My sister often asks me for advice as to where she should eat in Dublin. I sent her to Alexis in Dun Laoghaire and got this text message “Hi, restaurant was great. Give up current job and provide restaurant recommendations. There is where you skill lies.” Having just had a report I wrote massacred by a committee, I am inclined to think that she might be right.
Siblings
Recovering
I’ve been saving this up until I could get back online.
One Saturday afternoon, the Princess went out with a friend and his mother for a birthday treat, Mr. Waffle went to the supermarket, I cut the grass and the boys played upstairs with a little girl who lives on our road. Later that evening, after the children had eaten dinner I went upstairs to dress to go out. It was only then that I discovered that my sons and their little visitor had taken off the shelves, out of baskets, out of cupboards and out of wardrobes everything their little four year old mitts could reach. In all the bedrooms. The Princess’s room was knee deep in tat. I couldn’t even open her door. I roared at the two boys. They lay on the ground and bawled contrition. I continued to roar at them. I was so furious that I STILL don’t feel bad about that. At this point the babysitter arrived and asked, in awed tones, whether we had taken photos. As we had to leave, our priority was to clear a path to the beds so that the children could get into them at some point later in the evening. I was most displeased. I think that this may well be the boys’ earliest memory.
As though this were not bad enough, the following day we had the Princess’s birthday party. This normally hair raising event passed off relatively peacefully due to the following factors: the party was only two hours long; my sister came to help and made the birthday cake; we hired professional help; one of the invitees was 11 and more like an extra helper than a guest; the weather though not sunny was dry and the children were able to run in the garden; and, all the parents collected their offspring on time.
Much entertainment in the office with stories of colleagues stuck all over Europe under a cloud of volcanic ash; ferries fully booked; general hilarity on the part of those not stuck in Cherbourg where colleagues comprehensively fail to see the humour. All back to normal now. Until the next Icelandic volcano.
Planning for my husband’s 40th birthday
September, 2009
Swear sister to secrecy and check whether she would mind the children the weekend of March 19-21. She has only recovered from her previous weekend in their company but she is game. Hurrah.
October, 2009
Book flight to Paris, leaving at lunchtime on Friday, March 19 and returning late on Sunday, March 21.
Find out from Mr. Waffle name of pretty hotel in the centre of Paris which we have often passed but where we have never stayed. I do this on the pretext that my sister is going on one of her many exciting weekends away. He is fooled and gives me the details. Am charmed with myself – cunning! Start saving money to pay for pretty but expensive hotel. Am charmed with myself – saving!
November, 2009
Swear brother to secrecy. Ask him whether he can help sister with babysitting. He cannot. He already has a previous engagement. He suggests I swap for the weekend after which would suit him better. I point out that Mr. Waffle is 40 on the 19th and I have already booked and paid for the flight. “How much did it cost?” said my affluent brother. “You could abandon it and book for the following weekend.” I think not.
December, 2009
Book swish hotel in Paris. Almost expire from strain of not telling husband.
Discover that Aer Lingus may have expired before we can get to Paris at all. Am anguished.
Purchase nice present for sister who will need it after exertions with children. Put it in large bag on chest of drawers in our room. Wonder idly whether husband will notice that it does not depart with usual flock of Christmas presents. As of March 18, he has not. I think we can take it, I’m safe. Daughter on the other hand has several times enquired as to contents and had to be fobbed off.
January, 2010
Ring insurers to put sister on car insurance for the relevant weekend, thereby aiming to prove that I am competent in ways my husband doubts. Insurance company is, alas, less competent and tells me that I can only put her on the week before. Make mental and diary note. Conceal all this from him – am becoming mistress of skulduggery (and Bridget Jones’s poor relation). Begin drafting extensive instructions for sister.
January 11 – Email reliable friend in Brussels looking for advice on Parisian restaurants. She reminds me that it has been 12 years since she lived in Paris (digression here on how old we are) but she will ask reliable colleague for tips. Artlessly try to discuss with husband which restaurants he liked when he lived in Paris. He points out that he was a student and didn’t eat at all for the year he was there due to lack of funds.
