Coming out to my mother - my story

I tell this story better in person. It evolves too with each telling, words changing, inflection and intonation differing, depending on the audience. The Kilkenny accent plays an important role, as does the knowledge of the listener of my mother in "real life" - particularly how challenging a serious conversation with her can be with her constant interruptions, as well intentioned as they may be.

I've tended to tell it over dinner or a pint to someone or people it's come up in conversation with, or who out and out ask. I've hesitated about sharing it online before now, doubtful I could do the full extent of the effect and reaction justice. However, tonight I read Stephen, Russell, Scott and Ben who have all posted their coming out stories, their difficulties and challenges in sharing who they are with loved ones, so I'll give it a go and take this opportunity to tell you mine.



It's the year 1999. I'm almost 21, I've lived in Dublin now for almost two years. I'm home for the first time in a few weeks, my studies in the seminary providing a demanding schedule. Easter is next weekend and the evening before I'd been talking to my younger sister on the phone, who had told me things my mother had been telling our relatives. Andrea knows I value my privacy, knows the way things spread around our small village and, I guess, she wants to stir trouble as well, so she gives me a run through of overheard conversations and things people have said to her. She doesn't like it - I'm embarrassing her again. After a restless night of thinking and rehearsing, I took the first bus and arrived home a day early, telling my mother we needed to talk.

I'd changed a lot that year. My experiences in Kimmage were nothing but positive - I was studying in UCD, cycling out every day giving me that necessary exercise boost. The contemplative, spiritual side of my life had helped me get to know myself a lot better, to focus on my thoughts and deal with them maturely, while the social aspect of dealing with parishioners and fellow seminarians boosted my self confidence and taught me a lot about interacting with people. Teasie's little boy was growing up fast.

Dropping my bags in the hallway, I can hear the TV blasting from the kitchen. I didn't have a mobile then so had no way of telling the folks what time I'd be home. I preferred it this way almost, the thoughts of laid out tables, cups of tae and chatter about stuff we'd already discussed on the phone far from my mind. "She's been saying things about you, Darragh" Andrea had said, "She's been telling them why you don't like girls and stuff." I think I'd almost have preferred not to know.

Growing up I went to all boys schools so never had much interaction with girls. I've written about this previously, but it's worth pointing out that UCD was a huge surprise for me, it providing a bewildering amount of girls who - I couldn't really understand - seemed to like being with guys and each other. This was different.

The girls I'd encountered at home and on the school bus were bitches, pure and simple. They took every delight in tormenting each other and any one on the bus that they chose to pick on, gender irrelevant. I was a constant target, being quiet and not bothered to react. I left for Dublin with certain apprehension that they'd be the same everywhere - just out for themselves, with no concern for anyone's feelings. At least, that's how I perceived it.

I pushed open the door. My father was on the chair, watching a GAA match on the television while my mother was playing patience at the table down at the sliding door, the light being perfect for her eyesight. They didn't notice me for a second, so I said a casual "Well hello there" before sitting opposite my mother. We'd only spoken the night before so there was little catching up to do.

"Mam" I said, when the journey questions were answered, "Can we talk about something? I think we need to talk."

She looked up at me. I was expecting the look, what my sister had told me still in my head, but the sudden change in her face emphasised how important this suddenly was to her. Her eyes softened, she took off her glasses and smiled and said "Of course son, what do you want to tell me?"

"Well, look, it's important we talk about something. It'll only take a few minutes but I want to tell you it now."

It was as if I was reading next week's lotto numbers to her. She had anticipated this, I could see it in her face. The smile got wider. On the couch, my father stayed intent on the match, not a flicker of interest apparent.

"John" she said, "Come over here. Darragh wants to tell us something. Make him a cup of tea there John and come over"

"It's okay Dad", I said, "Stay where you are. I'll talk to mam."

"Are you sure Darragh?" she said. "Do you not want your father here as well? John, would you ever turn down that telly and make him a cup of tea, for feck sake. Come over here."

My mother is a formidable woman at the best of times. You'd really have to hear the accent to understand how forceful her words can be. Many's the guest in our house have had a cup of tea made for them, whether they want it or not.

"Look, it's grand", I said, "Watch your game. I'm all right for tea. I don't feel like tea, I just want to get this over with."

