Well, originally, it was a way to keep people far away updated about our life.  As it is with many blogs.

Then it was also a way to keep my writing skills fresh, which meant sharing more stories.

Then I decided to add to it some music I like, mainly to have at least one reason a week to blog.  Because every song has a story it seems.

Then it morphed a bit when we moved to Ireland, and it became a way to keep people very very far away updated about life, and to explain life in a different country.

Then one day a few months ago, I posted about word usage, and suddenly I was thrust into the Special Needs Spotlight.  I became a big old petite young advocate, speaking for others.

And now?

Well, I’m still sort of doing all of that still.  But with a much larger audience.

When people ask me what I blog about, I usually say “Life.”.  Because I don’t see myself as someone who blogs about kids, or Ireland, or music, or writing, or special needs.  I blog about whatever is in my head.

And there’s a lot of stuff rolling about in my head.  None of it is organized, categorized, or labeled.  It’s just all there, waiting to be spilled out.

I’m not just a mommy blogger (I’m not even sure I qualify for that, as no child has called me “mommy” for years and half are taller than me.)  I’m not just an ex-pat blogger, or a writer blogger, or even just a special needs blogger.  I’m just a “this is my life” blogger, chock full of all things.

So that’s the deal.  You bear with my slightly ADD* ways and I promise not to get to distracted by squirrels.

I make no promises about shiny objects though.  I’m always distracted by shiny objects.

ooo…sparkly…

*please realize that we are, in fact, a household containing people with ADHD of various levels.  I do not make light of it, but I do joke irreverently about our realities.  It’s my coping skill.  Once upon a time, my therapist asked if I thought I was ADHD and my answer was “I don’t know if I am, or I’ve been living around it for so long that it’s rubbed off on me.”  She laughed and said the latter was possible.  

Now, my grandfather was a storyteller.  So Josh decided to record him telling one of his Army tales from WWII.  A few weeks ago, I found the transcript that Josh typed out.  Actually, I probably typed it out as Josh was horrible at typing…anyhoo, I found it, and I have to admit, I can still hear his voice telling this story.  At the time, my grandfather was about to slip full-fledge into Alzheimer’s, bastard disease that it is.  Josh only got to meet him a handful of times.  But because of Josh, I also have one of my grandfather’s stories, in his own words…

My mother, she was from the Old World you see…

Now, my brother Carl, he writes me a letter down in camp while I’m in Tenneesee and I read the letter and of course naturally my brother says, uh, “Don’t worry, Ma’s fine, but we had to put her in the hospital.”

Well I knew it was bad right there.  My mother never went to a doctor even.

Well, I had a hillbilly captian, and I went up to him and I asked him…I tried to explain to him that sh ewas a person who just always did her down doctoring, you know, well, if she was in the hospital, it’s gotta be serious.

“Well,” he says to me – he was a hillbilly – (this is where my Chicago grandfather would put on a Southern accent) – so he says to me, “Weeeelll Ree-zee-to” he says, “I can’t give you no furlough.”

I said “All I want is three days to get up there.”  I was in North Carolina, “to get up to Chicago, and to see how she is.”  

And Wrighton [says] “No you can’t.”

So I says “Okay” and I”m waking away and he says “Ree-zee-to” – he could never get my name right – he said “You go over the hill and I’m gonna throw the book atchya.”

I said “I wouldn’t think of doing that!”  And my lieutenant was next to him, he was smiling, you know, and he knew damn well I was gonna go.  He didn’t say nothing.

So I went in the barracks and found money from all the guys and there was someone who said  ”How’d you get a furlough?”

And I said “I didn’t get a furlough.  I’m going over the hill.”  So I got enough money from them to ride the bus.  And every time I come to a stop in different towns, I’d tell the bus driver (cause they were all about eligible for the draft) and I’d say to them “Would you mind dropping me off a block this side of the station?” Because the word would go out and all the MP’s would be looking in the stations you  know…and I’d say to the driver “Can I get off before and I’ll meet you a block away when you start up?”  And he says “Sure.”  Everybody went out of their way…

I finally got home.  But I didn’t go home, I went to the hospital.  Of course they were waiting for me and I says “Hey, I made it this far, can I at least go in and see  my mother?”  And they let me.  