January 17 – Tell mother-in-law that I have a secret I want to tell her. She is so relieved to hear that I am not pregnant (may be projecting here), that she rashly promises to support sister in babysitting endeavour by having her and children around for the day on Sunday, March 21.
January 19 – Father-in-law calls me to tell me he has been appraised of plan and has sent me link to a number of Parisian restaurants. Panic as email has not appeared in work and a quick trip to an internet cafe reveals not in gmail either. Could it have been inadvertently sent to husband? Remember sister’s reference to mafia dictum, if you have a secret, only tell one person as then you will know who to kill, if it gets out.
January 19 – Receive this email from brother-in-law:
“We’ve decided to prolong and deepen our bank debt and go skiing en famille in March to Austria, and the folks have said they’d be interested in joining. Dates: 13th march, all other details: TBC. While it’d be great if you could make it, I know you guys have much on your plates, so thought I’d put it out there.”
Feel enormous enthusiasm for skiing trip which also features other children our children’s ages and think about how much deeper in debt I would like to be (recent budgeting exercise has revealed that after all essential expenditure and very mild saving, monthly sum available to me for entertainment, clothes etc is €6) and how I will persuade loving husband to embrace the debt, the enforced absence from school and the various leave problems we might have. Realise, to my horror, that the skiing week is the week of his birthday surprise. Agree with Mr. Waffle that we cannot afford to go skiing (certainly true in any event). He is surprised how easily I fold on this point. Realise that parents-in-law may not be available to help out on Sunday 21, March, if they are flying back from Austria. Express unusual bitterness to Mr. Waffle about ski trip. He is surprised and says – if you really want to go… Am hamstrung by secrecy and turn away muttering “no, no, it’s alright.”
February, 2010
Swear babysitter to secrecy. Pay her to mind the children on Saturday afternoon, March 20, to give my sister a sanity break.
February 12 – Tell husband, who is gloomy, that I have something special planned for his birthday and he is to be sure not to schedule anything for March 19. He seems cheered.
February 18 – Sister calls to tell me that work want her to go to Bahrain (they work on Saturdays there, the misery) but she has resolutely put them off pointing out that she had said that she had something on this weekend in September. “Could you not change?” they persist. “No,” she said, “it is my brother-in-law’s 40th birthday, my sister is taking him to Pairs, they have three small children and they never get away and I have said I will mind the children.” Colleagues wilt in front of this pathetic scenario but she still has to leave at 5 on Sunday afternoon March 21 to fly to Bahrain. Ring babysitter anxiously, will she be able to cover Sunday evening from 5 to 11. She will. Wonder mildly whether my savings will cover all of this.
March, 2010
March 2 – Pick up random present for husband. Dust down set of ornamental bookmarks showing maps of the world which have been sitting in the bottom of my handbag and wrap them with same.
March 3 – Inspect savings to see whether they will cover dinner and hotel. Hurrah, it appears that saving works. As someone new to the world of saving, I am surprised how effective it is. Resist urge to splurge savings on new clothes.
March 4 – Realise to my horror that have still not booked nice dinner in Paris despite extensive research. Spend maddening length of time being tortured by the flash websites all restaurants in Paris seem to favour. Pick restaurant I was originally going to go to making extensive research and inspection of maddening flash websites entirely redundant. Call them. They are closed that weekend. Oh wait a minute, no they’re not. Make my booking for Saturday 20 with some trepidation. Decide that on the Friday night we will wander around until we find a nice brasserie. Wonder will I come to regret this decision when we are wandering around Paris ravenous.
March 5 – Book into online airport parking. Ring husband and employ subterfuge to get car registration number which I have entirely forgotten. Realise husband is very trusting as he swallows my most unlikely fictitious reason for needing same without a blink. Am appalled at cost of airport parking. Clearly, vast savings are going to be insufficient to cover all of my needs.
