The SS Inspiring Women

Musings on inspiring women

By Aine Heneghan

‘Mum had the girls so the lads could laugh at your fuck ups’. This was a flippant remark made at a family gathering. We all laughed, but inside I wasn’t laughing. That statement hit its target and struck deep. I gave that statement power in that moment. I let that statement rock my already unsteady foundation. I was in my thirties and had just boarded the motherhood ship. I’m guessing that some of you reading this will concur that motherhood is unknown territory and there’s no map or compass to guide you. Like explorers, we feel our way along the rocky terrain of decision making, on everything child related and hope that our sense of direction leads to a fully formed, emotionally confident, happy adult. Hope is the defining word here. I didn’t set out on this journey to make a mess of motherhood. I had hopes and aspirations of being the best mum I could be. Unfortunately, I hadn’t factored in the emotional baggage I was bringing to this venture. I wasn’t aware I was carrying baggage let alone knowing what was in the baggage.

My late teens and twenties were full of crazy experiences, adventures and colourful characters. I knew, from growing up in the family business, a Bed and Breakfast, that travel was on the cards for me. I was fascinated by the guests who came from all over the world. I knew from an early age there was a bigger world waiting for me to explore. I was envious of the brothers, as one by one, they packed their rucksacks and ventured off. I couldn’t wait for my turn to come. At 17, my turn came. I skidded through the Leaving Cert exams, and was unaware that a phone call from America was about to change my life. An American couple who stayed with us the previous year rang to ask if I would travel to America as their nanny. I heard two words: travel and America. All else was background babble. Obviously, the parents said they needed time to talk about this, and they would get back to them. As soon as the phone rested on the handset, I was in plea-bargaining mode. I hounded them. I was relentless. They eventually agreed, and I was winging my way to America. I have no memory of what happened between the agreement and the aeroplane, but … I was buzzing.

Standing at the baggage terminal in JFK, I waited patiently for my backpack to appear. Two Mormons approached me to discuss religion and invited me to follow them. I declined politely and returned my gaze to the baggage carousel. As my rucksack wasn’t forthcoming, I went to the customer desk to enquire as to what I should do next. Taking my ticket, the lady laughed and informed me that my luggage was automatically transferred, and I was supposed to get a shuttle bus to catch the connecting flight to O'Hare.  She could see my confusion and thankfully escorted me to a bus outside. As the door swung open, she quickly informed the big, burly New York driver of my predicament, and he bellowed, ‘hold on all, we can’t let the little Irish leprechaun miss her flight’. Gesturing me to stand beside him, I swear there was smoke coming from those wheels as we tore off and true to his word, the little Irish Leprechaun made her connecting flight. Soon, I was tucked in between two Irish businessmen, who listened to my story and then plied me with drink. I was a willing participant. Arriving at O'Hare, I bade them farewell and went about my business of customs, baggage and finding my new employer, slightly squiffy. Not an ideal demeanour meeting my employer, I know. Standing waiting with his sign, which thankfully didn’t say little Irish leprechaun, ‘Mr Italian American’ greeted me with a huge hug, stood back and said, " Welcome, Irish, maybe we’ll go for a little drive before taking you home”. Great idea, I thought, a bit of sightseeing. He was possibly giving me time to shake off the ‘jet lag’. He was a fantastic tour guide and gave me the whistlestop tour of all things Chicago, with my window wide open. Eventually, we made our way to my new place of employment to meet his wife and the babies, yes, babies, three, premature triplets, on heart monitors.

Undaunted by the task ahead, Mrs Italian American showed me to my room to settle in and then, joining them in the most lavish drawing room, she filled me in on the necessary care of her three precious beauties. Once my duties were explained, we ate and chatted for a while, and I headed to my space to get some much needed shut-eye. The following day, it was all hands on deck. Feeds were every three hours, round the clock. Feeding, burping and changing, the three of us synchronised in our tasks, and I thought to myself, piece a piss. I was young, with boundless energy and ready to give this my all. I was to work six and a half days; this included the nighttime feeds. During the first week, ‘Mr Italian American’ joined me for night feeds, and all was good. The second week was more challenging. He returned to work leaving her and I to carry out the daily routine. Or so I thought. He would leave, and not long after he left, I would watch as she collected her gym bag and headed for the day to who knows where. Undeterred, I found my flow and settled into my nanny role. Enter ‘Mr Italian American’s’ mum. Wow, like Sophia from the Golden Girls, I took to this lady from the moment she first opened her mouth. Taking me under her wing she taught me how to make spinach ravioli, from scratch and as she cooked and baked, she encouraged me to talk openly about life with the babies. Unknown to me, talks were had out of my ear shot after these chats. My six-and-a-half-day week was reduced and on a Saturday afternoon I was collected, to go stay at ‘Mrs Italian American’s’ nieces’ home to return on Monday morning. It was on one of these stay overs that I was introduced to my first Fraternity Party. Twenty-one may well be the legal age to drink in America but like most of the world’s youth, rules are made to be broken. I met Matt on the roof, He came to ask me to get back in the building. Once I filled him in on the beauty of the view outside, I obliged, and we sparked up a bit of banter. He was soon heading off to join the Marines. I didn’t know it then, but I was soon heading back to Ireland. Not by choice I might add. Four months into Nanny Life, a call came from home, and I was ordered back to repeat my leaving cert. Bummer.

