Hoist with my own Petard

Herself is making her confirmation on Friday. It is a busy week.

As I write, Mr. Waffle is off in Helsinki. On Wednesday, he is scheduled to fly to Luxembourg. It appears that the possible Finnish air traffic strike will not now go ahead so he will not need to use his back up plan of taking the ferry to Estonia and flying to Luxembourg from there. On Thursday night, he will fly from Luxembourg to Amsterdam and then into Dublin about 11. If his Thursday work gig runs late, he is booked on to the last flight out of Luxembourg to London and then he will get the red eye from London to Dublin on Friday morning. I am mildly concerned that she will be confirmed in her father’s absence.

Mr. Waffle, having little faith in his spouse, left a highlighted note on the kitchen table this morning that a red confirmation rosette was required and then also texted me to this effect. The boys need new shirts for the event. A colleague said that herself needs a new dress; she is being confirmed in her school uniform (mercifully). On enquiry, she confirmed that other children are getting new clothes to change into. “I don’t care,” said she, “I don’t look good in neon.” What are we to make of this? And then I had to ring the guesthouse for my aunt, book a restaurant for lunch for everyone on Friday and consider where my two siblings will sleep on Thursday night. I also had fend off my sister’s queries as to what I am doing with my daughter’s hair. Apparently “getting her to wash it” is a poor response.

And then as well as all the confirmation organisation, I am doing all the things Mr. Waffle regularly does (bins, washing, GAA preparation, cleaning up after dinner) and the things we do between us (homework checking, sandwich making, chasing to bed) and my own tasks (dinner, scouts, walking the children to school). And work is busy too.

So, this evening when my very undemanding daughter – in the matter of confirmation prep, at least – reminded me that she wanted to go to confession before her Confirmation, my heart sank. I had forgotten at the weekend when confession is very handily available in almost any church you care to think of. The internet tells me that the only real possibility is going to a city centre church between 5 and 5.45 on Wednesday. Alas, fair maiden. With Mr. Waffle away this would mean bringing all three into the centre of the city at rush hour. So I hemmed and hawed and said we’d see but, I feel like the (I am sure apocryphal) mother who said her child couldn’t make the first communion ceremony because there was too much else to do on the day of the communion.

Also, the Princess tells me that she and Michael need cardboard boxes for their art class tomorrow. Because.