March 7 – Attend nephew’s 4th birthday party. Attend is perhaps not entirely the correct word as early in the proceedings I slip off to the pub with the papers and the esteemed parents-in-law. Discover that they will not be skiing on Sunday, March 19 and are, au contraire, ready, willing and able to provide baby sitting services – “it’s in the diary” says my father-in-law the captain of industry (retired) reprovingly. My heart soars but not half as much as my sister’s when I tell her the glad tidings.
March 8 – Check hotel still has my booking. Supercilious French woman confirms that, yes, she has. Remember to put sister on car insurance. Glow with organisational pride.
March 10 – Write to savings account people (same very old fashioned requires stamp, envelope and signature) and ask that my savings be transferred to current account. Make regretful mental note not to spend BEFORE travelling. Receive extensive supply of travel sized skincare from my sister for my birthday. This sparks the following reflection: how will I persuade my husband only to pack stuff in his washbag which contains less than 100mls and not give away that we are flying somewhere. Ponder this.
March 11 – Run into my husband while going out for a sandwich at lunch. Brilliantly and cunningly bring conversation around to hand luggage for men. He tells me that most bottles of shaving foam don’t hold more than 100mls. He says that the real problem is razor blades. Decide that we will have to buy disposable razors in Paris. Go out to birthday dinner with siblings, receive gifts gratefully including sinfully large voucher from parents which will meet my clothing needs for the foreseeable future. Hurrah, savings are safe. Realise that cat will still be wearing lampshade (following spaying earlier) and require quiet and will not be allowed outdoors when sister is babysitting. Break news of this unfortunate complication to her as tactfully as I can.
March 12 – Father-in-law calls. They are off skiing the following day. He wants to check when he and m-in-law can hand over birthday gift to their first born. Agree that I will dispatch him out to their house on Thursday evening when he will receive 1) present and 2) sealed envelope NOT TO OPEN but to hand to me which will contain various press cuttings on Paris my parents-in-law have been hoarding. Agree that we will speak again on Wednesday 17 when they return from their conquest of the slopes.
Scour house for maps of and guidebooks to Paris of which my husband will approve and secretly squirrel them away in an overnight bag. Wonder whether I should tell him our destination as he will certainly have random metro tickets which he will be disappointed not to have the opportunity to deploy. Decide that surprise is better – may be projecting at this point.
March 13 – Tell misfortunate sister that she will have to bring own food with her for children as, if I start buying excess fish fingers/pizza etc. in weekly shop, husband may suspect we are abandoning children (part of our parenting contract is that they are filled to the brim with junk food whenever we go away). Unlikely, as he has proved remarkably unsuspicious to date but, better safe than sorry.
March 15 – Text super-reliable babysitter to confirm that she is still on for w/end. She takes a worryingly long time to respond. But she is.
March 16 – Take day off work for walk in the hills with husband to celebrate my birthday (extended celebration, is there a problem with that?) Tell him that we are actually going away for the weekend to a secret location for his birthday. Encourage him to pack for two nights and three days. Tell him that he can only use nice bag as destination very smart (nice bag is small enough to be hand luggage – admire my cunning) Do not reveal destination. Put him off the scent by saying we will be driving north when we leave the house. Am beside myself with excitement. He is delighted at the prospect of time alone together. In fact, he says he would be happy, if our destination were the B&B at the top of the road. Then he wonders who will bring back the library books, curse myself that I have not thought of this. Inform the children that we are going away for the weekend and they will have – drum beat – their Aunty Helen to mind them. They are delighted.
