angeleh. Jaysus! 'S de bleedin' trush!"

At this stage I was beginning to wish that they would either vacate the bench beside me and leave the waiting room, or failing that, the the ground would open up and swallow me. I didn't think it could get any worse. I was wrong.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and starts dialling. "How'r'ya Ma? Yeah, she's grand. 'Sjust de trush!"

Enough! In the parlance of our maternity hospital waiting rooms, "Jaysus! I'm bleedin' scaaaaarle' fer yez!"

It all started innocently enough

It was all fairly innocent to begin with. Gerry, who misses us terribly and wants to feel like he’s still part of our family even though he now lives a couple of hundred miles away, sent us a copy of this article about a dumb-ass couple who named their son Drew Peacock (say it out loud and quickly a couple of times – you’ll get it).

This is the e-versation that followed…

Gerry: Ideas for Mr Murnane Jr... (Drew Peacock article)
Sinéad: yeah, I don't think so...
Gerry: Drew Peacock Murnane? I think it has a certain ring to it. Come on, its almost like calling the kid Jim
Conor: Hahaahaha.
Sinéad: yeah, still no...
Conor: Dirk, Al, Joe, Konrad, Rico, Tyler, Pancrazio (I really like this), Pious, Agbatha, Duff, Abbadon, Dagobert, Ahitophel, Tatnai, Ur, Krisna, Pancho, Dallas, Parker, Yan, Bob, Dagget, Constantine
Gerry: I really don't like to question this, but are you sure you should have kids? The list of names seems a bit cruel. The kid;s gonna get his ass kicked each and every day. I think Sue is probably a better option. And how do you pronounce Pancrazio?
Sinéad: Please leave my unborn child alone, you mean bastards. Joe is off the list, by the way
Gerry: How about Michael Badly Murnane. Then all the girls will be after them... Think about it a while...
Sinéad: Ok, I give up. I don't mind admitting when I'm defeated - I don't get it...

(I’ve lost the next bit of the conversation – the strands split a little here. The upshot was that all the girls want Mickey Badly… Conor brings us back with a bit of Blankety Blank (an eighties game show))

Conor: Clint after Clint Cassidy. After all, he was probably the product of some____
Sinéad: The answer had better not be "some cow from Montana"
Conor: 150 blanks. Fooling around during Doc
Sinéad: y'know, we could always go a bit Posh'n'Becks with this and name him Blanchardstown, or Sofa
Gerry: Not The Sofa™ that every time you left Jim there he sat there naked with the cat on his lap, lad in one hand and jay in the other? And as for what he did there with the mars bars… The poor kid.
Sinéad: Could be worse, Gerry - we might want to call the child "Gerry's Pillow (Both Sides) Murnane"
Gerry: Krusty Murnane?
Conor: Was away from my desk doing some work. My, the conversation has progressed. Sin, let’s have a dinner party, drink some of that vino. How does the first weekend in December sound?
Sinéad: Sounds wonderful - would sound even more wonderful if *I* could drink some of that vino too...

(I’m missing the next bit, where the possibility of getting Jim and his missus out of Cork and up to Dublin for a weekend this side of Christmas is discussed)

Gerry: You should do, Jim has been talking of heading to Dublin. I'm trying to change Barcelona to that week tho.
Conor: Sin, you can drink some vino. Two glasses only. No more. No sirree. Gerry, does that mean you'll be entertaining Mrs.Conor next weekend? Could reschedule dinner to second week in December? Or this weekend coming?
Gerry: I’m hoping to entertain Mrs Conor next weekend. If by “entertain”, you mean let her sit there and watch me smoke grass all weekend. The thing with Barcelona is it’s a Saturday to Saturday job, so its most of 2 weekends gone. I’ll let you know once I have dates for it. Is Mr Conor coming down to help me entertain Mrs Conor? Or should I be prepared to show her what a Real Man™ is like? (Only happy to do so, got shit loads of ironing to give her)

So, you may wonder why on earth I thought you’d be interested in reading a conversation I had yesterday. I was really just looking for your sympathy votes. D’ya see what I have to put up with from my friends? Supportive, my arse!