"Son, you know that we love you".

(If I ever do this on stage some time, I'm going to have violin music play at this point. Possibly 'O Danny Boy'.)

"You know that. We support you, we're very proud of you. You're a great son altogether, going off there to Dublin and doing what you want to do, it's great. We..."

"Yes, yes I know all that", I interrupt, as patiently as I can manage. "I just want to talk to you about this."

"Well you go on son, I'm listening. I'm here for you. JOHN! Will you turn down that telly? We're trying to talk here."

I took a deep breath. "Well, look. I've been away from here nearly two years now and I've been thinking a lot."

"You have son, and it's done you the world of good. Sure you were never happy here, it held you back. Not enough opportunities," she interrupted.

"Be that as it may", I said, "I'm enjoying the second year in UCD. I like what I'm doing and I love being in Kimmage"

"Sure aren't you doing God's work, son?" she said. "Isn't it what you want to do? You're very brave. I don't think you should be there now, but sure you're happy. And that's all we want, your father and me, you to be happy."

"Yeah, I know, but look. I want to tell you something. I want you to know this. I need you to know this."

"Go on, son, go on", she smiled, the words forming on her lips in anticipation.

"I know I never seemed interested in girls the way the other lads were when I was younger..."

"But sure weren't they all bitches to you boy? Jealous! That's what they all were, jealous. You'd be much better off without any of them from here..."

"... Yes, but look! I have a lot of friends in Dublin. Some are guys, some are girls, and I know I'm living with a group of men and I know I'm going to be celibate..."

"Yes, son, I do, go on". She's sitting in the chair like a jockey on a racehorse, ready to reach over and pounce with an almighty hug if tears began or when the words come.

"...But I want you to know something. It's important I'm honest with you. There's something about me that you don't seem to know, maybe I haven't been clear."

"We love you, son. Whoever you are and want to be, we'll love you anyways."

"Yeah, I know that!", I'm getting manic, trying to force the words out, hating how long something so simple, something I've come to terms with, thought about a lot, prayed about a lot and have accepted about myself after years of doubt and denial is taking. "But look, I'm just telling you now. I'm straight. There, I've said it. I like girls, I'm not gay and that's it."

"What did you say?" Her tone is incredulous, as if I've just announced I'm actually a small kangaroo named Skippy.

"I said, I'm not gay. Andrea's told me what you've been saying, told me you told people you were proud of me whether I was gay or not. Well, I'm not. I don't want a boyfriend, I don't want a girlfriend, but I'm not gay."

"But..."

"But nothing, that's it! That's who I am. I've thought enough about it to know."

"Well", she said, at once utterly deflated, her own self congratulation at being a modern mother and supporting her son's identity no matter what evaporating while her acute embarrassment at having gotten it so wrong rose like her blood pressure.

"Well...

If that's the way you want to live your life, you go and do so."

The vehemence in her tone was shockingly funny. I had to laugh. She gathered her cards and her spectacles, and without speaking to me, turned her back and walked out of the room, shoulders slumped with the burden of a disappointing child. Her dream had ended.

My father looked up. "Is everything okay?", he said. "What happened?"

"Ah, I told her I wasn't gay."

"Sure I've been telling her that all along. Don't mind her. Will you have a cup of tea?"

"I will" says I. "I think I will."

My mother didn't speak to me for the rest of that evening and didn't really forgive me for a month. "My son, the gay priest" was not going to be a part of her vocabulary for the rest of my life. We laugh about it now, but every so often she'll ask "So, any sign of a girl? Or a fella?" There hasn't been. A funny woman, my mother.

Not a word of a lie. I came out as straight to my mammy. I had to. She wouldn't have believed me otherwise.

An awful pain in the backside

Nope it's not a plug for Maxi's new award and nope, it's not a complaint about an Irish broadcaster/phone company/other blogger/state of the world :-P. It is however a post about me. I'm very very sore.



It's not something I've ever spent too much time thinking about, my bum. While I'm careful to protect my lower back and avoid strain as much as the next person, my posterior has just been there to sit on or get smacked occasionally followed by "Jaysis Doyle, you're so bony!" Its role in my general movement has never been something I've contemplated, all those hours studying anatomy in school wasted on me.

