Herself: We are doing the renaissance in history.
Me: Oh yes?
Her: I know loads of renaissance sculptors and painters but I never get to mention them.
Me: And why is that?
Her: Because whenever the history teacher asks us to name renaissance artists, she says, “Remember the turtles!”
Archives for November 2016
Sic Transit or Slightly Glum Sunday Night Reflections
This year for the first time in years, we didn’t go to the Dublin book festival – the children are getting just a little bit big for it. They’ve been to the book doctor (great service) loads of times. All of the events seemed to be aimed at younger children and even last year, they felt a bit old. And then, this year, culture night didn’t quite hit the spot – maybe because I had to bail out early to travel to Cork but maybe because they’re getting bigger. I am, however, forcing them all to go on a 1916 tour so some family culture is still available. Also, herself wants to go to the Nutcracker at Christmas. I am hesitating; I’m just not sure that it will be a winning family outing. A couple of weeks ago, at her request, I took her to see a thing on Shakespeare at the Royal Irish Academy. It was tough going for me but she seemed to really enjoy it. Can’t see it ever being a family outing though.
And then we are finally replacing our car which we bought in Belgium in 2005 – yes steering wheel on the wrong side but not as awkward as you might expect. As we were looking at makes, we found ourselves reflecting that this might be our last family car, if we hang on to it for 6 or 7 years as at that stage the children will all be in college which is a terrifying prospect. Looks like it does go by quickly after all.
Bitter, Bitter, Bitter
The boys found the classic “Owl Babies” on the bookshelf. It’s the story of three baby owls waiting for their mother to come home. Looking through it, Daniel said “They’re like us; an older girl, a middle boy and a younger boy.” They looked nostalgically at the illustrations for a while, then Michael piped up, “Not really, because the eldest owl isn’t playing on her mobile phone.”
The Princess got a phone as an early Christmas present from her uncle and aunt and we have not determined what the rules are about usage and into this vacuum has seeped 24 hour usage by herself and an ocean of bitterness on the part of her brothers. Not our finest parenting hour, something will have to be done. Sigh.
Nervous
I had lunch with a friend yesterday and she asked me how I had told my children about the Trump presidency. “I kind of let them draw their own conclusions,” I said.
But on foot of that I was talking to them this evening and asked them what they thought. They started to sing “Duck and Cover“. This is a song which we heard when we visited the war museum in Caen a couple of years ago and it has stayed with us for its hilarious understatement of the effects of a nuclear bomb. It’s from a US public safety video from the 1950s. Herself stopped singing and said, “But now we know that hiding under school desks is not going to save us from the nuclear bomb.”
“Well,” I said, “remember [very tall Dutch friend] who works inspecting nuclear power generators?” “Yeah,” she said, “sitting under the desk is definitely not going to work for him.” “No, no, it’s just that he said that radiation goes for the thyroid and the most serious damage is done straight after the blast. If you take iodine tablets straight away, then your chances of survival are pretty good.”
Reassuring. I thought you would like to know. I think I was right that the children had drawn their own conclusions about the Trump presidency though.
Increases in the Cost of Living
The Princess is very pleased with her new phone but it is not without its drawbacks.
We passed an advertisement on the street and she said bitterly “Vodafone 4g is not bringing me closer to Irish rugby it’s bringing me closer to bankruptcy.” It’s all good preparation for the woes of adulthood.
Identity Theft
All this 1916 centenary commemoration has got me thinking a bit about identity. Recently, I realised that all my grandparents were born British citizens. At least three of them vigourously did not want to be, but they were all the same until well into adulthood. If you had asked me six months ago what nationality my grandparents were, I would have answered “Irish” unhesitatingly. I now realise that would have been only partly true and that is very strange to me.
I said it to my aunt and she said, “Ah no, they weren’t really British”. National identity is quite the complex thing, isn’t it?