So I was in the room with my mother and the doctor comes in – he was a friendly doctor – hey says “Tell me something…are those three guys up there, are they looking for you?”  

I says “Yeah.” and he says “Well, just stay here.”  

He must have called up someone, and he came back and says to me “You’ve got a ten day furlough.”  

So it worked out fine…yet…she died anyway. (he paused here for a moment…)

Then I didn’t want to go back and all my brothers were saying “Get out of here, you’ll get us all in trouble!” (he said with a laugh.)

So I went back.  And boy, talk about luck.  When I got back, they’d changed captains.  And hew as a nice guy too.  He says “Ah, forget it.”

And that’s all that’s to it. 

My grandfather (left) and a friend – the caption he wrote on the back – “In love with the Army” – HA!

Well, sort of.  That’s also the AWOL trip that he and my grandmother got married.  And then there’s another AWOL story, after Pearl Harbor was bombed (he went home to straighten things out with his new in-laws.)  He did get in trouble for that stunt.  But in his own usual style, got lucky.  And so on, and so forth.

But there’s the backstory, about a boy who loved his ma, who would go to the movies with her, and get in a world of trouble because of skipping school, and who’d watch her make spaghetti on the dining room table.  He was the baby of the family, a later-in-life surprise for his mother, and the youngest of eight children.  I remember him telling how his mother wasn’t happy that her baby was drafted.

But he wrote her – even though she didn’t speak English, he still wrote to her.  Because I found this letter in a box of his Army mementos my grandma gave me years ago…

click to enlarge

click to enlarge

There’s something sweet about a boy writing home to tell his ma how he’s just coming back from church…something my Catholic-Italian great-grandmother would have been concerned about, I’m sure.

Speaking of sweet – here are my grandparents, sweethearts that they were…

Jual O’Hanley Rizzuto, circa 1941

Edward Rizzuto, circa 1941

To me, these two embody what I am to remember on Memorial Day. Not so much the trials and tribulations they went through during WWII, but how they managed to handle it with humor and acceptance.  That’s just how things were, you dealt with it.

And afterwards…man, did they have a life together!

So instead, I’m sharing random thoughts and pictures…

After yesterday’s unveiling of the full moon, my friend and I decided to walk down the pier in Dun Laoghaire .  It wasn’t as sunny – in fact, it was very hazy out this morning, maybe the closest thing to a humid day I’ve had here when it hasn’t been raining.  But it was okay, because just like every other pale Irish person here, I got sunburned yesterday.

So today, sprayed down in SPF 50, I went walking with the friend.

Yesterday, we saw dolphins.  Today?  We saw jellyfish.  Yep, jellyfish.  Little pale things bobbing along under the water’s surface.  I guess there are a lot of them in town to lay spores or something, but moreso, upsetting people used to their daily swim in the different coves.

But we’re just a couple of gauche American gals, going “Oh look!  Jellyfish!  How cool!”  Because this Midwestern girl has never seen a live-in-the-sea jellyfish before.

It was because of the jellyfish that I found myself keeping an eye on the water.  Which is why I noticed this little guy on the rocks.

Can you see him?  The little baby sea lion?  Hanging out on the rocks, waiting for mum to come back with breakfast.  And a nice crane hanging out with him.  He was adorable, all big brown eyed, playing with his flippers and rolling about.

I will admit, the mom in me got a bit “Oh, I hope he’s okay, where’s his parents?” but another woman came by and was all “Oh! Isn’t he adorable?   He was over there yesterday.”  assuring us that the baby wasn’t abandoned.

So on our way we went.  Now, it’s a harbor, and there are boats, and I have to admit, I got a giggle out of this boat’s name.  So I took a crappy cell phone picture of it to share.

Dick Dastardly – Boat

At this rate, my friend and I are going to end up on a nude beach with unicorns frolicking or the like.  I promise to take pictures if we do.

