Mr. Waffle pulled 18 dead bodies from the Princess’s head yesterday. This is the third application of the patented remedy. They love her. It’s mutual. On Christmas morning, she asked anxiously “will there be presents for the little animals that live in my hair?” Alas, no. Just death and destruction. Lice get very little of the Christmas spirit. My sister-in-law the publishing exec who has glossy hair reaching well below her shoulders was a little alarmed to find the Princess poking and peering at it and only mildly relieved to hear her highness announce “I’m looking for animals in your hair but I can’t find any”.
On Christmas morning, with considerable effort, we managed to get the whole family to mass. Mr. Waffle looked round dolefully and said “I know these people, they look like me, they sound like me and I know what they’re thinking, they’re my tribe; I can just never afford to live near them”. Since you ask, yes, the Dublin housing market continues buoyant. The children’s mass also presented the spectacle of a number of kiddies on the altar whose birthdays were in December. Girls too; I’m sure the pope would be appalled, if he knew. The priest asked “what’s your name?” “Jack” said the scion of the middle classes. “And when’s your birthday?”, he continued “I don’t know” said Jack who obviously hasn’t been hothoused as much as other candidates. The next child did a little better, his name was Adam. “And when’s your birthday?” asked the priest. “I was born tomorrow” said Adam proudly. Do you think they all got lice for their birthdays?
Mr. Waffle
Did you miss me?
I know, three days away from the computer, I’m amazed. Let me share all the fascinating things I did with you.
On Friday afternoon, I decided that the Princess and I would go to IKEA. I picked her up from school at 3.15 and when, at 4.00 we still hadn’t reached the motorway, I should have realised that we were doomed. Once on the motorway, I took the wrong exit and found myself driving despairingly round deepest, darkest Anderlecht.
Me: Insert swear word here, we’re insert swear word here lost.
Princess: Mummy, say “oh dear, we’re lost” and there’s no need to worry, just stop and look at the map or maybe we can ask someone for directions.
Following the three year old’s sage advice, we got there eventually at 4.40. This left us just time to buy the bar of chocolate I had promised her in return for her good behaviour in the car and a small selection of Christmas baubles. I was saved from buying further tat (including obligatory nightlights, pog) by my daughter who put her chubby hands over my eyes and said “don’t buy anything Mummy, we have enough stuff and, if we buy it all, there won’t be enough left for everyone else”.
At 17.08 we left IKEA to pick up the boys from the creche, the Princess munching contentedly on her large bar of chocolate. By the time we reached town, she was begging me for water. “Mummy” she said desperately “promise me, you’ll never buy me chocolate again”. We stopped in a shop for an emergency bottle of water which she immediately spilt all over herself. She spent the remainder of the journey to the creche elaborating on how wet she was “Mummy, my vest is wet. And my t-shirt. And my socks”.
Saturday was spent admiring Saint Nicolas in the Grand Place. The Princess managed to secure five plastic packets of sweets by looking pathetically at the acolytes of Saint Nicolas as they went past while hastily stuffing the fruits of her last pathetic glance in my pocket. If you want to know who Saint Nicolas is, may I refer you to this charming story?
Sunday saw the Princess at a concert. It was Sleeping Beauty done for kids. A bit of Tchaikovsky, a bit of story, a bit of general classical music for kids and a bit of looking at musical instruments. Mr. Waffle told me that the ex-pat middle classes were out in force and you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a brilliant, multi-lingual international tot (including ours, of course).  It transpired that we have, however, let her down badly in the Peter and the Wolf stakes. While all the other kids in the audience bellowed out the answers to which instrument is which part, our girl was baffled and silent. And we have the U2 boxed edition as well (of course, we do). Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea massima culpa.
The intellectuals are IN
Him: You’re reading a Maeve Binchy book.
Me: Yeah, I find her soothing, everything turns out right in the end and she’s a good storyteller.
Him: I didn’t know you read Maeve Binchy.
Me: What do you think we’re doing with all those copies of her books?
Him: Um, adding intellectual gravitas to our bookshelves.
Mother of 3, running late, prepares for first party of the Christmas season
Stream of consciousness – ok, Winter, those nice boots, what would they be good with? Right that black skirt, where is it, where is it? Could it be in the bottom of the wardrobe with the good stuff? Surely once you have something five years, it should be demoted, but no there it is. OK, does it fit? Excellent. Jesus, what is that sticky stuff on the waistband, is it something from last Christmas?  Oh God, I bet the children have got their stickly little mitts on it and all the other stuff in my good drawer. My wedding dress is there. Well when am I going to be wearing that again? And the hem of that skirt is coming down. Tum ti tum, where are the safety pins? It’s a feature really, those little twinkling silver thingies around the hem. OK, a top, a top. That navy one with the sparkly bits. Is it a bit low cut? It’s a party, for heaven’s sake. Goodness, that’s a lot of exposed flesh, not a lot of chest though. Where have my breasts gone, why did I give up breast feeding? Let me see, can I root out that ancient wonderbra. Yes, excellent, here it is. OUCH, OUCH. God, the underwire is poking out, goodbye ancient wonderbra. Maybe a nice necklace to perk up the top then? That pearly one that came free with a bottle of mineral water? Yes. But navy and black? No, no. OK, the denim skirt, sort of dress up top half, casual bottom half and at least the denim skirt isn’t sticky. Gosh, that top really is indecent, where’s that silvery cardigan thing? OK, that’s OK.
I emerge and face my husband. “You look very nice” he says obediently. “No, I want you to tell me what you really think”. “What’s my range of options?” “Just tell me what you think”. “Um, is the top a bit dressed up for the bottom?” “Fine”, I say and depart with something like a flounce. The doorbell rings; it’s the babysitter.
Back in the bedroom the torrent of consciousness is reaching a crescendo. OK, not the denim skirt, black trousers. But they don’t go with the navy top. OK, not the navy top, the black top. OK, but now there is actually no flesh visible of any description. Is that good? Hang on, with the black top, I can wear the sticky skirt. Yes, excellent in a sort of deep mourning way.
Roll on the next party.
Quick, eat it before November 24
Princess: I am going to eat my pasta.
Me: You’re not eating it.
Her: It’s in my mouth, look.
Me: Yes, but you’re not chewing.
Her (chewing slowly): Look, now I am.
Me: But, you’re not swallowing.
Her (swallowing an infinitesimal amount): I am.
Mr. Waffle: That child has a future as a Sinn Féin negotiator.
NaBlPoMo – Where do I get the time to read all these blogs?
The famous blog of an English woman fired by her employers in Paris for her blog which barely mentions them. She is a mother of one and has split from her French partner. These are the bare facts. She writes beautifully. I first came here when she was splitting up from her partner (referred by Jack Dalton – Jack where are you? we still love you) and those posts were dreadfully sad and evocative.
This is a site that features different bloggers every day. It can be hit and miss but I’ve enjoyed some good stuff here. I like their daily round up of parenting news as well you know, this kind of thing: expert blames parents for bratty kids.
Pushing my luck
Last night and the night before I have been out for work dinners. This morning the Princess was sick and couldn’t go to school and Mr. Waffle stayed home and minded her. On the way to the creche I scraped the car. Was he delighted to hear, after returning home from his afternoon at work, that tonight is bookclub?
Miss Snark
I was pointed in this direction by a friend who is writing a book. It’s strangely compelling in a train wreck kind of way. If you are looking for an agent, you may be interested or you may be terrified.
My loving sister
Surviving India. Just.