March 18 – Phone call from esteemed parents-in-law freshly returned from their skiing holiday. Husband is to go to them for dinner tonight and they will hand over a present and, possibly, a sealed envelope for me containing further Paris information. Warn mother-in-law that if she or f-in-law breath a word to husband about w/end I will murder them both. She promises not but says that as soon as he is out the door, she and f-in-law will hug each other and say “Paris, Paris”. Acquire random books which sister can use to placate daughter on the weekend, if she tires of Club Penguin. Acquire small gifts for children to hand over to their loving father. Print out boarding passes at work. Print out hotel details. Remember to bring these home with me. Filch husband’s passport from drawer where it is kept. Hope he will not notice and assume it has been stolen. Paranoid fear of his. Remember to leave car keys in envelope for sister along with extensive instructions and books for herself. Exhausted from remembering effort. Realise that we do not have travel insurance. No longer care. Panic briefly that the clocks are going to change on Sunday and confuse me. They are not. Pull out something from the freezer for sister to tempt childish appetites tomorrow. Finish off this post and put it on the internet to come up tomorrow afternoon. Shortly, I will print it off and put it in my overstuffed handbag.
March 19 (this part is guesswork) – His birthday. Children hand over cards and mild presents. Deliver children to school. Return home, change sheets for sister (very important, will not forget under ANY circumstances) pack everything into the car. If we have time, head to local cafe for breakfast and hand husband random small present. Back into car, as it becomes obvious that we are driving to the airport, ask husband to speculate where we are going. Try not to crash the car in advanced state of excitement. When he cannot guess, hand him the print out of this post and hope he likes it. Fingers crossed.
First World Problems
When my sister goes to London, she likes to spend all her money in Fortnum and Mason’s. Because she is kind and generous, she brings me presents. Last time she went she brought me back lapsang souchong jelly. I like lapsang tea but I was dubious about its crossover appeal as something to spread on your toast. The first time I tasted it, I didn’t like it but I persisted and now I like it very much. It’s clearly an acquired taste. This morning I finished the jar. I am regretful. Where in Dublin am I likely to get lapsang souchong jelly we ask ourselves?
Would you like to submit your own example of what a friend’s brother calls “my bourgeois hell”? Go on, you know you want to.
Smart Economy
Email received by my sister, who works in the cutting edge of the knowledge economy [at least I think she does, I can’t understand what she does and that’s often a sign], from one of the people who report to her:
Hi,
As you know X and I have just moved upstairs today. I am unable to see my computer screen clearly due to a lack of daylight which is straining my eyes. Can some of the blinds in the room be opened? Thanks,
[Team member]
The author of this plaintive plea is a graduate in her mid-30s. Words fail me.
Trains, planes and automobiles
I took the children to visit my parents in Cork at the weekend. The whole thing was hellish.
My friend the portable DVD player ran out of battery an hour and a half into the train journey to Cork and for the remaining hour and a half I had to entertain the children using only my own mental agility. The train was packed. The children whacked each other; they shouted; they cried; I cringed. I had contemplated not bringing the Princess to Cork at all as she had a nasty cold and had been off from school for a couple of days. During that long journey, I frequently wished that I had not brought her. She announced to the whole carriage in her piercing tones that if we wanted to treat her so badly she was leaving and then flounced off. Several times. She fought with her brothers and whacked them. At home, the Princess has largely foresworn physical violence even when very much provoked, alas, this was not to be the case on tour.
We had timed our trip to Cork to coincide with my mother’s birthday and visits by my brother and sister – the idea being that they would help me to child wrangle. My brother was due to arrive on Saturday morning and the boys and I went to collect him from the airport. Unfortunately, he had given us the time his plane left Dublin not the time it arrived in Cork so the boys and I spent 40 minutes in the car waiting for him to arrive. Tense times. Lunch was late. Further tension and some lying on the floor and screaming. After lunch, my brother, in an effort to atone for his sins, nobly took the boys out to the back garden and played football with them. Unfortunately, due to his exciting social life, he was rather tired and went off for a restorative nap shortly afterwards. My sister meanwhile had been stuck late at work on Friday night and then Saturday slipped away from her and it was afternoon before she was on the road and then she got a flat tyre (in case you ever need to know, the nuts come off anti-clockwise as you look at them) and with one thing and another, she wasn’t going to arrive until Saturday evening. I took the boys to the park. I tried to lure the Princess out of the house also but she wouldn’t come. I knew she would enjoy it once she got there and that it would be good for her but I just didn’t have the energy for cajoling and then shepherding them all to the park so I left her behind telling her that I wanted the bedroom tidy when I got back (which, to be fair, it was). The park went fine actually and by the time we got back, my sister had made it to Cork.