I won't be sitting on it today. Not for a while.



I spent an energy-less day in bed yesterday without the ability to do anything. Days like that are frustrating, knowing how much email was piling up, knowing of computer stuff I had to do, Christmas decorations to take down and things I wanted to do. My sleeping patterns are all over the place these days too which isn't helping. Come 11pm though and I'm feeling better, I get up, dress the bed, tidy the room a bit and bring the two half full mugs of coffee downstairs.

Big mistake.

Coming down the all wooden, no carpet stairs, mug in each hand, my legs gave way and I sat down. Heavily. On my sacrum.



In other words: I fell on my arse.

The crash was loud. The coffee flew everywhere. Clothes dripping, walls dripping, stairs sodden I immediately shouted in pain, stood up and ran for the bathroom. Don't ask me why, I think with the fright of it it was the first place that came to mind.

"Are you all right, Darragh?" was dad's first shout, him having gone to bed only a few minutes before. "What's wrong with you, son?" my mother wanted to know. They headed for the stairs, his bedroom upstairs, her's down. "What the hell happened?" they both wanted to know, no doubt looking at the devastation.

I couldn't talk. I was in agony. "I need painkillers", I said, "lots of painkillers." She brought them down to me and headed back to the kitchen. I took four.

I walked very stiffly back to where she was. I'm not sure if it was the pain of the fall or the embarrassment or knowing that my father was cleaning my mess on the stairs in his boxers that was worse. "What happened?" she asked again, "Are you okay?"

"I fell on the stairs," I say, winning first prize in the most obvious statement of 2009 award. "Did you hurt your back?" she wanted to know, "Do you want me to rub it?"

For a brief millisecond, for the time it took for my brain to process what my ears were hearing, the little boy in me, the one who had run to mammy with grazed knees, sore elbows, bruised forehead and ego, the one who believed she could kiss it better and that the Disney plasters really were magic almost said yes. Reality kicked in.

"It's, erm, not my back." She looked confused. "It's my bum. I fell on my bum."

I'm not sure which of us started laughing first. Loud, boisterous laughs, reactions to the fright of mere minutes before. Dad walked in "So what's wrong, then? Why are you walking like that?"

"He... he fell. On his arse." she managed to say amid the snorts. Though concerned, what else could she do? Dad had either less humour or was more tired. I was walking, talking and didn't seem to need a doctor. In his books I was fine and he headed back to bed. She fussed around me for the next few minutes, prescribing deep heat, a hot water bottle and sweet tea. She's great like that.

I tried to walk the pain out of it. I couldn't. I couldn't bend, I couldn't twist and there was no way I'd get back up stairs. In the end I just threw myself on the couch. Remember Del Boy falling? That was me.

I've passed the last few hours in considerable discomfort. Nothing's broken, I didn't damage my coccyx which I know from personal experience is a lot worse but I can barely move that part of me. Horizontal to vertical is almost impossible.

I fell going up stairs as well, just because I would, but once I got to me leaba, sleep soon came. I'm typing here this morning from my bed, every movement a reminder, every strain triggering pain. it's a bruised bottom and a bruised ego and even more bed time for me. Bummer.

All I can think of is this song:

All my younger sisters in the same room

We sat chatting about Christmas presents, about parents and about DVDs. Andrea has just finished work and called over, the younger girls were drinking coke and giggling at stories of me as a small child. I'm sitting with my four younger sisters. I met two of them for the first time today.

I'll always remember finding out I had other siblings. Growing up in a two child family as the eldest, I sometimes wished for an older brother or even a twin. For a time I almost convinced myself that maybe, somehow I was a twin - that's what too much Highway to Heaven will do for you. To go from two to finding out I was part of a much bigger tribe was pretty awesome, literally.

Mary Ann and I were sitting in the hotel in Roscrea where we were to have our first formal conversation. I'd got my rehearsed "I'd just like to say thanks for putting me up for adoption, it can't have been an easy thing to do but I ended up in a very loving family and I'm very happy and I wanted you to know that." speech out of the way, and once said, I couldn't find much else. I was struck by the physical similarities in our faces - family traits had always been a fascination of mine, simply because it wasn't something I could share in growing up.

