I know what we're getting my mother in law for Christmas.

Back in the day my mother in law was in a band. A folky, Irish-y band or even possibly bands. And when I mean back in the day I mean the 60s and 70s. She wore little skirts, she hitchhiked from Ireland to France (and back again) and she played a bunch of weird instruments that I can't name. Besides the guitar. I know that one. She was cooler than me.

Once a week she takes Mister Man for the day to bond with him and give me a break, which I have always appreciated and will be sad when I go back to work in 27 days and she doesn't get the time with him and I don't get a break. Do you think I could convince my boss that I need a mental break from work and to just be quiet and let me watch Veronica Mars in silence?

Yesterday was a mother in law day. Bub and I met up over there, as we always do, to pick up Mister Man and to have some dinner before we head home. James was being a bit of a fusspot last night as he can't crawl or walk yet but wants to go everywhere. So after realizing for the billionth time that day that he can't take those steps without falling flat on his face, he whines. Loudly and often. I'm so used to it at this point it actually doesn't bother me but I imagine for people who only sees him once a week it's a distressing noise that should be soothed away and what better way to do this with song? Song and heavy sedatives.

My mother in law will often sing old folk songs to James. Every hear "James (Hold the Ladder Steady)"? How about "Liverpool Lullaby"? Well, I have because these are commonly sung for my son by his musically inclined Nan. Yesterday, when he started to fuss I knew there was a song coming. What came out was different different from the norm:

"James, you know this one. 'No woman, no cry...' (clap clap clap) 'No woman, no cry.'"

And the weird thing about this whole scene wasn't that my mother in law was singing Bob Marley (Okay, admittedly that is one weird thing about it), but that my son would clap in between verses like she was, as if on cue. He claps all the time but never in beat.

My mother in law is still cooler than I am.

DID YOU KNOW?!

I've been to a few places in the world. Mainly North America and Europe but I have thrown in a little of Asia on occasion. This is not to brag and to tell you how well traveled I am; for an expat I am not well traveled at all. Most of my other expat friends go on weekend romps around the continent and a few have gone down to Africa for their holidays. So, when I say I've been to a few places in the world I actually mean few.

In my limited experience there is no other type of people like Americans. This isn't a bad thing. Not at all. I love Americans usually. My son and I are both Americans -- what's not to love? We are loud (we are, don't deny it), we insist on getting what we want and, generally, we are incredibly polite people, NYC notwithstanding.

It's mostly a desire to get into someone else's business or a want to tell them what you know about any given subject that I love. I know I do this myself. If a friend is talking about something and I am aware of a little factoid about said subject I MUST TELL THEM IMMEDIATELY. I can't help it. I have to blurt out my little fact.

DID YOU KNOW THAT THE WORLD'S LARGEST ELEPHANT STATUE IS IN NEW JERSEY??

And they look at me and are all, um, weren't we talking about the economic rise of eastern Europe during the western recession? And I'm all, yeah, you don't see the connection?

So, there I was in Dunnes with Mister Man getting a few bits and pieces together for dinner. Because after 10 months home with a child I'm finally domesticated. Shame I'm going back to work in 27 days, eh?

We're in the baby food aisle because I'm always looking for a new, healthy, sugar, preservative, FUNNY STUFF FREE food for James to eat as snacks during the day. He is sitting in the cart and has been trying to chew on the metal key that hooks into another cart so there isn't a cart stealing movement on Dublin's southside. All he wants to chew on is this piece of dirty metal and even when I'm holding it in my hand and trying to distract him with the other billion toys I brought with me grocery shopping, he only wants this gross thing that I'm convinced will instantly give him polio.

As I'm once again tearing the thing out of his little hands I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around there stands a large, badly dressed woman. She waves at Mister Man and turns to me and says:

"Did you know that they sell toys that are made of tags specifically so children can chew on them? You should look it up. I have a friend who makes them in Malahide. Google 'Taggsy'".

You see what I'm saying, now? Butted right in there with a little tidbit of useless information just for me! I could see if maybe Mister Man had given up his assault on my closed fist and decided to take interest in a tag (on clothing? on a toy?) but, since he was throwing his hissy fit because of a piece of shopping cart, I couldn't see the connection so I looked her appropriately, like I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, and she continued:

"He's playing with the click because he likes how it's long, thin and wide, like a tag. If you give him a Taggsy, he wouldn't do that."

