Today brings me a dilemma known to all women of a certain age. Will I continue to dye my hair or will I go grey? You see I am fifty this year. There I have said it. I. Am. Fifty. This. Year. And I want to know how this happened. Truly. I feel as though I went to bed aged thirty seven and woke up aged fifty. Almost. Thirty seven was a great age for me. I was in the process of renovating my house, and my life after a disastrous marriage. I was fit from all the physical work I needed to do on my house. I was enjoying all the learning about plumbing and floorboards, tiling and etc. I was beginning to discover my true self having given up so much of me in vain attempts to keep a wrong marriage going. Every day felt like an adventure. I had the curiosity of a child and the power of a mature adult. Myself and the bank had bought my little house against all the odds and 'I told you so's.' I WAS ON A ROLL!
Now I am almost fifty. A new marriage, a new house and two new daughters later! I love my life. I have made my peace with the past. I continue to learn and grow. I know now I will carry on doing that until the day comes when I am pushing up daisies. 
But here is that knotty question again. Do I accept my years gracefully by going grey? Or do I stay young by dyeing my hair again? Will I be giving up by giving into the grey? Or, will I be saying, this is me, like it or lump it? 
For my mother and grandmother, fifty was old. They were both grandmothers at my age. My granny went grey, my mother went blond. My granny saw her middle years as a rest and a reward after the hard times. My mother fought her age and regretted the lost years. I think my choice will be different from both of them. For now, I think I'll just take that childlike curiosity and that adult power and see where the road leads... it hasn't let me down yet.
I would love to hear what choice you made, comment below or explore your beliefs and choices more by joining the conversation Your Irish Identity, Gifts and Shadows 

     
 
 
Praise was scarce in our house. We were reared the old way. Parents believed that to praise a child would make them big-headed and full of themselves. And this was to be avoided at all costs. Criticism was supposed to mean that they cared enough to correct us. Knowing our faults would help us do better, at least that is what we were told.
I remember cleaning my house as an adult woman in preparation for my mother's visit. I had scrubbed and polished and hoovered all morning. But just before she was due to arrive, I noticed brown stains on the teapot. I quickly wiped them off with the nearest cloth, a white dish cloth. She was barely in the door when she said "I can see you never boil the dish cloths!"  Immediately, all the joy went out of her first visit to my house. All the care that I had put into her comfort during her visit counted as nothing. 
After that visit, one of my most often told stories about my mother was that she only ever noticed what was left undone. This was a theme in our relationship. As her eldest daughter I always knew that what I did was never enough. As my understanding grew, I began to see that it would never be enough. There was freedom in 'it would never be enough'. In that realisation, I could let go of all desire to meet my mother's exacting demands. I could discover all the choices I had as I explored what I felt was enough. 
In the eighteen months before my mother died, she came to my house often and invariably told me my windows were dirty, the lawn needed mowing or the shed needed cleaning out. Invariably I laughed. I was free to laugh because I was no-longer engaged in a struggle for her praise. After she died, the neighbours told me how proud she was of me. This made me very sad. I wondered what our relationship would have been like if only she could have given me the praise directly. But she couldn't...
Today, I praise my children. Often. And this comes easily to me. I have made peace with this part of my maternal legacy. I even praise myself from time to time. And just in case you are wondering, I rarely boil the dishcloths. I wash them in the machine and then throw them out at a certain shade of grey!