In the middle of the night, Daniel started to cry [aside from illness this has never happened before]. I went in to comfort him and he fell back to sleep. The following evening I asked him whether he remembered his bad dream. “Yes,” he said, “I went to a rugby match with Daddy and Uncle G and my cousin. Daddy and Uncle G were chatting and I interrupted them so Daddy took me home and I cried all the way. Except when we got there it was the library and Mummy was waiting. And then she took a picture of me. Because, Mummy, you’re always taking pictures.”
Daniel
The Goose is Getting Fat
Yesterday afternoon, the Princess wrote her Christmas cards. No, you’re not getting one; they are for her 27 classmates.
She and I made cranberry and orange sauce:
And we studded a couple of oranges with cloves:
And we made a paper chain of angels:
Did all this come at a cost? Well, yes, her brothers spent the afternoon playing on the computer so that we were free to do our worthy activities. Daniel did put a couple of cloves into an orange in a half-hearted way but quickly returned to FRIV (the very best free online games apparently). Look, at least the weather outside was frightful.
Good News, Bad News
I came home from work yesterday and the Princess leapt up to meet me. “I won the class art competition! I got first place! I got a brilliant prize!” Her recital of her greatness was interrupted by prolonged wails from her brothers neither of whom won their class prize. Rejoicing in your siblings’ good fortune is a learned skill, I think.
All I Want for Christmas…Seasonal Round Up
Daniel is down a front tooth…
And in other news, did I tell you that Saint Nicolas came on December 6 – Dublin is somewhat outside his remit of the Low Countries but he came all the same.
We went to see Santa at the Botanic Gardens on Sunday. On the plus side it was free and the children got an African violet and a gummy snake each. On the minus side, it was freezing and the queue lasted for 90 minutes.
Mr. Waffle is in Helsinki all week. He was obsessively checking the weather before he left and packed his ski gear and a pair of long johns for the expected Arctic cold. It turns out that it’s not as cold as he expected (but, you know, snowy, dark and -3). I am home alone with the children and it is now gone 10 and Michael continues to trek down the stairs at regular intervals to inform me of activities upstairs. In fact, I think I hear him now. Sigh.
Ominous
I found this taped to the boys’ bedroom door the other night:
There’s an obscure joke to be made about this and this post on the Schengen area on Jon Worth’s blog; I’m too tired to make it. Fill in the gaps yourselves there now.
Cultural Differences
It is the end of GAA training until after Christmas. The young men from the under 8s are invited to a Christmas party. Last Saturday was the deadline for paying for the party. I brought my money dutifully. Another mother whom I know from our time soldiering together on the side of the pitch arrived rather late and handed over her money and appeared to be scurrying away again. “Are you off already?” I asked in surprise. “Yes,” she said, “[the GAA under 8 boy] and his sister are both sick in bed.” And off she went, looking quite harassed. When I related this to Mr. Waffle we both marvelled at the trouble that she had gone to and as one said, “Of course, she’s English.” Later in the week the inevitable email arrived: 57 boys have been signed up for the party but only 36 have paid, can the others bring their money on the day?