On Saturday night, my sister cooked a birthday dinner for my mother. All very pleasant. At about 10.45 she brought in the birthday cake. The Princess came racing downstairs to partake of the goodies and stayed up until 11 eating chocolate cake. The inner voice which (as someone once said) seldom adds anything to my happiness warned me that no good would come of this. I parcelled her back to bed and decided to let the morrow take care of itself. At 11.30 my sister dropped my brother down town (that social life again) and came back at 11.45 suggesting we should play cards. Weakly, I decided to stay up for one game. It’s funny how quickly one reverts to old roles in these situations: my mother recklessly overbid; my aunt was the sage expert; my father always held the best cards but got slightly carried away by the sight of the ace of trumps and the ace of hearts in his hand; my sister won; I got cast. as ever, as the weakest link in the chain of cards. Gall and wormwood. The errors of others are overlooked as they know the right thing to do but just neglect to concentrate; my errors on the other hand are regarded as showing a startling ignorance of the basics of the game. This must be why I particularly enjoy playing with my husband as he must be one of the world’s worst card players and I shine in his company. Anyhow, with one thing and another, replaying hands and so on, it was well after one o’clock when I extricated myself, glumly handing over cash to my sister. I understand that the others kept going until after my brother came in at 2.30 in the morning.
So, as you can imagine on Sunday morning at 7.45 when the children rose to meet the day, I was not my bright and beautiful best and no one else appeared at all. I heard them tripping down stairs and clumped after them. The three of them were sitting on the sofa in a darkened room staring hopefully at a blank tv screen. Reprehensibly, I turned it on and crawled back to bed without even offering them breakfast. At 10.00 I came back down and they were still watching eagerly. There were howls of protest when I turned it off and the scene rapidly descended into chaos. Then next hour and a half was hideous. Michael lost the plastic lid of his Thomas watch and cried lustily as the household searched for it and only stopped crying when it was restored to him a good half hour after its initial loss was discovered. They all fought like nobody’s business. I carried a howling, flailing Princess to one room and a howling Daniel to another and told them to stay there until I said they could come out. Michael clung to my leg crying piteously “My brudder, let my brudder out.” My mother followed me about saying in the slightly hushed voice she uses when the children are misbehaving “Is there anything I can do?” Much snapping on my part, leading to further unhappiness.
There is a certain inevitable dynamic which plays itself out when I take the children to Cork. I want my parents to see the children at their best; the children appear to have no very clear idea what their best is; I love my mother but we have, ahem, how can I put this, high expectations of each other; finally, and not negligibly, my parents have a stool that doubles as a small ladder – the children like to sit on it, they fight to sit on it at mealtimes and the lucky winner bangs the steps on the floor at regular intervals despite increasingly hysterical requests from me not to do so. My father is one of life’s pessimists and has no expectations of anyone. Though I disapprove of this, I cannot but find it extremely restful when my children are misbehaving and he is quite resigned to it rather than saying in shocked, subdued tones “Do they normally behave like this?” It was also useful, incidentally, when I was learning to drive and he sent me out with gloomy prognostications that I would crash the car. When I actually did crash the car he was quite sanguine on the basis that it was bound to happen.
Throw the following facts into the mix also: my mother loves to feed her family. My children do not love to eat. She asks me anxiously “what will they eat?” I say snappily “If I knew, I would tell you, I am not deliberately keeping this from you.” Unhappiness. It is a grandmother’s prerogative to treat her grandchildren. I know this. However, since my children will not touch anything savoury, we are thrown back on biscuits, sweets, ice creams, waffles. I feel I am constantly saying no to my poor mother as she spells out the food options and the children, of course, knowing that these things are there, whine for them, so I yield. Everyone is happy for five minutes. Then the cycle starts again. Then their teeth fall out and they grow obese.