Four months, very little sleep and a different perspective on babies, I arrived back on Irish soil, where I was deployed to the south of the country, to live with my oldest brother, my sister-in-law, their two little boys, and her youngest brother. I was here to repeat my Leaving Cert as the previous attempt was a resounding disaster.  From the hustle and bustle of the States to a little town, I needed to readjust to the slower pace of small-town Ireland. Apart from managing to get a decent Leaving Cert, I learned a lot about mothering, watching my sister-in-law and brother with their toddlers. I noticed different parenting styles from those of my own parents.  It was like I was getting a preview of stages and styles of parenting in preparation for my own. Obviously, I wasn’t as insightfully aware of this back then. It only took thirty years for these epiphanies.

My twenties were all about navigating relationships. The parents had encouraged me towards Hotel Management at university, but the wanderlust had not abated, and so off to London to seek my fame and fortune. I worked for a temp agency, and I was drawn towards the care services. Over ten years, I worked hard, holding down several jobs, which included bartending at night, where I was introduced to the ‘cheeky chappie’ with the laughing eyes. We went on a date, he stayed over, and before I had time to blink, he had moved in. Life was fast-paced, he worked as a carpenter in his brother’s company, but his sideline as an artist gave him the most joy. He was so talented. I was so drawn to this creative side that I ignored signals that this relationship was not going to end well for either of us. As hard as we worked. We partied with equal passion. We had no children, no responsibilities, and life was wild. Until his mum got ill with cancer. I loved his mum. She was open and honest with a cracking big heart. As I had started university, she suggested we move into the spare room in his family home. I remember her sitting me at the kitchen table the morning after we moved in. She told me to always feel open to telling her to back off if I ever felt she was interfering in our relationship. I admired her so much for that invitation. We grew close, and as she declined, I spent my evenings at the bottom of her bed, reading and writing assignments, keeping her company. During this period, ‘cheeky chappie’ struggled with his mother’s imminent demise. Cracks started to appear in his mental health. He avoided any contact with his mum, preferring to preserve his memory of her as the healthy, feisty, strong-willed woman who had reared him. Even in her final days, she worried about him. I remember a few nights before she died, she gestured for assistance to get out of her bed. The house was empty, so I tried to assist her, but she slid from my grasp. As she was sliding, she clung tightly to me and cried out, ‘don’t let me go’. At the time, I thought she was pleading with me not to drop her, but my understanding now of death leads me to the conclusion that her worry for her son was delaying her peaceful demise. This went unresolved, and two days later, I was called from a lecture to receive news that she had died. Returning to her home, one by one, the family went to bid her farewell, but not him. Like a lost, scared, broken child, he stood silent and motionless in the kitchen until her body was removed outside. His world became a very dark place after that day. The most important figure in his life was gone and he checked out mentally.

Over the following year I subconsciously took on the mothering role with him. Well, I’m not sure if I took it on or it was foisted upon me? Before his mother died, she asked that I take care of him. We had now moved onto a boat on the canal, which started out as idyllic. I was working in the psychiatric services and felt fulfilled both in my work and my new life as a Boaty on the canals around London. Life was not so rosy in the relationship department, and I was becoming more resentful of this mothering role that was transpiring. Cheeky Chappy had descended into Chaotic Chappy and was heading into a full-on psychotic breakdown. Work life and home life became enmeshed as his mental health spiralled. His behaviour became more erratic culminating in his belief he was Jesus and he needed to buy a mountain and preach to a thousand people. It's painful and distressing to watch someone you care about breaking and the more I tried to support him the angrier he became, accusing me of treating him like a patient. Of course he was correct in his assumption. The only way I could cope with his deteriorating mental health was to stay in work mode. A visit from the police one night, changed the trajectory of life on the boat. Several calls had been made by concerned dwellers on the canal. They advised me to find alternative accommodation as they had concerns for my safety. It transpired ‘Chaotic Chappy’ had been arrested and incarcerated in a psychiatric unit under a temporary section. I felt relief on hearing the news, but also guilt that I had failed his mother’s last wish. 

