I came home from work yesterday and the Princess leapt up to meet me. “I won the class art competition! I got first place! I got a brilliant prize!” Her recital of her greatness was interrupted by prolonged wails from her brothers neither of whom won their class prize. Rejoicing in your siblings’ good fortune is a learned skill, I think.
Princess
Do You Think Santa Does Dispute Resolution Work?
The Princess has brought to my attention in a marked manner the first draft of her letter to Santa. As, they say in letters of note, transcript follows below.
Headed on each page: Important
Dear Santa,
Over the years you have kept our family well supplied with treats. But do you realize [sic] that the sweets you graciously send are cruelly snatched away straight after mass? And used for the abominable treat-only-if-you-eat-dinner regime? I am not complaining too much about this regime for it has yielded excellent results for me. Except for one thing it is: I slave away for hours eating every single morsal [sic] on my plate whereas the boys take two bites of rice, make a tragic face and are told good boys well done for trying because of the fact that have been reaping more than they deserve. I demand that you send a quarter of their sweets into my stocking! No half! No half seems less the the fair amount for my suffering but I suppose it’s the season of goodwill. Please take into mind that if you do not want to transfer the goods I deserve into my stocking I will be perfectly happy for you to double my sweets and leave the boy’s [sic] sweets alone. This is an urgent matter!
I would also like for you to bear in mind that I shall try to bring some of your gifts onto an aeroplane so please try to make them below five kilo grams. I am sure this will not be a problem for someone of your prowess yet I feel it prudent to warn you. I have tried to make the items on my list light but sometimes you get the wrong end of the stick confused.
Again!
Could I be losing my mind? Really?
The Princess and I have joined the church choir. Rehearsals are at 7.15 on Thursday. Last Thursday, I hared home from work. I stopped off at home and picked up herself and we ran up to the church. The choir is composed of two elements. The first element consists of those who were auditioned and joined many years ago when the catholic church was a force to be reckoned with and the choir director was a successful professional singer who was never ever addressed by her first name. They can all sing and read music and are quite elderly. The second element consists of more recent additions who are willing to come to rehearsals.
I scurried into the pew. The nice lady beside me said, “You know, I think you’re an alto; the altos sit over there”. I went to the next pew where three rather frail but charming ladies made me welcome. “Are you sure you’re not a soprano?” they asked. “No,” I said with quiet confidence. I buried myself among them and tried to sing along. In case you don’t know this either, let me tell you now; the sopranos sing the tune and the altos make them sound nice by singing something completely different. I was all at sea and the lady beside pointed helpfully to the alto line in the music. I was forced to whisper, “I’m afraid I can’t read music.” She was visibly startled but said kindly, “I’m sure you’re doing the best with what God has given you, dear.” She had to run off at 8.00 to go home to her husband who had a carer until then. I was then doomed as she had a nice strong voice I could row in behind. The director had me come and sing near the piano. Never a good sign, I think you’ll agree.
The Princess meanwhile was doing fine by dint of standing beside her friend who has a really lovely voice and, like me, rowing in behind but with considerably more success. She was quite pleased with herself.
We got home about 9. Mr. Waffle said to me, “Did you remember the car?” “No,” I said, “we actually walked up.” “No, remember you drove to work?” he said. Oh woe. And I had had to fly home on a Dublin bike in the wet and would have loved to take the car which was waiting patiently in the office car park. I had to get the tram back in and rescue it. Can you believe that this is the second time I have done this in six weeks?
By the time I came home with the car, the Princess had been sick. She proceeded to get sick repeatedly until 4 in the morning when she dozed off. The poor child was actually green. I have never seen that before in real life. I stayed at home with her the next morning and she was almost recovered and by that evening she was fine. But really it made for a somewhat stressful 24 hours.
Is it any wonder I’m losing my mind?
Definitely Nurture Rather than Nature
Herself had a spelling test in school and was the only child in the class who could spell “accommodation” correctly. “How did you know that?” asked her teacher. “My grandfather’s students could never spell “accommodation” and he drilled it into my mother and then she insisted that I suffer in the same way.”
More Record Keeping
Daniel finally learnt to cycle at the weekend. Hurrah now we can all cycle. Daniel needs a little more work: he can go and he can stop but he can’t start. We are going to spray paint his sister’s old pink (I knew that colour was a mistake) bike for him.
Michael meanwhile goes from strength to strength and cycled with me to the polling station on Saturday (constitutional referendum on which two thirds of the population decided not to bother voting) and with his father to the park on Sunday.
The Princess continues her impressive prayer reading at mass. She is very pleased with herself. Meanwhile at school, they asked me whether I am doing any extra-curricular activities to “stretch her”. Do you think reading at mass is likely to count?
Hoist with My Children’s Petard
Daniel: When I grow up, I want to be an assassin.
Me: Oh sweetheart.
Daniel: What?
Me: Oh honey, you can’t be an assassin.
Herself: I thought that you said we could be anything we wanted to be.
