Michael: I’m going to kill my sister because she’s a big meanie.
Daniel: Yeah! Me too!
Me: Hang on a minute, sometimes she’s very kind to you; she reads you stories and she makes up games for you to play.
Daniel (reflectively): And sometimes she lets us in her room.
Michael: If we killed her, we could go in her room all the time.
Michael
Recovering
I’ve been saving this up until I could get back online.
One Saturday afternoon, the Princess went out with a friend and his mother for a birthday treat, Mr. Waffle went to the supermarket, I cut the grass and the boys played upstairs with a little girl who lives on our road. Later that evening, after the children had eaten dinner I went upstairs to dress to go out. It was only then that I discovered that my sons and their little visitor had taken off the shelves, out of baskets, out of cupboards and out of wardrobes everything their little four year old mitts could reach. In all the bedrooms. The Princess’s room was knee deep in tat. I couldn’t even open her door. I roared at the two boys. They lay on the ground and bawled contrition. I continued to roar at them. I was so furious that I STILL don’t feel bad about that. At this point the babysitter arrived and asked, in awed tones, whether we had taken photos. As we had to leave, our priority was to clear a path to the beds so that the children could get into them at some point later in the evening. I was most displeased. I think that this may well be the boys’ earliest memory.
As though this were not bad enough, the following day we had the Princess’s birthday party. This normally hair raising event passed off relatively peacefully due to the following factors: the party was only two hours long; my sister came to help and made the birthday cake; we hired professional help; one of the invitees was 11 and more like an extra helper than a guest; the weather though not sunny was dry and the children were able to run in the garden; and, all the parents collected their offspring on time.
Much entertainment in the office with stories of colleagues stuck all over Europe under a cloud of volcanic ash; ferries fully booked; general hilarity on the part of those not stuck in Cherbourg where colleagues comprehensively fail to see the humour. All back to normal now. Until the next Icelandic volcano.
Bunk Beds
We got bunk beds for the boys. This followed a concerted campaign by Michael who insisted that they were essential for his happiness. To be fair, I also felt that it was time that my four year old sons got out of their cots. Michael steered the delivery men into his room. He was quite cross when they wouldn’t move the other furniture so that the bunk beds could be fitted into the selected alcove. I went upstairs having seen the men out, to find Michael lying weeping on his bed. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I asked. “What will happen to my bed? Please don’t give away my bed that I’ve had since I was a tiny baby.” Oh dear.
While they were far too big for their cots, they look very small in the bunk beds.
Heartfelt plea
Daniel having hurt his toe: Oh God, please take the pain away it’s so sore.
Me: Sweetheart, I’m not sure that’s how prayer works.
Daniel: Oh God, PLEASE take the pain away and give it to Michael.
A Mother’s Lot
A (very religious) friend said to me that he thinks that some people take their children to mass like they take them to swimming lessons – it’s something useful for them to know. I felt a distinct twinge of guilt. Especially when I recollected my maternal pride on hearing that the Princess had collected an Easter egg at her Sunday school thing by identifying the man who helped Jesus carry the cross. Your best guess in the comments below please. No googling.
The Princess has dropped out of her holiday course in the Alliance Française. Due to her idiot mother’s assumption that the course would be for bilingual children, she was forced to spend the day learning to count in French. Although she explained to the teacher (in French) that she could already count and even say her name in French, she was not let out (well where would they send her?). She was very cross. I was very guilt ridden. On the plus side, the Alliance say that they will give me my money back. Hurrah.
As I entered the house after a long day at work, the childminder was leaving it. “What’s it like in there?” I asked her. Normally she is resolutely upbeat. “It’s murder,” said she, “they are all tired, cranky and whacking each other.”
Michael wants a Nintendo DS. He can’t have one. “Why? Jack has one.” “Because you’re four and I say no.” A river of tears follows.
The country has given all its money to the banks. In fact, money that it hasn’t got. Every public servant in the country got pay cuts of between 10 and 20 per cent and it saved the exchequer 4 billion. Apparently we’ll need 30 billion to keep the banks going. Do you think that the public servants would like to work for nothing? I am annoyed with the banks. I am also unclear who benefited from the reckless lending. Not the shareholders, not the taxpayer, not the banks and, it appears, not even the developers who took out the massive loans we and our children will be paying back. Unless the developers all have Swiss bank accounts. Aha. Of course, now that the State effectively owns the banks, we can regard the forthcoming increase in interest rates on our mortgages as a saving really.
And it’s snowing today. Appropriate.
Vignettes from the babysitting dungeon – in case you were wondering how my sister got on last weekend
A phone call.
Me (sitting on a chair by a pond in the Tuileries): Hi, how is everything going?
Sister (in Dublin minding offspring): Not great, I am making pancakes, the smoke alarm has gone off, the children are screaming and the cat is pooing in the kitchen. How are things in Paris?
A further phone call
Me (sipping tea in a Parisian cafe): Hi, how is everything going?
Sister (at the side of the road in the car): Not great. Your daughter won’t stop saying “church in a church” and it’s driving me and the boys insane so please will you talk to her.
Daughter: Church in a church, church in a church, church in a church..
Me: What does that mean?
Daughter: Church in a church, church in a church, church in a church…
Me: Unless you stop saying that straight away, there will be no Club Penguin for a week.
Daughter: Eek.
Sister: Thank you that seems to have worked.
