Women, Men and

I went into the library in Ennis last Saturday, having successfully dug-out a long overdue book from among the dust balls under the bed. The Bad News Bible by Anna Blundy. Quite a good read. Her dad was The Sunday Times journalist David Blundy who was killed in San Salvador in 1989. His death threads through her novel because how could it not?

Anyway, as my daughter had told me to pick out a book or two to make her laugh, I decided on The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, aged 133/4 because I think she's old enough to find out that while she and her female peers ponder the idiocy of mothers who feel the odd pot of full-fat yoghurt wouldn't hurt them, boys their age, even the very nice ones, have commenced the obsession which will run and run about whether certain parts will ever really be big enough.

Close by the teenagers section was a table festooned with bunting and balloons. Ah, was this the advent of Babylit? Had some very aware toddler launched a book? But no, it was a table advertising events in the area for International Women's Day. What are we? Children?

In the gallery attached to the Library, there was an exhibition of works by Martina Hynan. The theme of the show was 'Woman' and the artist had painted the faces of many famous women on sewing patterns which were hung from wire coat hangers. An article in that week's Clare Champion was on display and it quoted Martina as explaining that the sewing patterns are used symbolically to represent the idea of women transgressing imposed definitions, definitions inherited from and created by men.

I understand it but don't relate to it, having never, oh you knew this, followed a sewing pattern in my life. As part of the exhibition, the artist had included quotes from the women in her paintings. And the one which struck home with me was Simone De Beauvoir's, "One is not born a woman, but becomes one".

And who will say what a woman is? To whom should we look for example? Aung San Suu Kyi, whose fight for her homeland has been at the expense of family life. Or Shirin Ebadi, another Nobel Peace Prize winner, whose law studies were done sitting in the bathroom with the tap running because having a bath was the only time she got peace from her small children?

And maybe brave Margaret Hassan might be a case for the study of our daughters? She continues to haunt me. I know all about how we cannot give in to terrorism and how paying the ransom would only lead to more kidnappings. I know it. But listen, wouldn't a Daz packetful of money have had a chance of saving her lovely life? And couldn't we have added our weakness to an Everest of worse weaknesses?

Or should we hold up as a model the State Pathologist Marie Cassidy, who has not only risen to the heights of her career but whose Patricia Cornwell – like spooky glory in the gory details of her profession, would give you another compelling reason not to want to be murdered?

The Junior Cert mocks have come to our household and Civil, Social and Political Education exams papers had to be gone through. How many women ministers in the Government, was one question. The numbers are up a bit from the answer in that year's example, and of course the list is now three, including Mary Coughlan, who might have lost it in the farmyard last week but who cheered up more women than most of the International Women's Day events put together. Since when, pray tell, was a male minister ever expected to know anything about the coalface of his ministry? You go girl!

While caring as much as the next woman about women's rights and freedoms, I don't see much point in thinking that anything will be achieved in isolating their causes from those of men and children. We will sink or swim together. Someday the mothers will indeed take guns out of their son's hands and say "No more. I will not send you to kill. I will not send you to die". Are balloons and bunting helping us towards that?

It might be, of course that I haven't progressed far along the de Beauvoir path of becoming a woman. And so last week was not the most cheerful one. Not only did we have International Women's Day to contend with but we had Mother's Day as well. I have nursed along the great purple potted selection of plants I got last Mother's Day and it has thrived, but I was relieved not to be burdened with further things to keep alive.

For some of us, the woman/mother power thing comes a bit easier. My late aunt was a powerhouse, a success in school management and as a nurturing teacher. She was a nun and all her life she had men lining up to put their shoulders to the mountains she moved.

It was only after her death that I heard the story which summed up her unique mix. A doctor friend at her wake recalled how he was canoeing in the waters off Rhode Island where she lived. Spying a blue ball far out from shore, he rowed towards it to retrieve it. Coming closer, he it found my aunt wearing one of those bobbly swim hats. "Oh Doctor Dear ," she said, "What are you doing so far out from shore? And in such a small boat?"