Mr. Waffle: Did you see that Ming has resigned?
Me (long pause): Is he the leader of the military junta in Burma?
Mr. Waffle: No, the British Liberal Democrats. [Pause] As we’re Irish, do you think that we’re allowed to pronounce it Menzies?
Archives for October 2007
Three generations of annoyingly precocious children
The Princess irritates her teacher by answering before other children (as well she might, since they have to struggle with limited French in a way that she does not). I well remember when I was in fourth class (10) annoying my teacher by lecturing her on Samuel Johnson (who wouldn’t be annoyed?). I got a letter from my father the other day (letters from my father are always a thrill and it remains a matter of deep irritation that my sister gets more of them than I do – she points out that she writes more too) recounting something similar happening to him when he was young in the 1930s:
“I recalled when I was in St. Joseph’s (a fairly tough National school which drew a lot of its clientele from the Marsh – that is, from the flat of the city, places like Sheare’s street, Liberty street, the Main street, and so on). This area had mostly been depopulated by giving the people better housing in the suburbs – Ballyphehane, Gurranebraher, and so on, so that you would not be able to form a very good idea of the way it was when I was a child.
I was a goody-two-shoes sitting in the front of the class, when the Presentation brother in charge, a brother Alphonsus, set the class a problem in mathematics. I was then a precocious little b*st*rd who had also (like you) learned to read very early, and I tended to be a teacher’s pet, I think. At all events, I solved the problem easily and quickly (I am not so sure I could do it now) and called out the answer within a very short time.
At that time each teacher had a cane – a stick about a metre long and 1 or 2 centimetres thick – and the good brother called me to the front of the class, and gave me a good blow of the cane on my outstretched hand. This was then roughly the equivalent of what you told me about M. The zeitgeist today would find this sort of discipline offensive, but it was the norm then, although I think the brother over-reacted: he might have been hoping for a few minutes relaxation while the class struggled with the problem. This sort of discipline even had a theoretical pedagological justification. The unruly student was beaten, and when suffering the pain of the punishment he would be more amenable to words of advice and reproof about his behaviour. I am not necessarily defending this, but I didn’t offend in this way again”.
Quite.
Dealing with a closed mind
Her:Â I want the pink toothpaste.
Me: It tastes exactly the same as the blue toothpaste.
Her: Pink is for girls.
Me: No, it’s not, that’s just social conditioning.
Her: What’s social conditioning?
Me: Well, people say that pink is for girls and blue is for boys but it’s not true. You just feel it’s true because you see lots of pink things for little girls and you hear it a lot.
Her: I don’t care; I like pink.
Discipline
Princess: I don’t like C. I don’t want her to collect me from school any more.
Me: Why not?
Her: I want someone who obeys me all the time.
Wading into deep waters
I reread “Praxis†by Fay Weldon recently. I didn’t realise I was rereading until I got to nearly the end and it came flooding back. I read a lot of Fay Weldon in my 20s and was inspired by the injustices she identified. But this time I found it dated. I feel that the battles have moved on. No one in the Western world would seriously suggest to a college student that she would be better off dropping out of college and getting married. Plenty of people, however, would suggest to a college educated woman that she would be better off dropping out of the workforce and staying home minding her children. I suppose that this is progress.
Then the latest Mavis Cheek is also about 70s feminists and consciousness raising and I’m tired of having my consciousness raised in this particular way. Maybe I need some new books.
If you haven’t read Praxis, let me ruin it for you. Praxis is jailed for suffocating a new baby with Down’s syndrome. Her (let us say, so that I can spare you the tortuous details of the plot) daughter refuses to have the relevant tests and this child is born very badly handicapped and with, Praxis believes, every prospect of blighting the daughter’s life, so Praxis takes matters into her own hands and suffocates the new born baby. Is this worse than having an abortion at four months? The geepeemama has this to say about abortion and down’s syndrome:
“It brings back what is probably my most poignant memory to date – the time when, as a junior obstetrician, I had to take away the 22-week-old baby with Down’s after a medical termination. After I’d fished him out of the bedpan (parents refusing to look) I held him in the sluice and cried and cried and told him “I would have had youâ€.