With a nod of my head and a smile I walked away thinking Irish people are fucking nuts, until I realized that she wasn't Irish at all; she was American. How do I know (besides the cowboy boots and chaps)? Because when she said 'long' it came out "lawng". Hello, New Jersey!

I had to stop myself from yelling "DID YOU KNOW THAT MONOPOLY WAS INVENTED IN NEW JERSEY?"

I knew my shirts were missing something.

For the past two years me and the rest of the world (although the rest of the world might have been there first) have been buying stuff off of Etsy. If you've never heard of Etsy, you obviously live under a rock. Go to their "About us" and read up because I have no time for you.

I had only bought jewelry until recently with my favorite shops being Rachael Sudlow Jewelry and Galina Kirman (which seems to be temporarily closed) but all of the shops I have dealt with have been incredible. Very professional and friendly and the kind of customer service I crave as an American ex-pat. People who don't want to spit at you is always awesome.

The latest seller is no exception. Melfitz Homemade Fashion Accessories' owner Melissa was amazing to me from the start. Not only did she do them in a special size, she also bought special yarn for my sensitive skin that will not put up with wool. I'm sure the universe had the biggest giggle when I figured out that Ireland is known for it's woolen mills. I give the middle finger to the universe.

So there I was, wanting these arm warmers because my arms are always cold. Basically they are fingerless gloves that go above my elbows but what they are really is AWESOME. I see them and I want them and I hem and haw about it for a few weeks and then I take the plunge. I ask if she can make them a certain size. She says yes, of course. I then remember that I'm allergic to wool and email her again asking if she can get different yarn. No problem, she says. Two weeks later I am pulling this adorable package out of my postbox:



Let me say this: I love craft paper and I love knitted adorable things. JACKPOT. It's like Melissa was angling for me to order from her again so I can get another package and never, ever open it.



These are the arm warmers themselves. Let's be honest -- I bought knit sleeves. However, they are warm and soft, and perfect for the three quarter length, geisha sleeve sweater I have, even though I have worn them multiple times with just a tshirt. My mother-in-law laughs a lot when I do this. It's good to know I still keep her entertained.

Once again, I'm incredibly happy with my Etsy purchase and do intend on visiting Melissa's shop again. If you know me well, you might very well be getting some knitted accessories for Christmas. Stop complaining.

Horror on Halloween.

Mister Man had his first Halloween yesterday.

It involved looking adorable:

doing a constant army crawl on the carpet:

and cannibalism:


I hope your Halloween was a bit creepy too.

Wait, did we forget someone?

As any parent knows, you love your children an unconditional amount and nothing that ever happens in the whole of his life could make you stop. They scream, cry, throw shit, have tantrums, don't nap, get bored and bug you, and whine. And whine and whine. However, you can't just stop loving them or give up. I don't believe it's possible.

You can, however, give the child away to your mother in law for a full weekend. This doesn't mean you love the child any less, it just means you might also love the bitter taste of german beer or the nose tingle of a gin and tonic. I personally adore both. And so last weekend Mister Man was whisked away to a country house far, far away from his parents where he received mountains of attention from his Nan and great aunt and we ate mountains of junk food and, had we not made plans with the cinema, Oktoberfest, Gil Grissom and the fine people at Fire, would probably wouldn't have even bothered showering or putting on pants.

On Friday night, after the child looked at me all, um, WTF? And I looked at him all, Yeah, thems the breaks, kiddo! we packed him into my mother in law's car pointing south and I met Bub in town at the Docklands to see grown men in lederhosen, drink beer, eat a sausage, a bowl of sauerkraut, and more pretzels then I thought I could fit into my stomach. I sort of felt sick but a good kind of sick, you know? And enjoyable sick. A sick that you only get in college or maybe on your 30th birthday (and I wouldn't know, yet) but it's satisfying and for a moment you feel like sort of like you think Danny DeVito feels every day: fat but drunk and awesome.

The next day of freedom followed by us not waking up until 1.30 in the afternoon. 1.30! I don't think I have done that since college at the latest and I was unemployed for six months after I moved here. Recently I had a wine hangover from a Friday night and had to get up and give someone a bottle at 6am. I honestly don't think there is anything more painful than the hungry cry of a baby at six in the morning when your brain wants to explode. It's okay that I just set him up in his crib with the bottle and a bendy straw, right?

We get up, and went into town to see The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. I don't know if this movie has come out in the US or not yet but if it has go see it and if it hasn't go see it as soon as it's released. It was incredibe. Funny, bitter sweet and I'm sure there is a good-will message in there somewhere but I'm not that deep. Really, there was Colin Farrell and Johnny Depp and that's all I need in the world on a movie screen. The fact that it was visually amazing AND the story was excellent was a bonus.