I returned to work, and several days later, a call came to my work. Chaotic Chappy wanted me to attend a meeting with a psychiatrist. I wondered briefly whether this appointment was for him or me, but on swift reflection, I deduced it was for him. Mothering me … accepted. Take care of him, was on repeat in my head. The meeting was insightful. Connections were made with his reclusive behaviour at 16, where the crack began. Then the death of his mother triggered the psychotic breakdown. Several other events before his breakdown were like domino pieces cascading towards the final nudge. I knew by the end of this meeting that I had done as much as I could, and he was in good hands. Now, some might ask as to how I could have walked away from this vulnerable soul. Well, let me tell you, gut instinct is a marvellous wee tool in all our survival bags, but do we always take heed? On this occasion, I did. Months later, I wasn’t as in tune.

Sitting with Fish and Tim, two ex-merchant navy guys, having a quiet tipple in the local, the pub door swung open, and I found myself being lifted from my seat, like a scene from an Officer and a Gentleman. Chaotic Chappy informed me, as he whisked me outside, that there was a panther loose on the canal. Taking a deep breath, I requested he set me down so I could give his tale my full attention. Behind him, I saw the two lads exiting the pub, looking concerned. Gesturing to them to hang back, I asked Chaotic Chappy to repeat his story. Ok, you head down to the boat, and I’ll follow, I replied as I walked towards my precious mini minor. As I sat in the driver’s seat, I reached to shut the door and felt his spit full pelt in my face. A mixture of shock, disgust and rage erupted all in unison as I watched him kick start his motorbike and speed off.  Obviously, the two boys giving chase encouraged Chaotic Chappy’s swift exit. Later that evening, after a long debrief in the lad’s gaff, I was feeling perturbed. Niggling at the back of my mind lay the panther. Bidding the lads goodnight, I headed for the canal. My gut was screaming, what the fuck are you doing, but as I said, sometimes, we are less inclined to heed our gut.

As I parked up, I could see the boat sitting calmly in the canal. If this were a movie, I could hear myself shouting at the character to get back in the car and drive. But my feet were already moving and stepping on the boat, I called out, are you here? No answer. I pushed the door inwards and entered the darkness. It closed behind me, and I felt his breath on my neck. Slowly, I turned and saw his manic eyes, then the knife. An image of Laurel and Hardy shot through my head, and the line, ‘well that’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into’, echoed loudly from the deep recesses of my brain. For hours, he ranted about his ability to read people's minds, his visions of his mission to save people and of course, the panther and its connection to Satan. When he had exhausted himself and his mind, he made me lie with him. I wasn’t about to argue given the circumstances, so for a while I lay beside him as he pointed out all my misdemeanours and failings as a partner. As enlightening as all this was, I was wishing that he would fall the fuck asleep which eventually he obliged. Like the panther, when I heard his snores, I stealthily made my escape. I didn’t look back. I made my way calmly to my car, sat in and switched on the radio to the breaking news, an escaped panther had been safely captured and returned to its abode. Well, you could have knocked me down with six pence.

How did I become a resident in the bubble of duty, responsibility, loyalty and a peppering of confused love.  Is it about our experience with our own mothers, other mothers, be it partners or friend’s mothers and the imprint they leave in our subconscious. Like building blocks, do we stack up all these experiences, which down the line become motherhood blueprints to build our mothering foundations. As a child, witnessing the relationship between my own mother and hers, I undoubtedly absorbed some of both their mothering traits. In my early years my mother worked, and so Nannie D would travel out to our town on the bus to mind us. Apparently, I got away with all sorts of high jinks when in her care, and this did not sit well with some of the brothers. I adored Nanny D. She was a tiny woman, but her high heels gave her a lift. Always immaculate, with her hair coiffed to perfection. Her trips to the hairdresser at the bottom of the hill were always a delight. The salon was filled with mixed odours of peroxide and perfumed shampoos. The hum and buzz of the driers raised their vocal volume, and I would sit listening to the communal babblings of ladies from all walks of life. When the conversations got interesting, I was dispatched to the sweet shop across the street for a treat, and I complied with alacrity.