Does aborting foetuses with disabilities say something about our attitude to people with disabilities?
I see that the British are approaching the 40th anniversary of the 1967 Abortion Act with 200,000 terminations a year, 6,000 of them from Ireland. I am from a country that has no legislation on abortion. Following much tortuous discussion and angry debate, no political party has had the nerve to produce anything like legislation. There is a constitutional protection to the right to life. The pro-life groups who were many and vociferous insisted that this was not sufficient to prevent abortion in Ireland. In retrospect this was foolish of them. In 1983 the Constitution was amended to acknowledge the right to life of the unborn, with due regard to the equal right to life of the mother. And there the matter rested to the chagrin of the, then smallish, pro-choice lobby and to the delight of the pro-lifers. Then, there was a particularly unpleasant case. A young girl was raped by a family friend and she became pregnant. Her parents notified the police. Because of the constitutional right to life of the unborn child, there was a doubt as to whether this girl could travel to England for an abortion (a very common Irish solution to an Irish problem). There followed a court case which convulsed the nation and, in due course, in 1992, the constitution was amended to provide that the right to life of the unborn would not limit freedom to travel between Ireland and another state and nor would it limit freedom to obtain or make available information relating to services lawfully available in another state. That is our entire legislative provision. It would appear that the 1983 amendment gives the right to an abortion when the life of the mother is at risk, including, where she threatens suicide. Even, in these extreme conditions, our politicians have been reluctant to put a toe in these particularly stormy waters (if I may mix my metaphors): abortion is not available in Ireland and we continue to export this problem abroad, largely to godless England. The problem has resurfaced recently in the Miss D case. As one commentator pointed out, we have a whole alphabet to cover the abortion issue.
I live in a country which allows abortion. I know this because the then, very catholic, king abdicated for a day for the law to go through. They have a very robust attitude to abortion in Belgium – if something is wrong, have an abortion and try again. Who am I to condemn other people’s choices in heartbreaking situations? But yet, the older I get, the more I worry about abortion.
Would I want to force anyone to stay pregnant? No, I don’t think so. When I see a 24 week old baby surviving, clinging on to life, do I believe that terminations at 24 weeks are a problem? I think I’m beginning to. Where do you draw the line? Is every sperm sacred? Is the morning after pill alright? Is eight weeks fine? Oh to enjoy the certainty of the pro-life movement. No matter how extreme the case, whatever the crime, whatever the health of the foetus, whatever the age of the mother, even the morning after pill is absolutely forbidden. Or indeed the certainty of the pro-choice movement. I just don’t know what’s right. Trumping the rights of a bunch of cells over those of a vulnerable abused teenager must be wrong. Musn’t it? When do cells become a baby? Is viability a valid cut off point? They say hard cases make bad law, do they make bad morals also?
Notes on progress
Celebrations
Daniel was two on 27 September and though he had to share a birthday with his brother, he will get a belated blog entry all to himself. The effects of the birthday party still linger. Every time he sees balloons he begins to sing “Happ Birthday Daniel and Michael†and I’m pretty sure that it’s a bit unclear to him why the celebrations have ended. The birthday party itself was attended by two sets of twins in addition to the birthday boys. That’s a lot of small people and I haven’t even touched on the other children. He loved it.
Relations with parents
Daniel is a Daddy’s boy. I try to worm my way into his affections and he is quite fond of me but I come a very poor second to his beloved Papa. While he will willingly embrace his father, the only times I can regularly get a kiss from him are the mornings his father takes him to the creche. On those mornings he will stand in the hall with his chubby little arms outstretched and say kindly “big kiss, Mummyâ€.
Physical Aspect
Daniel is a very solid child. I find this odd as he eats almost nothing. He does, however, enjoy a number of bottles every night so this keeps him going. My advice to dieters would be to stay away from the full fat milk. He has enormous dimply knees that I can never look at without smiling. He has the softest blondest hair and pale, pale skin. He has a very endearing way of running. He sticks out his elbows and wiggles them about while trotting along solidly saying in great excitement “I run, je cours”. He also has a squint, poor mite. We are taking him to the doctor on Monday and I see a patch and glasses in his future.
