Turning 40

When I was young(er) I truly believed that by the time I’d reached the grand old age of forty, I would have stylish, neat and legible handwriting. I would no longer cringe when I had to write thank you notes.

I presumed I would be an expert on politics and current affairs. I imagined myself reading The Irish Times from cover to cover daily and The Economist in the evenings before going to bed. I would no longer waste my precious time watching mindless American programmes like Grey’s Anatomy, instead I’d tune into Primetime and The 9 o’clock news. In my spare time (this is before I had children. I now laugh hysterically at the very idea of spare time), I’d read biographies on Winston Churchill, Stalin, Lincoln, Mao and other politicians who changed the course of history.

When I was forty, I’d no longer curse. Not even if I was in a very bad mood. Not even if I stubbed my toe first thing in the morning. Not even if I was antagonised by someone stealing my parking space. Not even if my four-year old upended my red nail varnish all over my white Egyptian cotton duvet cover. If I found myself in desperate need to blow off steam, I’d use expletives like ‘Damn’ and ‘Flip’.

And when I had children, I would never, ever shout at them. No matter how bold they were being, no matter how furious I was. I would crouch down to talk to them at eye level – like Supernanny does – and reason with them in a firm but gentle voice.

And so….here I am, a newly turned forty-year-old and what of my predictions?

Let’s see….I still write like someone with a prosthetic arm. If it were possible, my writing is worse, more spidery and illegible. I’m quite sure people receiving notes from me assume that I got my five year old to write them.

With three children under the age of five and novels to conjure up, I barely have time to skim the newspaper headlines and have been found on several occasions in a coma with The Economist stuck to my sleeping face – still on page one. I have also had excellent naps while watching Primetime, but somehow manage to stay awake through Desperate Housewives….but only just.

If I manage to read my book club book over the space of a month, it’s a miracle. I did buy a biography of Churchill, which lies on the floor beside my bed gathering dust (I regularly look at the 1002 paged tome and say, “Next week, definitely next week.”)

I am ashamed to say that I curse regularly. My language has not improved with age, in some ways it’s become even more colourful. However, I am determined to clean up my act as I recently heard my 18 month old daughter shouting, “Foor fik-sake” when trying to push a square brick through a triangular shaped hole.

Do I raise my voice to my children? Unfortunately, yes. When? On-and-off, all day long.  Sometimes, when they’ve been particularly trying and the boys have yet again pulled the curtain rail down from the wall during one of their epic wrestling matches, I go to bed with laryngitis.

Wise? Serene? Calm? Measured? Knowledgeable? Maybe when I’m 60!