Then back to Oktoberfest for more pretzels. I know this seems excessive but I haven't had a soft pretzel in years. YEARS. Might as well just deprive me of water. Soon after that was The Gin Factory, otherwise known as Fire at the Mansion House. It's a lovely restaurant where we had our rehearsal dinner and we've been back a few times since. The dining room is lovely, the food is very nice and they mix a mean cocktail. And by "mean" I mean it will definitely get you drunk enough to talk explicitly to your husband about threesomes. I'm not saying that's what we talked about. I'm just saying it's that good.

My mother just read that.

And from Fire we went home but we went home happy and feeling a bit like we did before we had Mister Man. However, when I woke up the next morning with a slight hangover but no baby to feed at six AM, I can legitimately say that I was sad. I missed him and I missed those moments in the mornings when he will sit in your arms and drink his bottle without a fight. It's peaceful and dim in the room and he is still that little baby that didn't want to move around independently of us.

We're thrilled to have him back.

Drinking the Republican Kool-Aid.

We recently found the below at our local Spar.



After a little research I learned that Jones Soda did special Campaign Cola for the 2008 election. Bottles bought were counted as votes on their website and, no surprise, Obama won by a landslide.

A few questions though:
Why is the label upside-down?
Why is it green apple soda and not cola?
Why is this in Ireland a year late?

And most importantly, why the hell did I drink it?

James learns to control his voice levels like a red-blooded American.

I really thought I would update this while in the US but, you'd never guess, when you vacation with a baby you have zero time for anything at all. Anything. ANYTHING. Showering was still difficult. I said to him, "Mister Man, do you not know I am supposed to be on vacation right now? WE are supposed to be on vacation? Together? Do you see me crying? Do you see me NEEDING my mama all the time?"

Then he turned his back to me in his excersaucer and flipped me off.

Vacationing with an infant is hard. Vacationing with a large infant on your own is damn near impossible for me. A cousin of Bub's lives in Australia and often makes the trip over to Ireland with her children alone. She doesn't fuss about it, she just gets on with it. Oh, and did I mention she has three girls under the age of five? No? Well, she has three beautiful girls under the age of five. I'm pretty sure she has only traveled with two of them but knowing her this will soon change and she'll be on a plane with three little girls. She will be the picture of calm and collected and when she gets to Ireland you will ask her, "How was the billion hour flight?" And she'll look at you like you just asked her if pooping in a toilet is difficult.

Seven hours and 15 minutes was seven hours and 15 minutes too long for James and I on the way over. Him and I have different speaking styles. I speak to him in hushed, calming tones and he screams. Screams for fun, screams for sadness, screams for food, screams for tired, screams for bored, screams to hear himself scream. He's not always like this, no, but he was on the way to the US. The tallest couple I have ever seen sat next to us in those bulkhead seats and, man, do they regret it. I'm sure they asked if there was room for them to move to the overhead compartment. A short run down of our flight:

Boarding and perfectly fine. Sleeping in the moby while mama gets herself settled in the seat.
Awake and drinking bottle during takeoff. Brilliant start!
Bassinet is set up. Mister Man looks at it like it's an intruder and shall be punished.
Mister Man proceeds to punish bassinet by screaming at it, hitting it and refusing to sleep in it.
Mama and bassinet feel despondent.
Sleeps in bassinet for 20 minutes but wakes up while lunch is being served.
Mister Man poops. Twice. He hasn't pooped this much in three hours since he left the hospital.
Time for another bottle! More screaming!
Tall couple jump out of plane without parachutes.
Let's try some solids?
Instead let's squirt them on mama's arm and make a mess!
More sleeping on mama while drinks are being served.
Try to watch Peppa Pig. Peppa Pig can suck it.
Play in bassinet!
Nah, instead prevent mama from having the lunch that was saved for her!
Sleep on mama for 10 minutes, then heavy turbulence. Wake up.
Landing! Another bottle and MORE SCREAMING.
Touch down and charms the pants off of Geema who refuses to believe child was difficult at all on the plane.

Did I say short? I meant "dramatic run down of our flight". Silly me.

We arrived at my parents place, was loved by Geema and Pop, met Geema's friends and future American girlfriends, went to the beach and face planted in the sand, went to the park and went on his first swing, went swimming in a pool, met non- related aunties, met related auntie and cousins, went to Chilis and went to a mall, and partied like it was 1999 even though he was born 10 years later.

