The teacher sent me a note saying that Michael has no interest in learning to read and when called upon to attempt reading, guesses words and makes no real attempt to work them out. I went to talk to her and dutifully promised to work on his reading over the Easter holidays (has this happened? alas no but a small reprehensible part of me feels that he’ll read when he’s ready and no point in torturing him). “On the plus side,” said she, “he’s the fastest in the class at maths, whenever I give them a sheet, he’s first up with the answers and always right.” I have to say that Michael has hidden his light under a bushel – this came as a complete, and clearly welcome, surprise. And I happen to know that he’s the youngest in the class by 20 minutes. Mr. Waffle suggests that a career without much writing might suit him, civil engineering perhaps?
Michael
Trouble in Paradise
Background: It is the Easter holidays. Mr. Waffle is minding the children every morning this week. As you know, regular lengthy exposure to small children can lead to tetchiness. I have been sailing into work early unencumbered by anything in particular, having made no sandwiches, dressed no one, given no one breakfast and driven no one to school. In the evenings, I return all sweetness and light.
I overheard this exchange from the kitchen this evening.
Daniel: I wish we had two Mummies.
Michael: Well, I don’t.
Daniel: Why not?
Michael: Because then we’d have to have two grumpy Daddies as well.
A Future in Policing?
When I came home the other evening the boys were working hard on sheets of paper. They explained that they were working to foil burglars. First, they had written their names and crossed them out so that the burglars would not know that they lived here. Then, Daniel had written, “I hate you” to show that they were not welcome. Then the boys decided that this approach would not fool the hardened criminals whom they were trying to put off. So, one of them [my guess is Daniel on Michael’s instruction] wrote “Toys 1,025 4 Free” (actually 4 rfee but let us not quibble). Their plan was to stick this notice, which they had photocopied a number of times on the printer, up on various toyshops. Then, as they earnestly explained to me, the burglars would go into the toyshops and be caught by “the cops” in a sting operation.
Language
I asked the children recently whether they thought I spoke better Irish or French. Instantly, all three said “Irish, of course!” I was surprised. I can read well in French, I have been known to draft work texts in French and I speak it well enough to say anything I want to say, within reason. Alas, I have none of these skills in Irish (although I did have an excruciating work conversation in Irish on the phone during the week the memory of which makes me blush). Of course, the difference is that my Irish accent is, understandably, fine (although purists may point out that I have city Irish much further from the real thing than its country cousin) but my French accent is clearly foreign.
Feis Ceoil
The school had a singing and recitation competition on Saturday. The boys were both very brave but failed to scoop any medals. Michael took this very hard. “I try and I try, but still I don’t win,” he sobbed as the kindly adjudicator mouthed “sorry” at me over his heaving shoulders. The same adjudicator proceeded to award his sister second place in her category which she regarded as no more than her due. If I were giving out medals, I would have given one to Daniel, I think, who did his impression of a child from the Connemara Gaeltacht.
In completely unrelated news, herself walked a neighbour’s child home this afternoon and came back carrying a bag full of swag. Apparently, every day when coming home she, the childminder and the boys, meet a nice lady who lives on the street. The Princess had informed the lady that her birthday was coming, as indeed she has informed everybody. The lady acted on this information and as the Princess was passing her house this afternoon, she came out with various offerings. Unfortunately, the Princess has inherited my sense of direction so she has no idea in which house exactly her benefactress lives nor is she aware of other useful identifiers like the lady’s name. She has composed a thank you letter to hand over next time she meets the lady in the street and that is the best we can do for the moment. Who says the big city is an unfriendly place?
Busy Lives
Michael came into the parental bed looking bleary eyed this morning and greeted me with, “What are we late for today?”
