Chatting to a friend on the phone the other night, I was reminded of an event from the holidays the memory of which I had, for some reason, suppressed. The Sunday before Christmas, I wanted us all to go to mass. The Princess did not want to go. I insisted. She screamed roared, sulked, refused to put on her coat. As always when there is a deadline, matters went from difficult to impossible. I went on ahead with the boys. My parents-in-law live near a very busy road. Michael took advantage of a moment’s inattention on my part and nearly stepped in front of a speeding car. I got such a shock. I was very contrite as Mr. Waffle always insists they are put in the buggy but I want them to walk because they hate the buggy and walking is good for them. Not as good for them as staying alive, I have now decided. I picked them both up and wrestled them into the buggy amid howls of protest. At this point, Mr. Waffle emerged with a screaming Princess. “Why, why do I have to go?†Me (also screaming in a model of good parenting) “Because I want you to, is that too hard to understand? Can you think of anyone but yourself for just 10 seconds?†Boys form background of howling – a sort of Greek chorus to our main event on the public highway. Still in shock form Michael’s brush with death and furious with the, entirely unabashed, Princess, I join my children and succumb to tears. Evil daughter remains adamantine in her protests. Boys keep howling. Mr. Waffle says bracingly as he shepherds along his tearful flock “Will we all sing a song?â€
