Author Archives: MG McShane

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About MG McShane

Nerd by day, blogger by night and mother of the teen 24/7. Having been whacked on the back by Fate earlier this year, I am self-employed, oddly thinking that leaving a permanent and pensionable position in the middle of a recession was an enlightened idea! Coaxing the teen to the dinner table has become a full time preoccupation. Along with the foods I use to lure her out, there are stories to be told and observations to be made about the preparation of food generally and the breaking of bread with those we care for (Teen in the Attic). And when I am not in a culinary mood, I proffer observations about stuff and nonsense (Middle Aged Teen).

Pet Peeves I

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Pet peeves of today’s commute….

  • To the girl who decided to put on her jacket while we were huddled in a tight group and made us all duck to avoid being hit by her flaying arms – that is a no
  • To the woman who tried to shoo away oncoming pedestrians with two hands and a twisted face like they were giant flies – that is a no-no
  • To the animal who let rip as we huddled to cross at the lights – that isn’t a no-no-no. That’s an offense punishable by a proper lambasting if I had figured out your identify.

Standing for Truth

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On 25 August 2018, the Pope visited Ireland. He would stay 36 hours and his presence would console some while angering others. The couple of costly days would bring divisions in Irish society roaring to the fore.

I didn’t go to see the Pope in 1979 and I certainly wasn’t going to attend in 2018. Instead, I went to the Garden of Remembrance at 3pm on 26 August. I wanted to be there but as the day drew near, I was decidedly unsettled. I can’t put my finger on it. I wanted to be there and to be counted and yet, I was very shaky. Maybe it was due to the fact that I had never made myself visible as someone born in a Mother and Baby home before. I warned my daughter that I might change my mind.

I did attend and I am happy I attended. It was very special in many unexpected ways. The first thing which struck me was how cross-generational the event was – from teen to pension, we stood side by side. And the second thing was the different groups represented. The sheer number showed how the Roman Catholic Church had splintered Irish society in the adverse effect it had on so many. We stood and remembered them all.

Walking arm in arm, and in overwhelming silence, we made our way to the site of the last Magdalene Laundry on Sean McDermott Street. To see so many people in front, beside and behind made it a fitting remembrance day and impacted on all those present. I was annoyed when I bumped into someone who dismissed it all as an anti-Catholic rally because that’s not what this was about. I was there to remember and to be counted. I wasn’t there to rally against any church, let alone one I am not even a member of. I was there as someone born in a Mother and Baby Home and in respect for all those who had passed through similar institutions.

I wrote two posts on Facebook – one before the event:

“Today, my daughter and I will stand with others in the Garden of Remembrance. We will remember my birth mother, Kathleen, and will think about all the women and crib mates that passed through St Patrick’s, Navan Road, Dublin and the other facilities that blighted our beautiful country. We will hope that, some day and in some way, we will reconnect with our families and reverse that decision to sever that precious bond before it ever had a real chance of forming.”

And one after the event:

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt alone. Unconnected. Disconnected. Separate.

Having been adopted, it doesn’t matter how many times people compare you to others they know or assume adoptees are all identical in origins and experience, I was still alone. I don’t think about it on a daily basis but when it rears its head, in reaction to such questions as who do you most resemble or if there is a history of some illness in your family, I feel alone again.

Today, I stood with my daughter and I no longer felt alone. I felt a part of something. And that felt nice.”

*****

I walked back to catch the bus home. I had listened to the speeches and contributions and we’d chatted amongst ourselves. I thought nothing else could impact. Walking down Marlborough Street, I suddenly stopped. All along the railings of the Pro Cathedral hung tiny, baby shoes – representing those small children whose remains were dumped in a septic tank at Tuam. The sight of those shoes took my breath away.

 

2

 

Stop that NOW!!!

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Munck

 

Painstakingly edited an overly – and dare I say, badly – punctuated document for a client. Finally, the endurance test was over and I was very happy with the result.

