The scene: the office at lunch time on a crisp autumn day.
My Portuguese colleague: I have a terrible dilemma.
Me: What’s that?
Her: I want to go for a walk.
Me: Well then go, for heaven’s sale.
Her: I can’t. It’s too cold. I will die.
Work
How My Mind Works
Colleague: Who is looking after this?
Me: B but she is in Brussels and A but she’s in Corfu.
Colleague: What’s A doing in Corfu?
Me: No, no, not Corfu, hang on, Corfu is in Greece which begins with G, no sorry she’s in Geneva.
Colleague: I pity your husband.
First World Problems
As the professionals say, posting has been light. I have found the past month or so demanding as I went back to work and the children went back to school.
During my first week back at work, I found myself slipping out of a meeting with important people to rescue Michael from school where he declared himself (convincingly) to be sick. Mr. Waffle, who normally does the sick child trip, was in a meeting with no phone coverage. I went to school where a surprised and delighted (and crucially, in my view, quite well) Michael greeted me with ecstasy which was rather charming. We went home. In the utility room was the corpse of a mouse which the cat had brought in for inspection. I disposed of it. Mr. Waffle came home and I hared off across town on my bike to my next meeting.
We have a new childminder, who seems lovely, but we all have to get used to each other. And the children are still flattened from being back at school.
And then, this time of year brings heritage week (a man dressed up as Robert Boyle in the Casino Marino – excellent thanks although herself now wants a vacuum pump for Christmas); the Fringe Theatre Festival (Ashling Bea and James Walmsley – only mildly funny- and The Stoneybatter Strangler – really quite dreadful performed outdoors by a large cast with little talent and a chill wind blowing, mildly atmospheric in places); the Theatre Festival (A Feast of Bones – for children, a bit creepy but herself loved it and Sheridan’s The Critic where I struggled to stay awake for the first half but found the second half alright and the ending superb); Culture Night (where we saw a limited number of things: Tailor’s Hall, St. Audeon’s but had pizza); Open House (by now flagging, we only inspected two premises, one of them very small); and we went to the opening night of the documentary film festival where we saw “The Great Hip Hop Hoax” which was good but the interview with the Director afterwards was even better and added additional layers of context to what is already an extremely odd story; there was a fly-by (sounds more exciting than it was – lots of planes – new and old- flew up the river Liffey at quite dispersed intervals, town was jam packed and the children couldn’t be bothered to get out of the car to look); we went to the Dublin growers’ festival and got the apples from our three apple trees pressed into apple juice and possibly cider (the jury is still out on this last one); and the Princess and I went to Cork for the weekend (twice).
And I broke a molar and had to go for an unscheduled trip to the dentist.
And the boys turned 8.
And, as of today, Mr. Waffle is lame with a horribly swollen and blistered ankle. He is allergic to wasp stings and got stung yesterday. He also got stung the week before last. His parents have a wasp’s nest in the largest tree in their garden. One our children like to climb up and get stuck in.
Is it any wonder posting has been light?
My eyes, my eyes!
As I sit beside my loving husband on the sofa flicking through tv channels, I require him to read aloud to me the names of the programmes as they appear briefly on the screen below. Alas, I cannot read this unfeasibly small (ahem) print.
I know that I need glasses. However, since beginning parental leave at the start of July I have found that I am more and more able to read the small print. Might this be to do with the fact that I have not been spending all day in front of a glowing screen? I think it could. What do you reckon?
Mass Card
The parent of a colleague died and I sent him a mass card. I wrote a few lines hoping that my colleague was bearing up and that his father was “well before he died.” Really? Beautifully put. Go me. What, was I hoping that the gentleman had been hale and hearty and run over by a car? I despair.
Happy Birthday to Me, Also, Happy Mother’s Day to Me
Today is Mother’s Day and my birthday. It’s like having your birthday on Christmas day. Unsatisfactory. Nonetheless, the presents rolled in (from generous relations) as did breakfast in bed (from immediate family). I got my first ever present from herself. Bath salts. Fancy. As I pointed out to her, it represented a greater proportion of her weekly income (99%) than anyone else’s present had and I was suitably grateful.
The boys made me cards and Mr. Waffle, very daringly, bought me a vase and “The Book of Irish Mammies”. Herself read it cover to cover and I have just now got my hands on it. As herself commented, “You say that kind of thing all the time!” Well, middle age wasn’t long in catching up with me, now was it?
So to mother’s day: I read a post the other day about having it all. The author comes to the conclusion that mothers of young children can’t have it all but having children makes up for it. I think she’s right; at least given the way the world works now. Maybe it will be different in the future. I had no idea before I had children how they would change me – very much for the better, I think – I am a more tolerant, more patient and less selfish person now than I was before I became a parent. My children are a real source of delight and entertainment and the bigger they get, the better company they are. I would do it all again like a shot (though I would have a long nap first). I am the most popular person in the house and although it is tiring sometimes, it is, on balance, rather lovely.
The majority of the most successful women I know have no children. I also know some successful women with 1 child. One of my oldest friends is a heart surgeon with her own practice in the US and she has four small children. She bucks the trend. In my circle of acquaintance, she combines the maximum number of children with the maximum progress in a career. I was speaking to her about this today. “Yes,” she said, “I love my job and it is very rewarding but I work 80 hours a week and I always feel guilty that I don’t see enough of the children.” She has help and a supportive husband, she loves her job and she’s good at it but still she feels guilty. I don’t know whether it’s nature or society but the women I know do feel guilty when they spend a long time away from their children. The men don’t seem to. It’s not that they don’t love their children but they just seem to be wired differently or the expectations are different. As I look at the women and men of my generation, overwhelmingly work in the home and childcare are shared as they never were before. But still more men than women succeed in the world of work. Maybe it will take another generation to get it right.
But still, in my own balancing act, I think I have been lucky. I would like to spend more time with the children and I do feel guilty but not too guilty. My work is interesting and my colleagues supportive. I almost always come home with a briefcase full of papers but I don’t always read them. Maybe that’s as good as it gets.
