DEAR BABY A AND BABY B, First of all, before you start aiming right hooks at my bladder and pummelling my pelvis in retaliation for the fact that I've turned into an embarrassing mother before you have even had a chance to draw first breath, I just want to tell you both that I did, originally, have a couple of other ideas for this column, wites ROISIN INGLE
It being Valentine’s Day, I was going to dig out one of the many mortifying love missives that I never sent to those boys who stubbornly refused to fall in love with me despite my best efforts.
The fact that there was more than one poor guy on the receiving end of what you might call my more militant affections does not make me proud. If there is one painful teenage humiliation I can help you avoid by drawing on my own sorry experience, it’s the one where you end up on your knees begging someone to kiss you. In the rain. When you’re not wearing waterproof mascara.
Actually, there's a film out at the moment which explains it better than I can. It's called He's Just Not That Into You. I'll save you the DVD. And the book. Just in case.
The other idea I had was to reprint love letters written by your late Grandpa (my father) to your Nanny (my mother). They were written in the 1960s, when Grandpa and Nanny were newly married but estranged. Oh, the family skeletons that are waiting for you to pluck out of the closet.
Unfortunately, my mother claims to be saving these love letters for her autobiography, but here's a sneak preview. "Dearest Ann, The first time we met you cast a spell on me although you did not know it. I began to think that you were a witch and I said to myself why haven't I met this witch before now, and myself said to I: You would never have appreciated her or the charm divine that she has got. This girl, woman of so many talents and my wife, I love you Ann dearest because . . . well let me explore it. It's very hard for me to explain in conversation, so I will write the reasons. You, Ann dearest, are the most understanding, patient and most truthful woman there is alive today. Also, you have the most beautiful body a woman could hope to ask or even hope for. Because you are the most desirable, womanly and most feminine wife any man on this earth would ever ask for when he is looking for someone to spend the rest of his life with."
The other letters will have to wait until Penguin comes looking for my mother’s life story.
But this one is a love letter to both of you. Sort of. If I am honest, I have yet to experience that emotion where you both are concerned. It’s something that fills me with a certain amount of guilt. I feel protective of you, excited by the thought of you and curious about meeting you face to face. When I am lying in bed at night and you are both fluttering away in the space where I used only to have a cushion of fat – a cushion you’ve since transformed into a large bean bag (thanks for that) – I feel something approaching fondness for you. But I can’t say it’s love. At least not yet.
There is something else though. Since you've been on the scene I am now looking out at the world through very different eyes. It's suddenly a much scarier place. I know you haven't been able to make much sense of the accounts of the recession on Morning Ireland, Questions and Answersand the News at One, but let's just say it's a gloomy old world out here at the moment.
When you are both safely delivered, I fully expect you to do a jig of recognition – not to the Mozart I am supposed to be listening to, but to the theme tune of Nightly News with Vincent Browne. Also, by the time you emerge, you will probably think of Áine Lawlor as some kind of stern aunt. Sorry about that.
It’s the hormones, probably, but with one ear constantly tuned to Radio Recession, I’ve been getting very angry on behalf of you both. I am increasingly exasperated by the fact that the people in charge of this country don’t seem to know what they are doing. They “negotiate” with greedy bankers desperate for tax payers’ money to survive, when even I know that instead of negotiating they should be telling them what to do.
They refuse to admit that they bear any responsibility for the financial disaster here when they are part of the reason we are in a far worse economic situation than other countries. Admitting this takes more guts than they possess.
The man in charge, Brian Cowen, doesn’t seem to want to talk to us citizens, and recently chose an event attended by a crowd of business people and one solitary journalist at which to finally talk from the heart about the situation. Afterwards everyone slapped him on the back and said “Well done Brian”, while I just seethed in silence, on your behalf.
It’s not all bad though. You see there is this man in the US who is practically the president of the world. His name is Barack Obama. Every time I see him on the television or listen to him talk, it makes me smile to know that you are coming into a world where such a man has such influence.
This is a man who is man enough to admit when he has made a mistake. He says: “I screwed up, I take full responsibility.” This is a man who, if he’s giving billions of tax payers’ money to greedy bankers, he doesn’t negotiate with them, he dictates to them. He says: “No you cannot earn more than half a million a year. And nope, that’s not up for discussion.” And Baby A, Baby B, this man can dance. And shoot hoops. And he likes this singer called Beyoncé, and he has a wife who teases him publicly for leaving his socks on the floor.
Best of all, he’s hoping he can help make the world a better place for his own two children. He told them so in a letter on the eve of his inauguration. And even though what I’m feeling is not yet love, not quite yet, I aspire to that for you too.
With growing fondness, your Mother, x.
roisin@irishtimes.com