When I finally braved the question of other children, she told me of her family. Married after I was born, she'd reared a good strong country family with her husband, out in the wilds of Offaly. Shyly she produced a scrap book of photos and invited me to have a look. "Here's your brother, John" she said, pointing to one strapping young chap, "And here's your other brothers there." The photos were stuck on with sellotape, taken apparently from family albums. It's part and parcel of the Advice on What To Do when Meeting your Adopted Child procedures. Bring some photos. Make them aware of the current situation. Tell them about yourself. Props always help.

Turning the page she pointed to three young girls by a church wall. "They", she said "are your sisters." Whatever about being told I had brothers, finding out I now had sisters was almost a bigger surprise. Brothers, you see, I'd expected. Hoped for in fact. But sisters? I'd already got one of those, and she'd caused me enough trouble, so I didn't think I'd be "lucky" enough to get any more, I type very diplomatically. But I looked at those photos, thinking that in a different Ireland these could very well have been the brothers and sisters I'd grown up with.


(Even at 5, Andrea was difficult to be around :-P)

It's not that Andrea and me didn't get on, as such. We loved each other and grew up very close as young children, but once distinct teenage personalities came to the fore, that was it. At the time I met Mary Ann, Andrea and I got on great, living over 100km from each other and seeing each other once every few months. Magic.

But more sisters I had. I met Maureen in January of 2004 and was enthralled. We'd never met, never known of each other a few months before, but blood beats distance and I saw we shared a lot of similar personality traits, reactions and even mannerisms. She was my first personal experience of sibling semblance and it was an overwhelmingly positive one.

There was no awkwardness between us, other than the natural one of people becoming friends. When introduced to other people, I was her brother - there was never any explanatory talks of family history. Me, I'd have complicated thing unnecessarily, as I'm wont to do, but she immediately accepted and acknowledged me, regardless of which house I'd grown up in. When talking together, we'd talk of our mother but my mam and her mam, the distinction doubtlessly confusing to anyone not familiar with the situation. When asked it took me a while to realise I had more than one younger sister.

I met the others in ones and twos, sometimes in Offaly, more times in Dublin. The biggest test came when I was invited to a family wedding, where I'd meet them all en masse. Anxiety struck before then, let me tell you, but I was welcomed as a family member, introduced as a brother and treated like a friend throughout - a far better experience to some of the adopted family weddings I'd been invited to.

We're never going to be the Waltons, the Ingalls or Camdens, nor do we want to be. It's the differences between us that make it interesting - I grew up in a rural-urban setting, they in a rural one. They blossomed outdoors on their farm, I recuperated indoors lost in books. They are strong men in physical work; I type. The affinity we share is in kinship. There's no semblance of posturing, no sense of superiority through legitimacy. While we're related, we're not really family, in the traditional sense of the word. It's almost deeper than that, a fraternal bond based on genealogy more than genetics. We enjoy seeing each other when we can, but don't force it. We just let things happen as they happen.

Fast forward almost five years to today, when I meet my two youngest siblings. Our paths just haven't crossed until now - they're a lot different to the two small girls I saw in a photo five years ago. Eileen is in fourth year of school, loving practical subjects like Home Economics but hating maths - a lot like me. Brigid is in second year, giggling shyly as she tells me her favourite subjects are Tech drawing and lunch time. We're nervous around each other, of course, me probably more so than they. I've fallen very much out of practise of meeting new people, of giving a good impression and this one is important to me.

Though I meet them on neutral ground, in a local café for coffee beforehand, I do want them to see the house I grew up in, to meet my parents, to show just how ordinary I am, how similar our childhoods have been in many ways. My folks - ever welcoming and supportive - have met Maureen before, but I introduce them now to Michael and the girls. Andrea arrives to meet them all for the first time - she hasn't met any of that side of the family yet. We talk about everything from GAA to Home and Away, from Harry Potter to mobile ringtones. Once I relax, I'm grand. It takes a while though.



At one stage mid conversation, I look at the four girls and realise I'm quite lucky to be the older brother of four rather lovely young women. Family, though it is what you make of it, is important and this Christmas has emphasised that for me in more ways than one. I didn't grow up with these girls, but they are my family, they are my sisters and now they're part of my life. It's not a case of adopted families, biological families, half brothers and sisters or any such terms. We're in each other's lives because we want to be.