I loved sleepovers at Nannie D's. On arrival with mother, the usual dispatch to the shop was routine. Run down to the shop there and get a fresh apple pie. As I toddled off, mother and nanny sat by the range chatting and, on my return, I was sent to make the tea and once the job was completed, I sat munching the warm apple pie drowned in cream, while the pair caught up on the weekly events. After mothers’ departure, nanny and I locked up the house, which was an intense operation. The crochet chain would appear from the depths of her ample bosom, and the front door key was attached and tucked away securely back in the warmth of said bosom. A quick glance in the mirror to check the coiffed hair, a spray of the sweetest perfume, and she was ready to go visiting. She had an eclectic collection of female friends.  I was fed wherever we went, but usually out of earshot of any juicy conversations. I was happy with a book, my escape from the daily goings on in the world. My imagination had space to create whole worlds full of horses and wild gallops along miles of endless beach, or my all-time favourites were Mallory Towers and Nancy Drew mysteries. The highlight of my sleepover was heading to the town hall for Nanny's favourite pastime. The Whist Drive. A very serious affair. Card partners huddled together discussing their strategies until they were called to their respective tables, the air thick with anticipation as the chatter subsided. I was positioned next to Nanny D and forewarned to ready my poker face. This was a lesson in team play, anticipating and reading other players' moods, and patience. Nanny took her Whist game very seriously. Like a scene from Casino Royale, this elderly cohort were sharks. One wrong play and you were annihilated. Hours passed; tempers frayed, but Nanny, like Cool Hand Luke, never broke a sweat. Her focus was intense until the last card dropped. When the moment of departure arrived, she bade her comrades a Dieu, and she and her partner in crime headed back to base to debrief on the night’s events. Copious cups of tea later, we headed for home. I was always amazed by how this tiny woman, in the highest of heels, marched up the never-ending hill to her abode. On arrival home, I was sent to put the electric blanket on, and we both prepared for bed. Her bed was like sleeping on a cloud. A mattress that felt like thousands of duck feathers, invited us in, and the flannel sheets of candy stripes were warm and soft to the skin. On top, we were smothered in duck down right up to our chins. I snuggled tightly into her back, and I swear I never slept so soundly anywhere else. Nanny D was my safe place.

Grandparents have great sayings, and the one I remembered from Nanny D’s repertoire was ‘never let the sun go down on your anger’. As a tiny child, I misheard this as ‘never let the sun go down on your ankles’. You can imagine how time consuming this endeavor could be for a child, and it was the cause of as much anxiety as the Buntis Cainte. My mother recounted a night of scraping me off a wardrobe whilst screaming repeatedly Buntus Cainte. Obviously, I wasn't a fan of this Irish book in school. Humiliation and learning were sometimes part of the education method instilling fear and shame if you were unable to grasp the concepts of the Irish language. Seems like I am building a history on where my anxiety stemmed from. But back to Nanny D.s saying. I did eventually realise my mistake and replaced ankles with anger. I still worried that if I didn't apologise, and right wrong-doings with others, something dreadful would happen. When my kids came along, I was compelled to sneak into their rooms once they were sleeping and whisper apologies for any upsets I caused during the day. For years I could not go to sleep if this task was not completed. Anxious much? I hear you say. I don't think I ever spoke of my anxiety. Obviously, as a child, I was unaware of its existence. Today, our children have full access to understanding feelings and a vocabulary to express them. 

Also, it was common for siblings to care for each other which included punishment. I was told I was a whiny little bitch and was battered regularly to shut up. I'm not the only child that took a whoopin’ from older siblings. It was common practice in large families. Chatting to a friend recently, we were discussing this subject and the repercussions of this untamed tyranny from child to child. Back then there wasn’t the option to run to a parent and discuss your woes; there were so many of us, you’d be queuing for days to get a hearing, so we sucked it up, parked it in the deepest recesses of our minds and headed back into battle. Life carried on; I survived, but I carried my little suitcase of anxiety into adulthood.

