I am Stop with the Bunny Claus Mum

When did Easter become such a big deal?

Now, before I come across as a Negative Nelly here, let me clarify that I LIKE Easter.

I like it for lots of reasons. Mainly the fact that it is accompanied by holidays, better weather and chocolate. It’s also a great excuse to enjoy Easter dinners, visit family and to meet up with friends.  And it is the time of year where it’s finally acceptable and not weird to wear yellow. What’s not to like?

As kids, Easter meant the end of the drudgery of lent. It meant a lot of services and masses, but it was all topped off by the family occasions and meals and wearing of the good clothes.  It meant cousins visiting and mostly, it meant CHOCOLATE.  The first taste of chocolate melting on your tongue after having had it banned for 40 days, was AMAZING!

Now, Easter is as big an event as Christmas for many.  Houses are decorated. Holidays are planned. New outfits are worn. People go all out. And if you do, good for you. But I have ONE tiny, ickle, niggly little issue that quite honestly is grinding my springtime gears.

The Easter Bunny.

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Why? Because my daughter asked me last week:

“When do we write our letters to The Easter Bunny?”

“Sorry…whodeewhatnow?”

“Why would you be writing a letter to the Easter Bunny?”

“So he can bring me toys?”

“The Easter Bunny doesn’t bring toys.”

“He does.  Japonica says that he is bringing her Shopkins and a scooter.”

What the actual?

Unless it is Japonica’s birthday on Easter Sunday, why the heck she would be getting big gifts like this is beyond me.

The Easter Bunny used to be a symbol.  A thing associated with Easter.  Like the Easter Egg. Now apparently, The Easter Bunny is like the Santa Claus of Springtime. The Easter Bunny, now leaves presents for some kids apparently…the little fecker.

Why?  Because somemum (or Dad), somewhere, decided to treat their little Darling to something nice, which is their prerogative, but in their wisdom, left it as a treat “from the Easter Bunny.”

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Now, if  parents decide to buy things for their kids, for their own reasons, with their own money, in their own home, is their OWN business. Give them what you want, but let them know that they are from YOU… Not a magic bunny.

When you start something that your little one is obviously going to share at school (because let’s face it, presents are CLASS regardless of who leaves or brings them!), you might be causing a problem for others.

You are adding pressure to parents who already have enough to be dealing with. There are parents who don’t think their kids need any more gifts or toys 3 months after Santa has been. There are parents who depend on the 3 for 2 sales to buy Easter Eggs for their kids.  There are parents who depend on family members to buy the eggs.  There are parents who are still paying off Christmas.

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Keep them apart please

Christmas is already difficult. It is already full of traditions that should you choose to follow, can be contentious and unfair.  We have already cultured our kids into expecting gifts on December 25th and we all know that the “How come Santa bought HIM a pony but only bought me a bike?” conversation will happen at some stage. But as a society, we have learned to deal with that. We are accustomed to it and we practice our excuses and explanations. And we have a full year to plan and save for it.

Why, oh WHY do we want to be doing it twice a year?

Stop it.

Make Easter whatever you want it to be. Go to mass.  Don’t.  Wear yellow. Don’t. Stay in your PJS. Don’t.  Go out for lunch. Don’t. Buy eggs. Don’t.  Paint eggs. Don’t.  Organize an egg hunt in your garden…or don’t.  Whatever you do, on your own home, good for you, but but for the love of St. Cadbury, don’t start some extortionate rumour mill among the kiddies that the fricken Easter Bunny will bring toys if they’re good. Leave that job to Santa Claus.  We don’t need a Vice-Santa.

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This is just plain creepy

Now, I probably should go buy some Easter eggs. And I might need a yellow dress. But will my little Bunny be writing a letter of request to the Easter Bunny?

Eh, no. No she won’t.

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I am So I Have Made a Choice Mum

I’ve thought long and hard about whether or not to publish this.

I’ve chosen to. I’ve made a choice.

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I’ve changed my mind a thousand times. See that’s the thing about choices; about decision making. You consider your options and you weigh them up and then you choose.

You can change your mind if you like. You can decide what’s best for you. You can talk to others, get professional or expert advice. Then you can change your mind again.

And so I have made a choice. Not about my vote, no, that choice wasn’t a difficult one. It’s quite simple for me really.

The choice I made was whether or not to write about it. And you can choose whether or not you want to read on. No one is forcing you… because you have a choice. You have the right to choose.

Generally, you can make a choice about EVERYTHING; well, unless you’re a pregnant woman in Ireland. Or indeed an Irish Man who has been faced with the unthinkable situation of possibly losing his wife, partner or daughter.

Here’s the thing.

I am Pro-Choice. I am NOT pro-abortion. I do not condone it. I would never encourage it. I would never want to have an abortion. But you see. I have never needed an abortion. I have never been in the situation where abortion was an option, or a requirement for me.

Lucky me. Lucky, Lucky me.

And so, having never had to have one, or consider one or even think about one, why should I have a say on the issue? Why do I have the right to speak on this private taboo which is in dire need of public support? Who am I to even think about writing my views and publishing them?

I’ll tell you shall I? I am an Irish woman. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a sister. I am an aunt.

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I am so sad that in this day and age, if faced with an utterly terrible ordeal or medical dilemma, that as an Irish woman and mother, I do not have a voice. I do not have a say. I do not have a right to my own body. And my surgeons or doctors do not have the right to help me if the procedure I need happens to be a termination.

