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?
Michael
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.
My children’s very different personalities
The other evening they sat down to draw for me.
Daniel drew a soldier:
Michael drew a picture of me:
The Princess wrote out a passage from the bible:
Look, cut her some slack, she’s left handed, it reads “God says let my people go or I will make the rivers run with blood.” She’s very taken with the gore of the Old Testament. My mother gave her a bible for children for her birthday. It is quite sanatised and, in fact, says rather blandly of the first plague “God made the water undrinkable”. When the Princess read this out to me I was initially confused and then after a moment’s reflection said “Oh the rivers of blood.” This has taken a very strong hold on her imagination is all I can say.
Domestic Games
Recently, on Saturday mornings, we have been taking the children to football and hurling training. The boys love it. The Princess stays on the sidelines, solidly (and very annoyingly) refusing to take part. To their enormous delight we dress the boys up in their FC Barcelona and Lions 09 kit (a Christmas present from their uncle) to go to training. And very fetching they looked too.
I did have mild qualms about introducing kit from foreign games but all that is in the past now and I noted that the very patient man training the four year old boys in football was wearing an Irish rugby jersey. After limbering up and working on their ball skills, the four year olds started a match. I was a bit concerned about this as my children had never played a match before. “Never mind” reassured the trainer “wait until you see it, it’s like a flock of sheep milling around a ball.” So indeed, it proved.
The hurling, however, was a different matter. The trainer was from Cork and he took it all very seriously. Ah, well do I remember my primary school days when year after year the hurling team won the All-Irealnd. They would tour the schools, show us the McCarthy cup, and give us all a half day (they won three in a row between 76 and 78 – formative years, I was 7, 8 and 9 and very grateful for the half day). The trainer clearly remembered that too and he was taking no prisoners. Having equipped his 30 four year old with helmets and hurleys, he went down the line “clashing the ash” (essentially walloping their hurleys with his) and he made them all get in the ready position and roar (something that works well for the NZ rugby team). There was some confusion with his instructions. “Is the ready position holding the hurley on our heads?” roared the trainer. Some of the young men thought it was and held their hurleys over their heads. The match itself was more like a real match than I had at all anticipated following the football. Poor Daniel came trailing over to me saying that no one was giving him the ball and I explained to him that he had to go and get it. I then had to wade on to the pitch and separate him out from another little boy who had taken the ball from him. Aside from this minor off the ball incident and despite the fact that 30 little boys were given sticks and told to swing them, there were no injuries.
In encouraging the Princess to play (in vain), I picked up a hurley myself for the first time in my life. My previous experience had only been in hockey and a hurley has a much bigger head, so it is much easier to dribble the ball. I was delighted with myself as I zoomed around the little markers until I heard an English accented voice say “that looks like a back stick to me.” These migrants are clearly mingling well. After confirming that I was indeed playing a different game (with his hurley as it turned out), he encouraged me to go again. I was happily zooming round the obstacles (the Princess lolling disinterestedly by the fence) when a six year old came up and with a sweeping wallop of her hurley took the ball out from under me. This is indeed a very different game, maybe I should stick to what I know.
When relating all of this to my mother-in-law the next day, she told me that her father-in-law, my children’s great-grandfather, had played senior hurling for Tipperary. This is information which was hitherto unknown to me and very impressive indeed, trumping the information I already had that my father-in-law had played minor football for Dublin. I see a great future for my children, particularly, if I ever succeed in actually getting the Princess on the pitch.