Looking back now, I have a clearer picture of how my anxiety affected my children. Recently, this topic came up in conversation with my youngest. How had my anxiety impacted her? We were attending her oldest’s Nativity show, and we found ourselves sitting at the back of the hall. I asked her if she wanted to move closer to the front, and in that moment, I saw the expression on her face. I was transported back to so many events in their childhood where I was immobilised by anxiety. We would arrive at the event, and I would swiftly grab a seat nearest the exit door at the back of the room. Of course, they wanted me to be upfront, where I would get a better view, but the walk up to that place filled me with utter dread. I would of course encourage them to head up with their friends, but I was unable to put words to my anxiety. Over the following years, I noticed this anxiety creep into their lives. Instead of talking about anxiety, I berated myself for damaging my children. This was a vicious circle which neither helped me or them to address the old elephant in the room.  Anxiety can be paralysing for some, but I found strategies that helped and some that hindered. The helpful strategies came in the form of so many strong women, friends whom I found through motherhood. In my twenties, friends were as transient as I was. They were also as chaotic as I was. Motherhood was my grounding force and led me on the most amazing journey of finding my people. Warrior women who have taken me on an incredible journey of self-discovery.

When I left London to return to Ireland, I was a bit of a mess. I came back under duress, not wanting to leave the wildlife in London. It was obvious to everyone but me that this was going to be my saving grace. After the craziness of the relationship with ‘chaotic chappy’, I had made a swift exit to a Kibbutz on the Gaza strip in Israel. My hope was to live a simple life. Unaware of my destination, I went through the motions of organising my visa to Israel, and once that was secured, I was off. My first night in Tel Aviv, I slept on the beach as the visa office was closed on arrival in this amazing city. I woke the next morning to yelling as my body was dragged off the beach bed, where I had deposited myself the previous night. Well, you can imagine my shock, which was quickly replaced with indignation. I shouted at the guy to get his hands off me as I struggled to get on my feet, not for long, as I felt the full force of his fist in my face. Floored, I took a few minutes and scraped myself up again to face my aggressor, only to be floored again. A little crowd of people had accumulated near me, which seemed to unnerve him, and he skedaddled. One of the crowds helped me up and helped me to gather myself, and advised me to go to the police, which I did. I was told that the guys who rent the sunbeds on the beach were ex-soldiers on the run, and there was very little the police could do as my aggressor was probably unfindable. Assessing the situation, I knew it was futile prolonging my quest to get justice, so I headed onward to my new place of work and accommodation. This was the beginning of the most incredible journey. On the Kibbutz I met people from so many countries and walks of life. Our common ground was to live as simply as possible and experience different cultures. I met Michelle here. We were both as crazy as each other and spent nights outside our tin roof huts laughing and planning where we would travel to next. This passion for travel took us to Jerusalem first and once we had earned some money working in restaurants and hostels, we made our way to Egypt.

What has this to do with motherhood I hear you ask. Being part of other cultures allowed me access to experience so many ways families work. As I immersed myself in the culture, invitations constantly came my way to stay with families and integrate. When we talk about the breadline in first world countries, we have a measuring stick to what this equates too. In cultures where there is little access to the basics and the overriding aim is survival off the land, how people navigate this with hope and willpower never ceases to amaze me. The mothers in the homes I was privileged to stay in, taught me the importance of resilience, courage and trust. Their children were not cossetted. From a young age, they worked equally as hard as their mothers. Extended family lived within the community, and emphasis was placed on sharing and supporting each other. Their values reminded me of Irish rural communities when I was a child.

When I returned to London, I had every intention of continuing my travels, but life had a different plan, and I met a guy. He was part of the reason I returned to Ireland. Setting up in Dublin, we navigated accommodation and work and soon settled into Irish life. Within a year of our homecoming, I became pregnant. I was rolling towards thirty. The day I did the obligatory pee on a stick test, I rang him at work and suggested we needed to chat when he got home. What’s up he enquired. Well, I replied, I’m sitting on a breeze block in the hall with a pregnancy stick in my hand. I’m on the way, he replied. As he burst in the front door, I laughed hysterically, extending the stick towards him. He sat beside me on another breeze block, holding the stick. He laughed too. What happens next he asked? Nothing, I replied, for nine months … and we chuckled together, still sitting on our breeze blocks looking at the clear blue line. Over the following months the only class I attended was the breastfeeding one, which I dragged him along to. He was the only expectant dad there which made him decidedly uncomfortable. Possibly my intention. Over the next nine months, our lives carried on as normal. I had grown quite close to his sister, who had two kids, and we regularly met up or went to stay at hers. She is a powerhouse with boundless energy. I watched her parenting her kids as a working mum, and she made it look effortless. As our friendship deepened, she invited me into her world as a child with her brother and parents. As she recounted stories of her mother, it was clear where she got her zest for life and her ability to juggle copious challenges without breaking a sweat. It was also through her that I met the fabulous Nanny May. Like a lot of mums, I was anxious about leaving my baby, but Nanny May nipped that in the bud before I headed out for date night. ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you if there is any problem, which there won’t be’, she said with such conviction. True to her word, when we arrived home, little Tuttie was nestled up snuggly and down for the night.