Flight back was easy. Mister Man smiles, entire crew and all passengers were charmed. Child slept. I watched You've Got Mail and then was complimented on my parenting skills by friendly, random people.

In short, I think you should fly Continental but only going from the US to Ireland. The other way and your child will freak out and the passengers do not feel your parenting skills are as honed as you had hoped.

I now know I need a vacation from my vacation and I also know that it will be like this for the next 18 years. Hopefully he'll stop screaming when we want him to eat on a plane by the time he's 15. Maybe? Fingers crossed.

Proving what they say about New Jersey drivers.

One of the things that acclimated me to Irish life was the ability to drive. I found only taking public transport a bit... frustrating. So, in 2006 I went and took a theory test which would give me my provisional license. I passed the first try without incident although I was nervous leading up to the test knowing that if I didn’t pass I would have to pay the fee again, and take time off of work to take the test again, and then possibly fail. Again.

As a child I would privately berate myself every time I failed at something, a characteristic that I carried over into my adult life just to a much lesser degree. I don’t think I acknowledged this side of myself until I was in college when people who lived with me in the same small quarters were able to witness it for themselves; sullen attitude, bitchy, short conversation and condescension being my ultimate defense for making myself feel better. Charming and attractive, I know. Now, Bub sees my inner torment when I manage to mess things up right and good but my ability to pull it together has improved with age and wisdom. All this said, I do not know of an individual who enjoys failing, who revels in it or wants it to happen over and over.

So, really, I just needed a xanax.

I passed my driving theory test and then took my sweet time taking my driving practical test because the Irish driving test is incredibly difficult. After two years of putting off the test I decided to buck up and apply for my proper license since I have been driving semi-illegally this whole time and one day the gards are going to pull me over. Not only will they take my provisional license away but they will also slap me with a lovely fine. I had to prepare, though. It’s not like the New Jersey test where you have to barely pass five maneuvers to obtain a license. During the Irish test you have to first take a oral exam on the rules of the road:

Where are you not allowed to park?
What do you do if you have a green light but no filter to turn?
What is a contra-flow bus lane?

And then you have to identify signs. The same pictures on a sign can mean a different thing if the sign itself is a different color. You have to identify about 15 of them. Fifteen of a billion.

Eventually you get to your car where he asks you to lift the hood. You have to identify where your brake fluid, coolant, engine oil, and windshield wiper fluid are kept and how you know when they are running low or need to be changed. Then onto the tires where you have to know the proper tire tread depth (1.6mm), how you know this (the arrow pointing to the bump in the tread) and what your tire pressure is (I check the sign at the garage).

Eighteen hours later you can finally get in your car. Where he tests your knowledge of your lights. (Mine worked.)

You finally get to buckle your belt and drive. I had done well up to this point. I was a little fuzzy on the signs because, let’s face it, unless the sign says stop you should always proceed with caution. It’s a fool-proof answer. And I messed up my explanation on how to identify low engine oil which is really bad because my father used to have me change my own oil in high school and then reward me with a beer. Other than those things, which are minor, I was doing great. I was confident. I took pre-tests for the week leading up to the test and besides some silly mistakes made under pressure I was a good driver and I knew it. Unfortunately, there are about 50 things they mark you on during the Irish test, and it’s around 25 minutes long. They mark you throughout on your observation, progress, and road safety and of these you can only get a second degree mark eight times before you fail.

I pulled out into the road and he gave me directions. We drove through intersections (always looked right, left, right even when there was a light), I went around stationary cars (using my blinker to go into the right lane), I went over hump-back bridges (also known as speed bumps for anyone outside of the road safety authority) and even drove through a construction zone without him marking his paper once. I navigated a round-about properly.

Then I drove on the wrong side of the road.

What happen is a bit confusing and weird. I didn’t suddenly think I was transported back to America where we drive on the right side. I just thought it was a one-way street. So when he told me to take the next right, I pulled into the right lane. The lane where there could have been oncoming traffic. He yelled out, “YOU’RE IN THE WRONG LANE” and I quickly corrected myself but it was too late. I had automatically failed. We went straight back to the testing center and while tears came down my face I inwardly beat myself up for being so silly. I stewed over it the whole rest of the day with my mother-in-law (who came to the test with me to watch Mister Man), and then Bub, asking me if I was okay knowing the battle that was going on in my head about failing a driving test after driving for 11.5 years.

