Michael: Will I have to go ON MY OWN?
Herself: Oh no, you would never be allowed to go unchaperoned.
She’s working on her first novel and it’s set in 1801. She has been doing research. Do you think I am making this up?
Letting Go – A Bit
The Princess got the bus home from school alone the other day. She managed it without difficulty. And she was absolutely delighted with herself.
When I was her age, I was frankly not delighted to get the bus home from school as it was a dreary part of my routine [not so much the bus ride really but waiting forever for it to arrive]. But when I was her age there were a gang of unaccompanied children getting the bus home every day. Furthermore, on my bus route the chances of meeting alcoholics or strung out junkies was close to nil. Her bus route on the other hand does offer these options from time to time. On the other hand, people are kind and she is sensible. I asked whether anyone spoke to her. “Yes,” she said, “the bus driver asked me whether I was on my own and a nice woman talked to me when I sat down upstairs.” What you might expect really.
This daring action was inspired by Mr. Waffle who felt (correctly) that she was well able for it and I was sustained by thoughts of this woman who described her child as being “ecstatic with independence” after riding the New York subway. Well, that’s how my girl felt too though I don’t think that she’s ready to tackle the NY subway just yet.
You are My World, My World, My World
Michael has started to keep a diary. He writes in it every day. Entries tend to be on the short side. Last week I couldn’t collect the children from school on Wednesday as I usually do. He read me his diary entry for that day: “Mummy didn’t collect us from school.” I was home a bit early on Thursday. His entry for that day was “Mummy was home early from work.” No one except my children will ever love me quite like this.
Age related query: Will that Communards song be stuck in your head all day now?
Healthy Exercise
The weekend before last we climbed the Sugar Loaf again. The children ran up and down. I struggled behind them as best I could. I was still stiff on Wednesday. Views from the top are still lovely though.
Losing My Mind
Last Friday, my sister was in Dublin and very kindly gave me a lift home from work. On Saturday, Mr. Waffle was due to take Daniel to GAA training. He went out to put the gear into the car and then rushed back into the house. “Where’s the car?” he asked. It came flooding back to me. I had [unusually] driven the car into work but, alas forgotten to drive it home again. Worse, I have form in this regard.
More Theatre
We went to see “The Last Summer” at the Gate. Oh the disappointment. As my mother-in-law said it was like amateur dramatics. Certainly as a tale of what was happening in 70s Dublin it was infinitely inferior to “The Boys of Foley Street“. Nobody was harrowed.
We ran into a glamorous friend of Mr. Waffle’s and went for a drink after the show. We were chatting about houses. I remembered that the last time I had seen her (about a year ago) she had been talking about how she had got her drawing room painted in various shades of red and that really it looked like a womb. This was fresh in my mind as I asked, “How is your womb?” Obviously, the conversation from last year wasn’t as fresh in her mind as in mine. She looked at me as though I was slightly insane. There was a nasty lull in the conversation. “Fine, thank you,” she said, a trifle coldly, I thought as I rushed to clarify. Oh dear, oh dear. [This woman was last mentioned in this blog here – under Saturday. Great to see that my levels of embarrassment are consistent with those of June 7, 2004.]