And now, to pick up the house before a gaggle of tween girls arrive.

Today, in our quest to prepare better for the marathon we’re walking, my friend M. and I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather and go walking outdoors.  I suggested Killiney Beach.

So we went out, and wandered down the beach and I taught her the fine art of spotting sea glass (which she picked up quickly, adding to my collection.)  We wandered far, met a man who pointed out which house was Enya’s and which one was Bono’s (unknowingly aiding me in my stalking, mwuahahaha)…then we started to head back.

I noticed a boat go by – a small one – usually in the distance, you’ll see big ships and ferries.  But then, I noticed something and thought “Couldn’t be…”

But it was…

Dolphins.

Dolphins peeking up as they swam by.

How freaking cool is that?

So we sat and watched the dolphins for a while, trying not to be all “OMG! It’s a DOLPHIN!” – and failing.  Eventually though, the dolphins swam off, and we started walking again.

And there we were, on the beach, sun shining, water glistening, school girls in blouses and skirts coming down from the local secondary school, squealing while trying to take a picture with their feet in the sea, dogs trotting happily, children toddling…and some middle aged dude in nothing but a purple Speedo.

Yeah, I snickered.  I will never ever be European enough to think a Speedo looks good on anyone.

And then, Mr. Purple Speedo cut into the little alcove, a few feet from us, put his stuff down…and proceeded to drop trow.  Peeled the purple Speedo off, exposing his glowing white moon to the world.  All within about five feet of us.

I of course nudged my friend M., who looked over.  Her comment – “Is he seriously changing into something smaller?”

Why yes.  Yes he was.

He changed from a purple Speedo to some little black slightly wider than a thong thing.  Exposing more of his pale white behind to the world.  Which lead to the comment “Gee, I hope he at least used sunscreen.”

And yes, I said “Look around!  It IS smaller!  LOOK!”  And M. did, good sport that she is. I may owe her a drink for that.

This lead to what could have been the title of the blog post – Dolphins and Ass-cheeks - as that’s what the joke was  on the way back to the car.  I look one way and see beautiful dolphins in the glistening water.  M. looked the other way and saw a pair of glowing white ass-cheeks that should have NEVER seen the light of day.

And that was our walk on the beach.

Start blaring one particular song – because it’s meant to be played loud.  Great Big Sea’s “Straight to Hell”.

Cue doorbell.

Actually, cue dog barking hysterically, so I shoo her out the back door, then answer the front door.  To find a lovely older man in a tweed coat who’d like to talk to me about God.

Who knew there were Jehovah’s Witnesses in Ireland?

So there I am, trying to plead my spiritual case with “No, really, we’re pretty Catholic here.” and “Yes, we do own several Bibles.”  I did not go all Eliza Doolittle on him with a “I’m a good girl I am!”  Nor did I state “I swear, I’m NOT a heathen!”

But he was a lovely man with a lovely accent, who nicely told me a few things about his faith, and then we chatted about the sunny weather,  wished each other a good day and he went on his way.  I’m not sure he bought the fact that I can be religious, and I don’t blame him.  Not with the lyrics floating out of my windows.

Ah well, it gave me a giggle.  And I’ve cursed in front of nuns before, so I’m going to hell anyway.

…this is the song…you’ll understand why I needed to play it loudly…

Today marks a big day in the Herding Cats Household.  Just turned 9 years old Maura – who has been learning how to use this strange water-filled thing in the bathroom – has used the potty today.

Not once.

Not twice.

But four times.

And the last two times were self-motivated.

Yes world, my daughter TOOK HERSELF TO THE POTTY – AND THEN PEED IN IT!  BY HERSELF!

AND I’M TELLING EVERYONE! IN ALL CAPS!  BECAUSE IT IS THAT EXCITING!

You would too if you’ve been changing diapers for over sixteen years straight.

Today very well may be the first day of the rest of my life.  Without diapers.

I can’t even imagine.