Interacting with others
He is a quite a good talker and really tries to communicate. He gets cross when we don’t understand him and says the offending word repeatedly. He has learnt from his sister that, if your parents don’t understand, it is best to shout at them. He and the Princess both rejoice in penetrating voices and they often scream in high pitched harmony for the hell of it. Their parents do not enjoy this.
He isn’t bad with strangers though, over the Summer, I took him to see an old friend of my mother’s and although she was very taken with the way he would peep out at her from my shoulder and say “I shy”, I was a little surprised.
He is an empathic little fellow and more than either of the other two worries when anyone is sad. His face will take on a look of concern and he will waddle over to the weeping sibling (or whoever it is) and offer a big kiss (unless, it’s me, of course, then he just offers a stiff upper lip) . On the other hand, when he is cross, he is furious. Carrying him somewhere he doesn’t want to go is like wrestling with a kangaroo. He has this trick of arching his back and flailing his limbs so that his (considerable) weight puts you off balance. I don’t think he realises that this will make him land on the floor one day – he just knows that it makes him harder to transport, and that’s the main thing.
His sister has two Doggies (Home Doggy and Travel Doggy – regular readers will know the latter is a – very expensive – spare because the thought of losing Home Doggy is frankly too terrifying, even now that she’s four and half). Until very recently, Daniel and Michael were never so dependent on a toy/blanket/whatever you want to call it. In bed, they will cuddle up to an old T-shirt, but any T-shirt will do. However, in the last few weeks Michael has become very attached to a teddy bear which he also takes to bed (with a T-shirt and a bottle). Sometimes he won’t let of of any of these treasures, so getting him into his pyjamas can be tricky. And Daniel ? Just a T-shirt, thanks. He’ll even give this to Michael, if Michael is upset.
Daniel is very good at sharing, which is just as well. When you ask him to share, even a favourite toy, he will. He may say no a couple of times but eventually he will hand over whatever it is with a small sigh.
Quirks
Daniel is the only one of my children who has inherited what my parents and siblings describe as my mania for tidiness. I would say that everything is relative. My father always says that my grandmother was very tidy and always throwing things out. My parents live their lives in reaction and nothing has been thrown out of their home. Ever. “We are not part of the throwaway generation†my mother informs me severely. My brother went to a science museum in Manchester and he saw our electric fire. Whenever I go home my parents tease me by doing this deeply irritating thing, whenever they can’t find something, they ask me whether I have thrown it out. The most unlikely things “there was a cheque there for 500 euros, did you throw it out?â€. I digress. Poor Daniel is obsessively tidy. He cannot sit down to eat unless everything has been put away. This is an instinct I have every sympathy with but sometimes I wish he would just sit down and eat his dinner. When he has put things away, he straightens up the boxes and beams with pleasure and pride.
Up to now Daniel and his brother have shared a wardrobe. I notice though that there are now a number of items that Daniel regards as Michael’s. “Michael’s pyjamas†he says firmly, if I try to put on the ones with the frog pattern. “Bear†he says pointing to his tummy, indicating that his pyjamas are the ones with the bear.
The arts
Ever since he was very small, he has loved books. He is still very happy to sit turning the pages of a book he likes. He is fond of T’choupi, the world’s dullest mole and thanks to the efforts of his sister over the years we must have about 20 different tales of the home life of the mole. Paradise.
Ideally, I think Daniel would like to watch more “Postman Pat” on the television but we are cruel and heartless and don’t let him. Sometimes he sits in front of the television hopefully just praying that someone will turn it on.
He loves songs; two songs to be precise. All summer long we had to listen to “Gugusse†and attempts to try other songs were not welcomed. Now, everywhere we travel we are accompanied to the cheerful strains of “Il était un petit navireâ€. My sister gave him a phone that you can record on and I have sung a couple of lines from the boat song. He wanders around the house beaming with it pressed against his ear until his brother, suspecting it may be more entertaining than his own identical phone whips it from him.
Conclusion
Even though he was born on a Tuesday, my elder son is really Friday’s child – loving and giving.
Happy birthday, my fabulous little boy. And here, to celebrate is a slide show demonstrating how big you’ve got since last September.