None of us know what is ahead of us. I do not have a clue what is ahead of me. I don’t know what is ahead of my daughters. I don’t know what lies ahead for my siblings. I don’t have a clue what is going on in the lives of my friends. I do not know what other women face, have faced or WILL face in the future. NOR DO YOU.

If I were to find myself pregnant tomorrow, aren’t I lucky that I’d be happy about it?

But tell me this. If early in the pregnancy, a medical professional were to tell me that my worst nightmare were a possibility; that if I continue with the pregnancy, there is a certainty that not only would the fetus die, but possibly, so would I; would I happily accept my Irish constitutional requirements to give my life and body up to the 8th? Would I lie back and think of Ireland?

Would I hell.

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If you think for one second that I would make the choice to leave my beautiful daughters without their Mum, or my husband without his wife, or my parents without their daughter… my friends, you couldn’t be more wrong. And yet, when we’re not in the situation, NONE of us know what we would do, do we?

But how important it would be to have a choice.

There’s that word again. CHOICE.

Unfortunately, in our progressive and wonderful little country, this Mamma Bear would not have that choice. There would be no choice. Not here anyway. Not in the land of opportunity and equality and freedom… Not if you’re a pregnant woman.

And suddenly, without warning, I too would be a statistic. I too would be one of the many, many thousands of women who have to make the horrific, demeaning and absolutely cruel journey across the Irish Sea to seek help from our neighbours. I would be in the same boat…or on the same plane…because the journey for termination is not exclusive to class or age or job or marital status.

Any woman, from any background, for a multitude of reasons can find themselves on that journey. Never mind dealing with the emotional hell of making such a decision, they are damned for it by our society.

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To be PRO-CHOICE does not mean that you are Pro-Abortion.

You can be a mother and still be pro-choice.

You can be Grandmother and be pro-choice.

You can be a father and be pro-choice. Because guess what? This affects men too. It affects the men who will hold their partner’s hands when faced with the words none of us ever want to hear.

It affects the husbands who are helpless to save their unborn baby or their wife. It affects Fathers. It affects brothers. It affects sons. There are so many situations where these men can be faced with losing one of the women in their life. None of them include choice for the man OR the woman.

So if you are a man, do not think that this is a problem for the women. If you are a woman, who thinks that it doesn’t concern you, think ahead. It might. If you are on the fence, get off it. No one is asking us to legalize random abortion for all. No one is asking us to agree with it. All that we are being asked to do, is to make a choice to GIVE a choice, to our daughters, to our nieces, to our sisters…and maybe even to ourselves.

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Choice. I’ve made my choice to write this. If you’ve made the choice to read it, thank you. You also have the choice to decide whether to agree with me or not. I would never insist that you agree with me. That is not how I am.

I also however, would not attack or criticise you for your choice even if it is different to mine. If you disagree, that is your choice. No one is forcing you to agree. No one will make you. It’s yours already. It feels good doesn’t it? To have a choice?

You also have a voice. Use it.

(Maria Rushe March 2018)

I am Suck it up Mum

Ladybelles.
I’m walking like John Wayne.

NEVER again will I abandon my Jim. I went back on Tuesday night after over 3 weeks off. Between the show, being away for work and then hurting my back, I haven’t been able to train. Yesterday, I was smug as I wasn’t too bad. Today, I could go up stairs, but going down them wasn’t too hot. I’m feeling better after another session this evening and I know the aches will pass so I’m sucking it up and getting on with it. It’s only 12 weeks until the bikini goes on and Himself has challenged me to step out of my comfort zone and start some different training with him. I’ve been doing classes for years and love lifting stuff so he’s doing me up a new plan which will be a mix of classes and weight sessions.

Speaking of Sucking it up, here’s a wee repost of one that got a huge reaction a few months ago.

Now calm yerselves. I know that not everyone is interested in fitness and so I won’t be posting about it on here. If you ARE interested however, follow my Instagram account for stories and updates. I’ll keep it over there and on the lifestyle section of my website.

In other news, the week of 43 days is almost done. I should be cleaning my house. I am NOT cleaning my house. I am cooking dinner and shall be parking my arse on the sofa until it’s time to hobble to bed.
A hot bath might be just what I need.

Happy nearly the Weekend Lovelies. xx

I am Sweet Jebus, What Did She See Mum?

“Mammy I wrote you a note.”

“Did you Darling?”

“Yes.  I wrote it the other night when I couldn’t get to sleep and I forgotted to give it to you.”

“Ok. What does it say?”

“It says My Mammy and Daddy were very happy doing the rumpy.”

(WTF? WTF? WTF?)

“Erm. Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay?”

(Inside I am thinking FAAAAAAAAACK. What has she seen? What have we done? Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod… I have scarred my child for life. What…when…how…WHEN?)

Outside, I TRY to remain calm and composed…

“What is Doing the Rumpy Darling?” (Tread carefully Mammy.)

“No.  DURING the Rumpy.”

(Sweet Japonica on a big bike, shoot me now…)

“And what is Rumpy?”

“That game you were watching…”

(Now I’m utterly lost.)

“What game?”

“When Ireland WON the match with the funny ball.”

“OH!”  (Joy and rapture and Thank the frivoulous fecks!)  THE  RUGBY?!

“Yes,  The Rumpy.  Remember you and Daddy were all excited and jumping up and down and smiling?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”  (Hallelujah!)

Yes we were Darling. Yes we were.  Right there in the middle of the kitchen, in broad daylight…and not a door locked or anything!

Phew…

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