Above is my reaction when I handed it over and heard the words “Ah, let’s throw in a few more commas”. And with that comment, the pen was lifted and commas inserted willy-nilly!

 

*****

Define “lucky”?

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In April 1965, I was born in St Patrick’s Mother and Baby Home on the Navan Road in Dublin. Since then, I have always been astounded by the ‘knowledgeable’ opinions people espouse on my beginnings. As a fellow adoptee says, “The minute you see the head tilt, you brace yourself for what is to come.”

There is a spectrum of opinions that adoptees are used to. At one end, there are the kind and caring views, the ones who listen. Then there are those who think that if you were adopted, your beginnings and life are identical to all those who were adopted and try to convince you otherwise if you object. And then there is the other end of the spectrum, the ones which are judgemental and often, cruel. Surprise is constant as you can never predict who in your life will say what.

Being adopted is always public. Efforts to keep it private are futile. It is the inevitable response to questions like “Who in your family do you look like?”, “You’re the image of your mother/father/brother/sister/cousin/family pet,” “Is there a history of heart disease/diabetes/rabies in your family?”

And with origins so visible come comments, quips and judgements. Here is an example of such:

A friend told me recently that my birth mother and others like her were so “lucky” to have the nuns to take them in when their parents threw them out.

Seriously?!?

The Catholic Church condemns these girls for committing a sin. Family throws them out. Church (which created the problem by judging these girls) now takes them in and, in many cases, brutalises many physically and mentally before, in many cases, capitalising on their unpaid labour. They seek to temporarily or permanently separate child from parent with no care for the long-term impact on the psychological health of either person.

“Lucky” is therefore not a word I’d use to describe such a situation.

And where were the unmarried fathers’ homes if sex before marriage and pre-marital pregnancy were such grave sins?!?

With drink, there is ‘wisdom’…

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Majorca, 2012

How wonderful to listen to an English man recite what was effectively a monologue for half an hour – meandering through such topics as how well “connected” he is in Northern Ireland, how he understands why Catholics fight back, how much Irish history he has read and how he has in-depth knowledge of, what he called “Your problems!” Believing himself to be on a roll with me as his captive audience, so close his breath is bouncing off my face, he continued on with his statements of how awful “You Catholics have it…” Eventually, I dropped that clanger that we are Church of Ireland to which he responded “Wow! I never even though there were Protestants in Ireland…”

 

Here on ‘the Mainland’…

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June 2017

Phone conversation today with an English company…

“See your Prime Minister is an Asian immigrant.”
“Kind of.”
“What do you mean ‘kind of’?”
“Well, his father is a doctor who arrived here in the 1970s. He’s also a qualified doctor, educated at one of the top private schools.”
“Oh!”
“Oh?”
“He went to school in England?”
“Huh? No. In Ireland.”
“You have private schools over there?”

Life is such a drag…

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“Wow! Haven’t seen you in an age! Enjoying the summer?”
“Yes and no.”
“Huh?”
“Well, I was in the car today and I felt like the world and my life are simply passing me by.”
“I know! I feel so like that too. I want to do something but I can’t seem to keep up with it all. It wears me out. And my friends? All they want to do is go out all the time and that is just so empty.”
“I know. I don’t have any interest in that sort of thing any more. What about Jess?”
“She’s away.”
“Again?”
“Yeah. That must be her fifth time this year.”
“Wow. She must really hate Ireland. I mean, why else would you be bothered with all that travelling?”
“Yeah. It makes no sense. No sense at all.”
“Yeah.”

And at that, I left the two fourteen year olds to contemplate the world while they finish their soya lattes.

Hate dem…

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“Hate dem!”
“What d’ya hate?”
“Dem!” pointing to the woman’s Tesco bad. “Dem yokes. I hate dem.”
“Ya mean dem.”
“Yeah.”
“Ya mean grapes?”
“Yeah”
“Ya hate grapes?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Monkey eyeballs that’s what they are.”
“Huh?”
“The way yer teeth breaks through the skin and the innards ooooooze out. Monkey eyeballs so they are!”

