Michael was recently forced by cruel circumstance to eat something sweet. He chose a rich tea biscuit.
Michael
The longest day of the year
Up with the lark with the Princess and Daniel to get croissants and the paper for their father (left Michael slumbering). A somewhat bad tempered trek accompanied by grumbling sounds from herself as the chain kept falling off her bike. Children insisted that we buy juice also and had to carry home two bikes, two litres of juice, the Observer and five croissants.
Arrived home to the sound of Michael’s wails. His brother and sister had gone and left him alone. I pointed out that his father was still there. Further tears. Daniel, who is often kind, gave him a big kiss and he wailed all the louder: “First they left me alone and then Daniel covered me in slime.”
Their father arrived down to Father’s Day breakfast and expressed suitable gratitude. Attended mass accompanied by children lolling in the pews. Went home and tidied the Princess’s room with untoward vigour in the hope of unearthing a missing doggy. No joy but I did discover that she has already packed three large rucksacks for the holidays. Didn’t have the heart to empty them.
After lunch out to the GAA where (with all the other contestants) the children all won medals (hurrah) together with lollipops, bags, footballs and sliotars. Our ball needs are met for the foreseeable future. The afternoon was rendered hideous by the Princess who after her own match and medal ceremony came to watch the boys. The boys, despite getting very little action on the ball, were pink and broadly cheerful while tearing around the pitch. The Princess had had her school play again last night and was exhausted this afternoon. A refusal to buy sweets was enough to tip her over the edge and she spent the rest of the afternoon keening at the edge of the pitch occasionally rousing herself to pink faced abuse when particularly moved. I was mortified. By the time the boys medal ceremony came round, I was sitting in the back of the car berating her thinking to myself “I am sure this is not what Supernanny would do.” I hate Supernanny. Sigh.
Home again where we played with the new toys in the back garden and then round the corner to our street party. It really reminded me of the kind of thing that we had in Brussels but it was, as the Princess kept running up to tell me in delight, completely free. They had two bouncy castles, a barbecue, face painting and a clown who made balloons. It turns out that the neighbourhood is awash with kids. The children dived in but I hung around a little nervously; it appears that I don’t know many of the neighbours. Fortunately, Mr. Waffle met a colleague. She was lovely and knew other people and lived nearby (by definition, I suppose). She brought company, chairs and prosecco and we sat around chatting as the children played (very nicely – or, at least, nobody cried). This is the kind of thing I remember from my childhood. The grown-ups chatting while the children play nearby perfectly happily. Could this herald a new phase and very welcome phase? Mr. Waffle’s colleague lived in Brussels as a teenager on exactly the same street as we did when we lived there up to last year. She and I found this fascinating but the rest of the group seemed, somehow, less interested. But seriously, isn’t that a little odd?
So, now it’s quarter to eleven and nearly dark outside; I think I might go to bed. Long day.
In short
Me: I’ve bought a book about twins starting school: “Topsy and Tim Start School”
Mr. Waffle: I wonder what Topsy is short for?
Princess: Topsyietta?
The Incredders
We got “The Incredibles” out on DVD. It has made a huge impression on the children. They are now to be known as Violet, Dash and Jack-Jack. I am Elastigirl (though, as Michael kindly pointed out, Elastigirl is really thin unlike me but I can still be Elastigirl because I am his Mummy) and their father is Mr. Incredible. Sometimes we forget and call them by their real names and Michael, in particular, becomes furious. He is also demanding that his diet be further restricted as, in the film, Jack-Jack only eats porridge. In vain do I argue that off-screen Jack-Jack enjoys a healthy and varied diet and that he can eat alone (in the film his mother feeds him). It’s all becoming very tedious and shows no signs of wearing off.
Because Daniel speaks so clearly, I regularly correct him. Michael is far less distinct and as I can’t hear what he’s saying, he is far less subject to maternal corrections. I note that Daniel has decided to address this deficit. I heard Michael say “The Incredders is a vewy good pwogwamme.” Daniel replied firmly: “No, Michael, ‘The Incredibles‘ is a very good programme.” “Yes, a gweat pwogwamme.” “No Michael, not pwogwamme, programme.” “Yes, progwamme.” It’s tough being a twin.
School
Michael and Daniel are starting school in September. They will be four on September 27. I hope they are not too young; although children can start school at 4 in Ireland, increasingly the trend seems to be to hold them back until they are 5. A parent I met recently thought that she had sent her son to school too early and he had been 4 the previous March. At the GAA, I was tortured by a man who said that his son had only just turned 4 and he was far, far too young to start school in September and he was putting in another year at pre-school. However, we got their uniforms the other day and they tried them on in complete delight, so I think that we are committed now. Also, I feel Michael is looking forward to having a little less one on one attention from his teacher.
Last week, Mr. Waffle went to a parents’ evening for children who were to start in September and met a college acquaintance from the cumann gaelach. Together they made painstaking conversation as Gaeilge. As the acquaintance went into computers, I’m not sure how that went (our Gaelic ancestors not having had a word for computers).
Mr. Waffle learnt some mildly useful things from the meeting even though our daughter has been in the school for a year. A copy of the disciplinary code was handed around. The principal explained that it was a little out of date but it would give parents an idea of what was expected. One woman asked why her daughter couldn’t have a pony tail. “Ah yes,” explained the principal, “it was drafted when it was a boys only school.”
We also got a photocopy of an Australians study from 1990 on how twins do in school. It reminded me of how remiss I have been in my own research. According to this twins are particularly at risk of language and reading delay if they are identical, if they are boys and if they have a sibling 2-3 years older. Well, at least they are not identical. In light of this I have been considering their speech. Daniel speaks very well and articulates clearly; Michael far less so. [Don’t compare says the study reprovingly.] It is not clear to me whether this is just relative to Daniel or in absolute terms. Ho hum, always something to worry about. On the plus side, the study recommends letting them see their parents enjoying reading – I think that we could probably do that alright.
The study also emphasises that they need to be seen as individuals. I do regard them as two different individuals but the following things are true: they have never spent a night (or more than a small part of any day) apart; when you ask either how old he is, he will reply “we are three”, even when the other is not in the room; if one starts doing something, then the other invariably wants to do it too (although, I’m not sure that this proves anything, it is also true for their sister).
Eeek
Michael is constantly injuring himself. He is our daredevil. He had to be rescued from an oncoming tram with inches to spare. At least, this is the story he and the Princess tell, I have yet to verify it independently with our childminder, F, – sometimes, it’s better not to know. The Princess insists that Daniel pushed Michael and that Daniel was not properly reprimanded by F something which the Princess is keen that I should remedy – presumably poor F was too traumatised to do anything other than hang on to Michael for dear life.
Last week, Michael managed to rip a piece of skin off his foot climbing in his bedroom. I have inspected the locus of the accident and can find nothing that might remotely be suspected of causing such a nasty cut. He hobbled for the week.
Then, their father took them to the zoo where “the dreadful fate/Befell him, which I now relate.”* Michael managed to take a square of skin off his arm climbing a fence. He got dirt ingrained in the cut and under his skin. I prodded at it unavailingly for a bit to his anguished screams of protest and then, on the advice of my father (who first verified that Michael’s tetanus shots were up to date – of course Michael’s tetanus shots are up to date), stuck on some disinfectant and a plaster and sent him to bed. “Why am I always getting hurt?” he asked mournfully. Being the mother of a daredevil is very challenging.
*This came into my head. Look, it’s my blog. Small prize (you know, having your charming comment acknowledged for a change, that kind of thing), if you can identify the source without recourse to the internet.