That evening we were in bed and Bub asked me one last time if I was really okay with everything and I told him I was disappointed but alright. That I felt stupid but I’d apply and take the test again. After a moment of silence we started giggling. And then laughing. And then outright howling with tears running down our cheeks. Because, let’s face it -- I DROVE ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD. Who does that? Who, during a driving test, drives on the wrong side? I might as well have closed my eyes and told the tester I was “feeling” the road for how ridiculous my actions were.

No sullen attitude. No snarky or condescending words. Just acceptance of my little failure and the relief I felt that I could move on from something so silly and knowing that, not only will this improve my driving for my next test, but also maybe a step in the right direction for all future mishaps. No doubt there will be plenty.

Strawberry love.

I might have mentioned this before, but I might not have because there is nothing I am more afraid of than the wrath of the internets (and whenever you post something about parenting the wrath follows), but I make Mister Man's baby food. I have nothing against store bought food at all, we even use some that we think is fantastic when we are traveling or will be out of the house all day. However, I found it difficult to find a baby food that separates out the different fruits and veggies for first time eaters. If I'm about anything at all, I'm about not making things harder for myself so I weighed my options: make the baby's food OR take the chance of an allergic reaction to something in the mixed food and not know what is the cause. The latter involved a trip to the hospital so the former won out.

I have four molds; one in the shape of squares, one in circles, and two in hearts. This past weekend I decided to make strawberry purée for the first time since Mister Man took so well to kiwi. Without thinking I placed the strawberry into the heart shaped molds and came back to the sweetest looking baby food I had ever seen.


Now Mister Man gets my love for breakfast.

Yes, even I cringed.

This post is longer than our trip to Ikea.

About a week ago Ireland's (Republic of) first Ikea opened in Dublin. This has been talked about since I moved here. I knew when the day came that those big Swedish loving doors opened I would go in and buy some useless crap to make our lives that €3.99 - €19.99 bit better.


If you've ever been to an Ikea before then you know how the layout works. If you haven't been there, I'll explain. Ikea is set up by category. In each category (kitchen, bedroom, living room, storage, etc) there are show rooms just to let you know all of the amazing things you can do with cheap, flatpacked furniture. All of these showrooms flow together, from category to category leading you around in a circle. If you want to go back to a different category area, there are doors to cut through.

This is where a good TII comes in. Since my friend KD said these initials to me, it's been my response to all things...Irish. TII. This is Ireland. Ikea is a TII. I have been to Ikea in three countries and Ireland is the only one where the customers did not understand the flow in one direction concept. People were turning around and bumping into each other at every turn. There are arrows pointing you in one direction on the floor. Somehow, though, James and I were forced to push against people just dying to get back to that €4.99 clock on display. LIKE YOU CAN'T SEE IT DOWNSTAIRS IN THE MARKETPLACE. Read your maps, people. TII.

Nevertheless, we had our trusty map to make sure we made it to the storage and children's areas. As you can see, James navigated. We never once went in the wrong direction.


This opening was anticipated in Ireland for at least the last two years so you'd think it would be crowded. And it was. There were tons of people. Even witches came out of their lairs to check out the great deals on tea lights. Yes, I did take a photo of a stranger in a cape in Ikea. No spell was cast upon me. That I know of.




After going past the lighting area and the uneven breast area, we ended up at our destination: storage. We needed a place to put all of Mister Man's stuff that would only fit on our counter in the kitchen. Bottles, formula, soothers, snacks, mixer, medicines, bowls, lids, spoons, sippy and formula storage cups all sat in one corner and it was driving both of us insane. We're not the most organized of people but even our brains were about to explode with all that crap sitting there. So, my main goal when going to Ikea was to get a shelf to hold all of his stuff but not intrude too much on counter space. This is what I found:


BENNO in white, which is €10 less than the wood finishes and matches the white metal of our kitchen cabinets and fridge. It's a little over three feet tall and is intended for DVD stroage but it works just as well for baby things. I'm not saying I'm a crafty mom with all sorts of ideas for those little knicknacks around your house -- my idea of decoration is water rings on the coffee table -- but I was sort of proud of this. I eyeballed it and I think it came out pretty well:


After a trip to the cafe (where I ate nothing), a twirl through the marketplace, a stop to pick up the shelf, I made it to the checkout without much hassle and two presents for James in the form of a crocodile and a wooden lighthouse. We then trekked back to the car (in the pouring rain) which was nearly parked at the airport and went home.

Sweden, you did me proud.