So, where were we? Oh yes, on Sunday morning. I decided that I just couldn’t take the children to mass with my parents. The children would behave so badly, it would be appalling. We would all die of mortification as they raced up and down the aisles and climbed under the pews and I would have a nervous breakdown trying to keep them silent in their seats. I just couldn’t face it. My mother was horrified. I said tentatively that I might go to the church across the road with my brother later. My brother went out to mass. The children calmed down and I decided to chance it. Unfortunately, my parents have one of these very secure doors where you need a key to get out as well as to get in. Had I thought to provide myself with a key? I had not. So we stayed at the house by ourselves. The children behaved perfectly. They didn’t fight, they played nicely together, they sat down and ate lunch. Then, before any further trouble could break out, we said goodbye, gathered ourselves up and had my brother take us to the train.
The DVD worked intermittently on the train. In one of its off phases, the Princess and Daniel started to fight and she kicked him on his head under the table. There were two very virtuous children sitting opposite us. In a silent rebuke they sat quietly in their chairs for the three hour journey – no toys, no books, just civilised conversation. Meanwhile, it was world war three and a host of cracker crumbs across the aisle. My mother had given them each 2 euros on leaving the house (too scared by me to give them sweets). I thought that this would be good as I could substitute cash, if they lost it (yes, I know, I am weak) but they spent their money on the tea trolley and got change as well as crisps and sweeets. Then they crawled around the floor saying – where’s my 20cents, where’s my 5 cents and so on. At one point Daniel announced “I want to do a wee.” So, I took him off to the bathroom threatening the other two with dire consequences, if they misbehaved in our absence. I stood in the queue on tiptoes which allowed me to see the other pair and when we got to the top, Daniel insisted on going in alone which suited me. As I stood outside, a little voice came from inside “Mummy, can you get me down from the toilet, I’m stuck.” Since he had locked the door this was going to be a challenge so I cajoled him down and there were sounds of great shuffling and heaving inside. When he opened the door, I darted in. Before we washed his hands, I said “did you flush the toilet?” “No, because I didn’t do a wee,” he said. “Why didn’t you do a wee?” I asked. “Because I was only joking that I wanted to do a wee.” Of course. The other two were still alive on our return. Very daringly, I sent the Princess to the restaurant car alone to pick up supplies. I was a little nervous that she might get lost or get overlooked in the queue but she returned bearing a bottle of water triumphantly aloft. I was very proud. But then she started fighting with her brothers again, so I got distracted.
By the time we got back to Dublin, I was fit to be tied. I consigned them all to the care of their father and took public transport home. When I got home, they were reproachful: why had I gone away? Alas, they were also utterly ignorant that they had played a role in my chagrin (Daniel seemed to have the glimmerings of an idea). A lengthy discussion with each of them in turn yielded only the information that they had had a great time in Cork. They appeared to only have the mildest awareness that their behaviour might have been in any way unpleasant: ranging from Michael, who denied everything, to Daniel who conceded some sins and the Princess who said “I hate it when you use your sad voice, can we draw a veil?”
Let us draw a veil. I do wonder what I am doing wrong, though. I appreciate that at ages 6 and 4 responsibility for their poor behaviour is much more mine than their’s. Do they, in fact, not understand what behaviour is expected of them? Do I yield too easily to them? Is it just because there are three of them so close together in age (I can’t help noticing that supernanny spends more of her time with families with twins than would be statistically expected)? There is something about all of them together – there are never problems, if there are only two and it doesn’t matter which two. Will they ever learn to be polite and well-behaved? Sometimes I despair – of course, sometimes I am filled with hope and delighted by them. Just not at the moment. Anyway, one thing I have learnt, I will not be taking the three of them to their grandparents’ house together again, if I can help it.
Now, how was your weekend?