Just between us…and the rest of the train

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Today, I was privy to a ‘just between us’ disclosure. To me, it sounded like the most boring Hen weekend known to man but she was so full of ‘juicy gossip’. By the end of it, I learnt that two girls hadn’t paid for their dinner but – Shock! Horror! – ‘they’d eaten it!’ The Bride and the Bride’s mother were in tears and, much to the girl’s disgust, one of the non-paying ‘biatches’ pocketed the €200 she found (that is, after she’d asked every one had they lost it while still not paying for her dinner).

One of the attendees had given her fella an ultimatum over the phone – marry her or finish it? She had reckoned that ‘Kevin’ would finish it ‘since there is so much choice out there.’ But it gave him the right kick that he needed, an approach the storyteller delighted in adding ‘If there is anyone in need of a regular kick up the a**e, it’s Kevin! And we all agreed with that!’

All I could think of was ‘Run Kevin. RUN VERY FAST, Kevin!!!’ A thought, I suspect, was echoing in the minds of all 50+ other travellers who were also privy to this ‘private’ chat…

Spain, June 2017

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Day 1
A long awaited trip back to Murcia. Everything is booked but I’m still nervous. Precise planning does not a smooth trip make – well, if my track record is anything to go by. There has to be some twists, turns and a few characters…

And I’m off…

Erratic drivers. Pedestrians with a death wish. Small children screaming. Sweltering heat. Sweat dripping off me. Clothes stuck to my back. Jumping over small children and avoiding large obstacles as I check in at one Terminal and have to leg it to the other Terminal to depart. Ordering a flat white on route and being told “That’s a small Cappuccino…actually…”

And I’m not even at the Departure Gates…

And I’m there-ish…

So I arrived and headed off site to collect the rental car. Then the mayhem began. Little thanks to ‘Beryl’ who relinquished her title of ‘trusty’ in front of Sat Nav. The minute she was let lose, she was like a little lamb frolicking in a field. She brought me back to the airport and into a section where I needed a ticket to exit. With no ticket, I had to reverse through on-coming cars, crunch over some hidden bollards and exit via a section marked for buses only. I expected to see a stream of blue lights flashing in my wake but not this time.

Out on the motorway, Beryl got bored easily and decided to veer off and take us on a tour of some mighty fine industrial sites. Back on the motorway, she quickly had enough and took me off again – this time for a scenic tour of some lovely lemon groves.

When we eventually arrived, Beryl was not impressed. Obviously she didn’t like what she saw as she tried to convince me to head back in the direction of the airport. She flatly refused to tell me where the hotel was. I switched her off and made my own way there. She can stay switched off until she learns to behave.

I arrived later than planned but found a sun lounger and enjoyed the last few hours of sunlight for the day. Nice dinner. Some gins and now bed beckons.

I also realised why my foot was so ‘ouchy’ when I arrived at the airport. Two of my toes are broken – again. Drumroll please – that means I have now broken a total of 8 toes on the one foot. Go me!

Day 2
Today passed off largely without incident. This is in no small part due to the fact that Beryl has been decommissioned (the technological equivalent of grounding my disoriented sat nav).

Spent most of the day horizontal on a sun lounger popping freckles like a mad aul wan. And while basting myself regularly, have a burn mark across my Celtic pasty face which resembles butterfly mask. Red heads are not built to tan.

I went exploring. Four shoe shops later and nothing. It doesn’t matter how cute the heel, the cut or the colour, this gal doesn’t do sandals of which there was a multitude to choose from.

My evening ended with a performance in the Pharmacy where I requested much needed anti histamine through interpretative dance. And pretty crap I was too. After he loaded the counter with every cough syrup known to man, I’d to rely on Google translate to ease the situation.

But tomorrow’s another day!