As a first-time mum, I was so appreciative of having these two warrior women in my corner. Being a mum was also a catalyst for getting to know my neighbours. Those with children were always on hand for support and advice in those early, scary days of motherhood. To the left we had ‘Suz’ and her four sons, next to her was ‘Annie’ and her two kids and to the right, a few doors up, was ‘G’ with twins who were the same age as mine. This was a tight-knit community of mums whom I missed dearly when the partner and I separated. We were a mixed bunch of working mums and stay-at-home mums, which gave me a balanced view of what I wanted to be.  For a few years, I cared for kids in my home as I felt a deep need to keep my child close. In hindsight, working in the children’s therapeutic centre, rattled me on all issues pertaining to parenting. I wanted to give my wee Tuttie a solid base to begin her life. Life was hectic, and there were rumblings in our relationship. We had parked up somewhere, and so I put the feelers out with the mums to find a sitter. I still wonder how I got so lucky when I went to meet ‘Suki’ and her mum ‘Holly’. This family was a priceless addition to our family. With our golden ticket sitter in place, I had begun to scout the papers for work. Tuttie was two and her dad arrived home one day saying he had a contract to renovate a play school and creche through a lady called Linda, a retired nurse. Great news that work was flowing in for him and I had an interview for an Outreach worker with homeless kids. Waiting for my interview, I was chatting to one of the staff. She was a mum, so I enquired about childcare. She told me about this fabulous creche owned by a retired nurse called Linda. I got the job and the Tuttie started in Linda's, and the universe was working in tandem. This job was right up my alley, Linda was incredible, and work was flowing for both of us. 2001 was a whirl wind and our second bundle of joy literally arrived with a bang. 

My second pregnancy, irritatingly referred to as my geriatric pregnancy, was flowing smoothly until it wasn’t. When trauma occurred during pregnancy, it unbalanced me. Writing about this event in The Mother Ship Book 2, I was recounting a story. It’s a very different experience reading it in a book, knowing it was my story. Over twenty years later my body reacts as it probably did back then, but I had no time to comprehend the enormity of both the baby and I almost dying. Even as I’m writing this, my body is reminding me of how that experience affected me. I think, as mothers we get so caught up in the busyness of making sure our children’s needs are met, that we often ignore ourselves. In hindsight, my body was screaming at me to repair the trauma, and this scream manifested itself as postnatal depression. What does this look like? For me, and it's different for each of us, I was constantly tense. Tuttie 2 was in NICU for two months. It was early summer, and life was full of juggling play school runs, rushing to NICU for breastfeeding, pumping and kangaroo care. There was no time to stop and take in the chaos of this new wee one’s abrupt arrival. I was full of recriminations, leaving her in that little plastic box at night, but knowing also that Tuttie 1 needed her mum’s reassurance that all would be ok with her and her little sister. On the day we were told we could take our new addition home, the relief was immense. The homecoming was celebrated with a full house of family and friends, yet I just wanted to curl up under the covers and sleep. Not a chance. Tuttie 2 had a very healthy set of lungs and wanted to let the world know she was here. The only time she was quiet was during feeding time and when she was strapped to me in her baby sling. The only place she didn’t cry was when she was strapped to me. I know I should have been so grateful for those healthy lungs, but the more she needed me, the more tense I became. My public health nurse Barbara, was a godsend. Arriving for the babies’ milestones check, she gently peeled my hand off the baby rocker on the table and invited me to make a cuppa, while she took over the rocking, at a much slower pace. ‘You and the baby have been through such a tough time’, she said gently. The dam burst, and the flood gates opened. Baby and I bawled in unison. It was the first time I heard someone acknowledge the awfulness of the past few months’ craziness. Those few words, said with empathy, floored me, in a good way.  She sat with me, gave me the space to cry and rant and helped me understand I was normal. She helped me understand about preemie babies and attachment issues, and it all made sense. I wasn’t going loopy. My baby just needed more reassurance, and being close to me gave her that. The knowledge and empathy didn’t fix everything, but it grounded me and gave me a starting point.