We part ways later in the evening with hugs - they have a long drive ahead of them. I'm delighted it's gone so well. On my walk home I'm texted "It was lovely to meet you bro, you're very sound". Can't ask for better than that, eh?

The first time

I've woken up.

The room is dark, the pale light through the net curtains an indication of the early hour. I know I'm still tired but I know I won't go back to sleep. I'm nervous. This is it.

I choose my clothes for the day carefully. I don't want to appear too formal but not too scruffy either. I've brought enough clothes with me from Dublin to dress a hurling team. Sorting quietly through the bags so as not to wake Aoife asleep on the bed, I finally settle on black, one of those colours that always suited me.

I look at myself in the mirror. Actually I look at the photos around the mirror and how I've changed over the years. There's me at 3, at my communion, at school, on holidays, in church. All stages in my life I've got fond memories of.

Aoife rises and stands at my side, radiant despite just being up and dressed in one of my old school t-shirts. She's done this before, taken this journey, followed the process. She understands. She suggests a warm shower, not because I smell bad but because it will relax me and I need to relax. I'm nervous. This is it.

I groom as I've never groomed before despite having showered and shaved the night before. I study myself in the mirror. What does my appearance say about me? Who does it convey? Am I well represented by the effort I've put in. I note the lines, the scars, the creases in my face. I know I've been aged by illness, by stress, by life. Do I look strange? Bad? What shows?

My parents are up. The kettle is boiling as my dad calls up the stairs saying there's tae ready. I'm too nervous to eat, even to speak much. My mother is fussing with something. Aoife makes herself useful helping, pouring, slicing, collecting. Somehow it's all going on around me while I'm locked in thoughts of the past and the future. It's nearly time to go.

My mother comes over. A small woman, unsteady on her feet through a variety of health problems, I feel she still towers above me, all 5 ft 2 of her. She takes my hand and puts a small crucifix in it. "We've got you that" she says, "It will bring you luck." She grabs my neck to kiss my cheek. She knows my silence betrays the deeper emotion. I'm trying hard not to cry.

Dad gives me a hug. This simple country man from the wilds of south Kilkenny, a normally quiet, simple soul devoted to my mother and to making life as good as he can for his family clasps me close and says in a firm voice "When you were young we knew there was something about you. As you've grown I've seen it more. Blood isn't everything but you get your heart from her. And that's a mighty thing to have."

I catch Aoife's stare at me. She knows how close to cracking I must be. She's the first girl I've ever opened up to. The first girl I've loved. She claps her hand and says "Right so, we'll go." and soon we're in the small Opel Corsa ready to set off for Kilkenny.

I have to meet Elaine at 9. Elaine who I've only ever met twice before but today is as important as Aoife is. We've left in plenty of time but I'm still hoping dad will drive quicker. My mother makes conversation with Aoife while I once again rehearse the lines in my head.

I know what I want to say. I've practised it a million times. I've been rehearsing since I was 17, alone in my room, angry and frustrated after a row with my parents and realising "Hang on Darragh, you do know they're people too, right? And you know as tired as you may be with them that maybe you're not how they thought you'd be either?" That day changed my life.

We pull to the side of the road. The car has broken down. I kid you not. Of all the things to happen. I was going to be late for Elaine and of course I didn't have her mobile number. I laugh, simply because there's not much else I can do. I hope Elaine will wait. I've been waiting. Waiting a long time.

I was in the seminary when I first wrote to Waterford. It was a time of decision for me, a time of moving on, of me at 20 getting my life sorted. It was four years later before I received a call, just as I was boarding a flight from the offices of Quinn, Murphy and O' Brien. "Erm I'm going to Manchester" I said, "I've got a job there for a few weeks. I'll ring you when I'm back". I'd asked my mother to find out what it could be about but she only ever got an answering machine. I hadn't a clue why a solicitor's office would be ringing me. Who else could it be?

When I got back I called. "Ah Darragh" the friendly voice said "It's about your letter to Waterford. We were moving office and we found it behind a filing cabinet where it must have fell. Are you still interested in talking to us?" "Sorry, what letter?" "Oh, it's one dated October 1999". It's now August 2003.