Not only are they local, but in looking up different videos of them on YouTube…I’m pretty darn certain this is the group Maura always wanted to stop and watch when we’d be down on Grafton Street on the weekends last year.  It makes sense – I knew their name (The Riptide Movement) sounded familiar when I looked up the song.

Grafton Street is down in the heart of Dublin, near Temple Bar and the Liffey, the statue of Molly Malone at one end, St. Stephen’s Green on the other.  As the husband has heard – any musician worth his/her worth has spent time busking on Grafton.  Last Christmas Eve, Bono was even out there singing a song or two.

So at any time, you’ll find a musician or ten on Grafton Street.  Maybe it’s just a guy with a trumpet at 2 am, or it’s a woman dressed in retro clothing singing French tunes.  There’s classical Spanish guitars, two teenage boys with a guitar, an amp and a microphone.  And then you can have a whole band.

This band was one of them. They’ve paid their dues, and now they’re on the radio.   Good job guys, good job!

The song is “Thieves in the Gallery” by The Riptide Movement

When you approach it, coming down this curving hill, you see the people.  There’s always people coming from there.  Either from the shopping centre or the train stop.  But there they are.  Grannies with carts, moms with baby buggies, young guys in slouchy hats, girls in shorts and tights and huge sweaters.  With bags and backpacks and carrying items.

Really, everyone looks like a shoplifter it seems, especially if they’ve been grocery shopping.  Mums have baby buggies with cartons of juice and packages of chicken and salad in the buggy.  Guys walk out of the store with a case of beer and a bag of chips stacked on it.  Once, a woman came into the pub with a loaf of bread she bought on the way over, to make sure she had some for her kids lunches the next day, sat the loaf of bread on the table, ordered a glass of wine.

See, in Ireland, they don’t do plastic shopping bags.  You bring your own bag to the grocery store, or they’ll charge you for one.  We had to get used to bringing grocery bags.  Luckily, we knew this before coming, so half my bags say “Whole Foods” or “Target” on them.  It’s also something we’ve warned other Americans moving here to make sure they bring if they already have them.

But there are times you decide to grab something at the store and you realize you have no bag.  So you just carry it out in your arms.  Again, I refer you to the shoplifter look.  Because it is a bit weird to see someone with a package of chicken in hand, bottle of shampoo tucked under the other arm.  And a little strange to see someone stuff groceries into a backpack, or into their big shoulder bag.

Now though?  We’ve been here long enough that we’ve walked out of the store a few times balancing a package of meat on top of the big box of Cheerios.  Oh sure, it’s only about 40 cents to buy a bag….but why waste the money when you have two perfectly good arms?

All that said – I still got a giggle when I watched a couple with a baby in the stroller and a young child skipping next to them walk by and saw the mom carrying a hula hoop over one arm.  Even here, you don’t see that every day.

You’ve taught me things I didn’t know I needed to learn.  Reminded me to slow down, enjoy life, enjoy each moment.  You’ve helped me become a stronger person, a better person.  You show me how amazing your siblings are, and because of you, I don’t take anything your brothers and sister do for granted.

You’re a girl who refuses to be labeled or pigeon-holed.  You’re a girl who loves music, loves to dance, loves to smile and laugh.  As the Irish would say, you like good craic.  You are also full of independence and determination, to the point where we’ve given up thinking you can’t do something – because usually, you’ll prove us wrong.  At the very least, you’ll give it a shot.  You also have a temper and a stubborn streak to match any other female in the families, and a love of shoes and shopping that should be unholy for a girl who also loves sports so much.

But mostly, you’re just our girl.  You’ll always be our girl, hich is why I’m so grateful you are such a happy, music-loving, could spend hours on the beach kind of girl.

So happy birthday Maura!  Thank you for being you, and for loving the rest of us so unconditionally.

Little Maura, back when she was blondish

October 2010 – Maura with Penguin

Proving her awesomeness with a TARDIS shirt

Me, trying to knit and drink tea. Maura, deciding she needed to snuggle. Such is life with my long-legged girl.

Here’s the deal – I’m a bit of a freakshow.