Time to return to work was looming. I loved the early morning walks with Tuttie 2 in her sling and Tuttie 1 skipping along to playschool. She was such a chirpy child, and Linda in play school, loved to see her little chirpy head arrive. After chats and settling in, Tuttie 2 and I would head back home. As we walked along, the radio buzzing through my headphones, I stopped, rooted to the ground, and a torrent of tears erupted. The news of the crash at the Twin Towers flooded my brain, and I sobbed uncontrollably. I had just walked past the spot where the accident happened when Tuttie1 arrived with a bang. In therapy I learned that my reaction in that moment, on hearing about the disaster at the Twin Towers, triggered my own trauma. The body remembers, even though I had blanked it from my mind.

Awareness is powerful, and it offers reasoning for responses. I worked from a place of ‘If I can make sense of it, I can manage it’, but I’ve also learned that unless I integrate that knowledge with my body response, the trauma remains stuck. This understanding only started to make sense when I was training as a counsellor. Life has always directed me on the road to recovery. When something breaks inside me I am handed an opportunity to address it. The gift this time arrived when I returned to work. Tuttie 2 was now six months old and I asked ‘Suki’s’ mum ‘Holly’ if she was taking on any more kids.  We had met several times, and I was drawn to her warmth and compassion. Another powerhouse warrior, who made juggling childminding and her own child’s cystic fibrosis look effortless. She agreed and Tuttie 1 was delighted with the new arrangement. If you met Holly and her family, you would totally understand why. As a working mum there is no greater gift than walking away from two excited, happy faces knowing they will get all the love and snuggles you can’t give. Holly was our lottery win.

I was also excited and happy faced going back to work. As I said earlier, I was working as a Youth Homeless Out Reach person and I loved my job. I worked with an incredible team. Six women and Michael. When he left to work in Iraq we were the undauntable six. This team of women juggled complexity like they were born for this role. At the head of this motley crew was ‘Jiggy’. Over twenty years later we can spend hours knee deep in our shit, picking our way through it. Whilst working together we both had the opportunity to train as counsellors and soon became each other’s sounding boards on work and life. She’s one of the few authentic people I’ve had the joy of hanging out with. Her humor in dark situations lifted spirits, and her honesty could whip the legs out from under you in a split second. As a working mum, she was another warrior who made the work and family balance look uncomplicated and easily achievable.

As a relatively new mum, with a strong support system around me, I was acutely aware of how fortunate I was. Many of the young homeless mums I worked with had little or no support. It is absolutely heart-wrenching to hear a young expectant mum pleading with her own mother to take her home, or the mother who had three children in wheelchairs, fleeing domestic violence. Her children were given separate transport to the safe house whilst she and I did a swift shop for clothes and essentials. On completing this task, I asked her to direct me to where she would be staying. It was getting dark, and I was already late for collecting my kids. As I drove around in what seemed like circles, I eventually pulled the car in and asked her did she know where we were going. She stared at me with empty eyes and said I’m so sorry. This is the first time in years I’ve had time to myself. So, I called Holly and asked her to hold the kids for a while, and this exhausted lady and I sat in silence until she was ready to face the busy.  During the time I worked with young homeless mums, I was in awe of their resilience. I often wondered if I was in that situation, how I would cope? Would I be able to climb the insurmountable challenges they face without a supportive family or community?

When I separated from the children’s father, the only way to make a clean break was to move to the other side of the country. This decision was not taken lightly. It meant uprooting the children from all they were familiar with, ‘Holly’ and her family, school and friends, a community and their home. This tornado of uprooting rattled their foundation in ways that they and I are still unfurling. I was lucky I had the option of moving into a flat over my parents' shed, which gave me some time to look around for suitable accommodation. Gramma and Pop were delighted to have the Tutties close by and loved the sound of their voices and giggles in the garden of thinking. Dad loved creating and the outdoors, so he built a proper T-Pee in the top corner of the garden. Beside this, he built a tiny bench and painted it bright yellow. Perched on the edge of the bench was the mini clay moulded ‘thinking angel’. When the children were perplexed, annoyed or happy, they would head up and sit with the thinking angel, who listened intently to their woes, fears and joys. Gramma brought her own inimitable bag of crazy to the table, and for the most part we all managed not to kill each other through this transition. Eventually, we found THE HOUSE. Well, it was their gramma who found it by peering in a bedroom window of the wrong house for rent. THE HOUSE was amazing. It was near the beach, not too far from their little school and on the outskirts of the village I grew up in. Most of the elderly population would have remembered me as a child and extended the hand of welcome when we arrived.

