Emerging Writer Member Profile
Anne Bennett Brosnan
I'm a language teacher, French and Italian , and have recently found the courage to call myself a writer too. I've been writing since Santa bought me a toy typewriter at six. For the moment, I'm at home with three young boys trying to civilize them and nobody has given me a medal... yet. We all live on a busy dairy farm in North Kerry. I steal moments to write. You can follow my adventures on writing to survive motherhood on www.girlinwellies.com
The Best Psychiatrist
I cornered a local woman in the village recently. It was during one of my crazed escapes from Hearthill, grabbing ten minutes of ‘mommy time’ before having to face the reality of the three sons. So this particular local lady is in my top ten favorite village people. She has a brood of children, some of whom I have had the pleasure to teach and they seem to be the most well adjusted, happy and healthy children I have met. And I wanted to know how, and I quote, how she managed to do it. The conversation went along these lines.
Me: How did you do it? They’re amazing.
Herself: Ah stop.
Me: Ah go on. How did you do it? (Trying to look a tad nonchalant)
Herself: Ah thanks.
Me: (Directly looking her in the eye) No really, how did you do it?
Herself: (Laughing) You’re hilarious. (The lady isn’t getting the point)
Me: (Trying not to beg) Seriously, how?
Herself: Well you know what, God is a great psychiatrist, and sometimes, when it got really bad, I took off to a field, had a cry and talked to God, he’s free.
Myself: I’ll try it. (Leaving the poor lady bemused but smiling)
Skip forward two days. Having given up on jolly phonics, on the toddler spilling the contents of a small baby bath on the floor and strung out on my small baby not sleeping, I take to the field. So I start off the conversation, fully aware that I am a pathetic hypocrite, only coming to pry on the interventionist God today, half blubbering, half pleading, making sure to thank Himself for my holy Trinity of healthy and happy boys. Onto the hard stuff and here I’ll spare you the details. Somehow, somewhere mid sentence, I fall asleep, in the field. In the field. It might have been ten seconds, it was no more than a couple of minutes. It was, however, enough to put the farmer’s wife back on her feet and back into the ring. This time, intervention came in the form of a short nap, in a field. God was telling me to get some sleep and he didn’t have to ask twice. I slept, my friends, in a field and his(!) advise was free.
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