I met Elaine at the Rivercourt in Kilkenny. It was a beautiful day, one in which the view of the castle was postcard perfect. We talked. Was I sure I wanted to know? Yes, I said. I'd thought about it. Had I talked to my parents? Yes, they've been supportive from the start. Are you angry? Angry? No. I don't think I have any negative emotions attached. I think I've dealt with that already. I know what I want to say, and that's simply...

The car starts. I breathe a huge sigh of relief as we trundle along windy roads to Kilkenny. "Ah probably just a dirty spark plug" says my dad as if looks at me in the rear view mirror. I smile, trying not to add to the stress. The closer we get the tenser I can see my parents becoming. It's a big day for them. They're nervous too.

It's five past nine when we pull into the car park. No Elaine. Uh oh I think, has she left? It's a Saturday, she's not supposed to be working. It's just before Christmas and she has small children and shopping to do. Maybe she's sick, maybe she won't do it, maybe she's - Aoife tells me to shut it, to relax. Maybe she's just late. And she is.

Her car pulls into the car park and she gets out and gives me a big hug. She has a brief chat with my parents, reassuring them, saying she'd be in touch and then with me in the passenger seat, Aoife in the back, we're off.

The questions start. What do you expect, Darragh? What are your thoughts? What do you hope will happen? All questions I've been thinking about, none I have answers to. So she tries simpler ones. Tell me about growing up. Tell me about your family. Tell me about finding out. Aoife rolls her eyes in the back, giggling as she knows the one thing I'll never be short of words about is myself.

It's destination Tullamore I'm told. That's where the meeting is. As we pull into the drive of the Tullamore Court hotel I can see it's a complete glass facade. I can see almost everyone in the lobby. People in business suits, in casual wear, tweed, plaid and wax jackets aplenty. I glance at my clothes. Would I fit in? Would I look alright? Do I look too conspicuous? Would I be mistaken for a waiter? Or a priest?

Elaine had stepped outside to make a call. I can't get through she says, I'll go in and see. She leaves Aoife and me in the car, but nosiness gets the best of us and we get out. Aoife grabs my hand and watches me scan the people inside. Is it her? Is it her? Who is Elaine talking to now? Is that her? I'm nervous. This is it.

Elaine comes out. "She's not there" she says. "Go in and have a cuppa while I find out where she is". I'll always remember how much my hand shook as I tried to lift a spoon of sugar to my cup. I was in a heap. Ah, sweet caffeine, how you'll help soothe the nerves.

Elaine returns. "She's not coming here. She couldn't get a lift. She's at home in Kinnity. It's a good 40 miles away".

I laugh out loud. I can't help it. It's been such a build up of letters, phone calls, meetings and then this morning. The crucifix I'm clutching is branding my palm. "It's out of my jurisdiction, Darragh, so I can't drive you... officially. I'm not covered. However if you want to go, we will..." There's no question at this stage. I almost sprint to the car.

Closer to Kinnitty, Elaine senses I've passed nervousness and am now out the other side. Terry Pratchett describes something similar in his Discworld books - being "knurd" - so sober you need a drink to make you normal. I feel exactly like that. I could do with a pint.

Kinnitty at 1 pm is almost a ghost town. Situated on crossroads in deep Offaly, I spot the obligatory small town standards of post office, church, shop, garda station and pub. And that seems to be it. Aoife gets out of the car. "Good luck" she says, "you'll be grand. It'll all be fine". I'm so nervous now I almost don't believe her. I don't know what to believe any more. I'm just waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

We drive up a narrow winding mountain road. Elaine's questions have dried up, limited now to seeing if I'm okay. We pass tiny cottages, farmers yards, laneways left and right. Ah, so this is where she's from. My mind is screaming "What have you got yourself into this time?"

"We should have been there now" she says, "I'm going to call her". She dials on speakerphone. I want to get out of the car but too late "Hello, hello" the voice comes, in a deep counthry accent strangely suited to the surroundings. Ah, so that's what she sounds like.

"Hello Mary Ann, it's Elaine again." "Oh hello Elaine. Where are you?" "Well we're on the road, we've just passed a big lumber yard on the left..."