Day 3
More sunbathing. It’s a tiring activity but someone has to do it. Swam a bit too. Am beside two beautiful coastlines – one onto the Mediterranean and the other a mineral inlet. Alas, their collective beauty does little to woo me. I simply can’t get past the fact that I loathe sand.

I dragged my crispy body through the heat and propelled myself into my favourite shoe shop. Five minutes, and three pairs of shoes, later, I emerged. One pair is ‘functional’ while the other two are ‘lovely’. ‘Total spend…? €27.45. Yes. You did read that correctly. €27.45 for all three!

Day 4
It’s 26 degrees and cloudy. This means the ‘northern Europeans’ are happily lying out while the fully clothed Spanish look on, mystified, from the Bar.

Not for the first time, a man tries to control his screaming child with a bunch of techniques – which include hissing, clicking his fingers as if it were a dog and reasoning with it as if it were a U.N. official. Get up, you lazy shit. He’s barely one year old and driving the rest of us mental as he cries and cries and cries for a cuddle.

I am badly burnt in some places. In all the places I used the highest factor… At this stage, all I am aiming for is a ‘winter’ tan – neck, face and hands!

Day 5
It’s 26 degrees and raining. Now everyone is in the Bar, fully clothed, staring out, mystified, while dripping sweat from the humidity.

I could go exploring again but I did that yesterday. Drove for miles and miles and miles. No mean feat for a gal who drives an automatic on the left, now driving a stick, on the right, and with broken toes!

I visited the land of shoes (otherwise known as ‘Cartagena’). Resisted going into any shops as they would all be screaming at me to buy them while my suitcase would be roaring back “I. Don’t. Think. So!” Instead I sat on a pretty square drinking a large coffee and a water and, with parking, still got change from a fiver!

Today, those around me would not suspect…I have a swimsuit under this dress. I am a Super Hero waiting to break free! If the rain holds off, I will be sitting on that lounger reading and snoring. Better that than drowning in my own sweat from all the humidity. After all, I am a fearless bastard!

Day 5
Last night. Five nights and six days is the absolute max I can tolerate my own company. It’s been swell though. Lots of reading, good food and yummy alcohol. I’m now watching Sarah Jessica Parker and Kathy Bates on the telly box – fierce good at the Spanish so they are. I opted for the Spanish channels after enduring the only English language channel which ran a (very lengthy) documentary on the price of Spam in South Korea…

I am lying here coated head to toe in a gorgeous concoction of aloe vera and after sun because I so don’t want to feel the burn. I’m tomato red. I used a new suntan lotion and report that it was not a success. I reckon slathering myself in beef dripping would have provided more protection. Awful stuff!

I will miss lazing by the pool. I will not miss the chorus of voices calling “Meeeeeee – qweeeeeeeelllll” as the toddler with the face of an aul fella legs it here, there and everywhere!

Day 6
Heading towards the airport now and as the song goes – ‘back to life, back to reality’…

And what did I learn on this holiday?

– when a small toddler called ‘Meeeee-gwelllll is joined by a toddler of equal stature and speed called “Maaaaaaan-welllllll”, the fun is over

– it doesn’t matter how much care I take, I still burn like the red head I am

– Larios gin is one step up from drinking nail varnish remover

– many men of varying ages, and degrees of wrinkling, are way too happy encasing their meagre offerings in a pair of Speedos

– the Spanish moan about humidity the same way the Irish whinge about the weather (including an elderly woman emerging from the lift roaring “Oh my God, Oh my God! The humidity! The humidity!” before collapsing into the arms of her daughter (I suspect she only travelled two floors…)

– far too many young fellas can’t put their arms down straight by their sides due to excessive weight lifting

– sympathizing with me about the state of my face is mistaking hideous sunburn for the effects of humidity

– with my pasty skin, and my ability to tan like a Dalmatian, I will never be mistaken for Spanish or any race living within an ass’s roar of the Mediterranean