I found this familiarity a bit unnerving. As I said in The Mother Ship Book 2, I was carrying a bit of something on my shoulder about returning as an unmarried, separated, single mother. Not so much a chip on the shoulder, as a bloody big boulder. The little suitcase of anxiety I carried as a child grew into the giant-sized suitcase you pay dearly for when you book in that monstrous suitcase of lots of unneeded extras, at the airport. I knew my dad struggled with my being an unmarried mum, but he was old school and I totally understood that. Understanding his beliefs didn’t alleviate the shame I took on. I wish sometimes I had that conversation with him as I know that he would not have wanted me to carry that burden. I did keep a letter he wrote to me, which was so unusual. In the letter he wrote about his mother’s strength, raising ten children. His mother travelled to Belfast to study as a teacher and worked for a year in the south of Ireland without pay as her qualification was not recognised. He spoke of ‘the hand that rocks the cradle’ as the backbone of the family and the pride he felt for his mother oozed from the page. He said that for a while he wasn’t proud of me in the past (reference to my hedonistic previous life … me thinks), but that he now recognised with pride the mother I had become. Guess which bit I focused on and packed in my ever-growing suitcase. The lyric from Hotel California seems apt here ‘we are all just prisoners here, of our own device’.

When we moved to THE HOUSE the children made new friends as did I. The formation of the Holy Trinity was to become the backbone and foundation and all else stabilizing throughout the following years. The three of us had kids around the same age, so there was a natural progression to meeting up and chatting about all things kid-related and life in general. This pair brought joy, hilarity, honesty, and compassion to my world, and we had the common thread of all landing in this little rural village almost at the same time. Life had plenty of curve balls to chuck our way over the following years, and I know how incredibly lucky and grateful I am for their friendship. My life is a better place having them in it. 

On the journey to the skippers' send-off, I sat in the back seat looking from one to the other. Arton Senna had her foot to the floor while her co-pilot issued instructions with military precision. I was in awe. The funeral director told them to stick tight to the hearse, and nothing or nobody was going to get in the way of their mission. At points I thought if we had to brake suddenly, all three of us would land in the back of the hearse with the Skipper.  On a very dark day, they brought a whole heap of crazy and joy, and I truly love them. We accepted and supported each other through the worst of times and equally celebrated the joyous occasions. Another lottery win.

On my list of inspiring women, up almost at the top are my crazy sisters. These pair are a force to be reckoned with. As the oldest of the three of us, I can easily say they are my rocks. Our relationship through life has been a mix of all the ingredients that love consists of. We have battled, offloaded, cried and laughed through all sorts of crazy. Homeostasis is the word that springs to mind when I reflect on where I am in this beautiful, wild, crazy, challenging, inspiring relationship. We are fiercely independent, opinionated, and feisty with a deep sense of our reason for being here. For me, they are the go-to place when I hit a wall of inertia. They are fearless and have no qualms in calling me out when I’m being an asshole. As mothers, we are so different in some ways, but we all have similar traits; some we have inherited from our mother, others we have cultivated from life lessons and other people in our lives. I admire both these women for their capacity to overcome any obstacles that tried to thwart them in life and roll out the other side, with humour and compassion still intact. Warriors.

And so, to the top of the list, my children, my adult children, whom I love with every rattily bone in my body. Life has not been easy for them, and it's been a rocky road to adulthood. They are both unique. Their honesty, compassion and ability to empathise make them incredible people to be around. They have grown into resilient, intuitive, self-aware humans who far surpass how I was at their age. I listen in wonderment these days and ask myself constantly where these two incredible adults came from. They are my greatest gift in this life. I have learned so much about myself through having them. They are my catalyst for wanting to be a better human and to break unhealthy generational patterns. As mothers, we get so caught up in the busyness of life, and I look back now to try to piece together where and why the bumps turned into mountains. Hindsight is a bit of a non-essential item in my ever-lightening suitcase.

If you would like to write your story in The Mother Ship - Annals of Mothering Wisdom, you can join through The Mother Ship Writing Community at the link below.

It is ONLY $9 to join, and should you wish to write a chapter, or multiple chapters, for the Annals, you can apply through that channel. To write a chapter, have it edited and proofed, added to the Annals, and so that you can become a published author is - €99

All chapters are published inside the Annals via our in-house publishing company - The House of Mothers

https://www.skool.com/the-mother-ship-5144/about