"Oh you've gone the wrong way! You'd now have to turn yourself around and come back the road. Take a left at a big blue barn, continue up over a bridge and I'm just at a graveyard." I'm bemused to say the least. I had no expectations but wasn't expecting that.

We turn the car and hurtle along, sharing a laugh at all that had happened. She rings again. We describe where we are now. "Oh you were right the first time. Turn around and come back".

Ah now, c'mon. Seriously? I begin checking the car for hidden cameras, convinced this is a sequel to The Truman Show, awaiting Mike Murphy to appear telling me he's from RTÉ. I pinch myself to make sure I'm awake. Nothing would have surprised me.

We drive on and I'm lost in thoughts again when suddenly Elaine pulls over. What's up now? I think. She gets out of the car.

The back door opens.

It closes.

Suddenly sitting in the back seat is my mother. My biological mother. And this is how we've met for the 'first' time.

"Hello", I say

"Hello", she says.

She smiles at me. My mother smiles at me.

Don't say a word to her!

Please, please, please do NOT say anything to my mother. Not a word. She'll just get all of these ideas into her head, she'll want to do something about it and she'll want to join in. And really I don't want that. Not really.

No, I'm not talking about this, I'm talking about Grandad's post on computers being made for older people. You couldn't have kept it to yourself sir, no?

Microsoft UK is developing a "senior PC", which will have a simple interface and be aimed at older users.

The PC will come with software that allows users to manage prescriptions as well as simplified tools for everyday use, such as managing photos.

Jaysis.


Photo owned by pepewk (cc)

Now I love my mother. Honestly. She's one of the only two I have, but she's the one that reared me, that changed nappies and stayed up at night when I was sick and so on. And while I'd like to see her being a bit like Olive, the 108 year old blogger from Australia or Maria from Spain who's 95 or even jurassic Grandad himself, technology and herself have never been the best of friends.

I can completely empathise with the very funny Bec's apprehension at her dad being on Facebook now. It's funny how parents are similar :

He rang me up a few weeks ago to inform me about this new brilliant previously unknown website he had just discovered that you could join and meet people you know on, and how amazing and ground-breaking it was and how he just thought that I should probably be told about such things because I work in computers and I should really keep up to date on the latest trends.

I can so see my mother doing that to me. And there are certain photos, never mind comments, friend stories or videos that I'd prefer my mother not to be worried about. Remind me to tell you about this some time:



But to highlight just why I'd be very apprehensive, let me share this true story. (It may help to read it in a culchie accent)

After years of "sure why would I want one of those things?" my mother finally let me buy her a mobile phone.

'Tis a very simple type - none of your fancy wap or bluetooth or even a camera - push buttons, press green, talk.


Image from mobilegazette.com

We sat together for an afternoon, me going through it patiently, writing things down, ringing the phone, her answering, her ringing me, me answering, ringing the house phone etc. She said she had it. I thought she had it.

I left for Dublin.

She was off to Kilkenny the next day and we had arranged that I would call her at 2pm just to see how her hospital appointment went. I called her at 2. No answer. 2.05 no answer. 2.15 no answer. And so on.

Checked if she was at home - no response there either.

Hmmmm.

The phone was ringing, it wasn't switched off. Had she turned it to silent? Had she lost it already?

Later that evening I got a call from home.

"Where were you earlier? I tried to call. Is the phone okay?"

"Don't talk to me about that bloody phone. Terrible yoke. We were up early to go in, so I put it into me bag. I had it charged like you told me. Off we went.

I took it out at half one. I said to save you the money I'd give you a call. I dialled your number and pressed the button - nothing.

I tried it again - nothing.

I pressed the red button like you showed me to make sure it was on - nothing.

I tried ringing your sister - no answer. I tried your uncle - no answer. Couldn't get the thing to work at all at all.



So I brought it back to that shop you bought it in, looking for a refund. I didn't have the receipt but sure they could have rung you.

So I told the fella behind the counter that the phone was a dud and he should be ashamed for selling them and that I'd complain to the ombudsman and everything.

And he looked at the phone

And he said

"Mrs, sorry about that but that's your TV remote control".

True story, I promise.



And now there's a chance she could get onto a computer?

Uh oh.

Do not tell her a thing!