I mean that in the nicest, sweetest, most entertaining of ways.  But let’s be honest – I have issues. I have pretty baggage that coordinates, which I’ve collected over the years.  And I’m not talking about family – HA!

No, I have a collection of anxiety, depression, and a few phobias.  All of which I brushed off as “not that bad” until they became THAT bad.  Something about having a panic attack, where my face went numb and I couldn’t figure out how to breathe correctly led me finally to seek help, learn that what I was dealing with was actually huge, that I wasn’t just making stuff up, and hey, sometimes a little Prozac can be your friend.  Eventually, Prozac and I were able to part ways, and depression lifted, anxiety chilled out.

But I still have Issues.  Lovely, sparkly Issues.  Like anything to do with vomiting (heck, the word itself can make me feel queasy).  Or most recently – dental issues.

Yes, I have a Big Fat Fear of the dentist.  A fear that I know is a bit ridiculous.  I’ve always had great dentists – it was actually my orthodontist that caused me so much pain.  Especially with the hook.  Every damn visit, I’d end up with a hook in the gum.  To the point that I would wait for it, do my customary yelling of “Ow!” and he’d apologize and be more careful.  Then there was the day my eye tooth was in the way – so he moved it.  He physically moved it.  Do you know the nerve ending for that tooth runs up along the side of your nose and around your eye?  I didn’t either until that moment.

So yeah, I have well-earned fears about my teeth.  I avoided the dentist for most of my adult life until my back molar cracked.  I vowed to stop being a dumbass about not going to the dentist.  I also stopped drinking pop for the most part because of an acid chart in the dentist’s office.  Now when I drink a Coke, I am certain I can feel it eating away at the enamel.

Anyhoo – a couple weeks ago, I was eating a muffin, felt a bit of an “ow” and chewed on something not soft.  I was certain – CERTAIN – I had broken a tooth.  CERTAIN.  It made sense in my poor anxiety-riddled brain.  I mean, sure, I’d been to the dentist 6 months before, she looked over it all, did x-rays, all was well.  But I could be grinding my teeth at night for all I know and that’s why all my teeth are crumbling out of my mouth.

Of course, the right and proper thing to do in this situation…is panic and try to ignore the pain.  Some days it didn’t hurt, other days, it did.  Every day, I’d vow I’d call the dentist.  Every day, I’d conveniently forget that vow.  Some days, I had no pain and then think “Wow, my tooth doesn’t hurt” and instantly I could feel the nerve flare up.

Meanwhile, I was certain more pieces of tooth were trying to crumble off.  And I thought of my grandmothers, both long-lived ladies and wondered, if I’m not yet forty, and they lived to be 88 and 92, I’m going to have to spend the next 50 years worrying about these teeth!  What if they don’t last!  I should stop avoiding that phone call!

And then it’d be Friday afternoon – too late to do something.

Eventually, it got to be too much.  I finally got up one morning, and confessed to my husband that I needed to go to the dentist, then started crying…

Have I mentioned I have the best husband in the world?  Who offered to call the dentist, take me to the appointment, sat with me as the dentist checked out my teeth, called them all good, but mentioned a seed had gotten stuck way up there in my gums.

A seed.

All this for a seed.

This is where the rational side of my brain turns to the irrational side and says “You’re such a dork.”

So now, I’ve had that area flushed out and flossed intensely and flushed again with an antiseptic, have some specialized mouthwash to use for the next few days, and a new lipstick as a reward for being such a brave girl at the dentist.  Worst case scenario is that there is a small cavity or crack that they can’t see, if the pain persists, to just go back.  But he was pretty certain there was nothing wrong except a seed causing all sorts of inflammation and issues.

A seed.

And once again, the rational side of my brain is saying “See?  It wasn’t that bad.  It’s NEVER as bad as you think it’ll be.” ..as the irrational side of my brain mutters “feck off” under its breath and admits the rational side was right.

Secretly, my irrational side is relieved to know that my teeth aren’t all crumbling out of my mouth.  And once again, I’m vowing not to be so dorky about visiting the dentist.