Her : Je n’ai pas déjà fini.
Him : Pas encore.
Her : Je ne peux pas dire ‘pas déjà ’ ?
Him (diplomatically): Pas encore est mieux.
Her : Je ne peux pas encore dire ‘pas déjà ’?
Travel Agents, first against the wall when the revolution 3.0 comes
Mr. Waffle and I went to a travel agent for the first time in many years recently. We wanted to check availability of ski holidays for this year and our internet research was proving a little difficult.
The woman tittered (oh yes she did) when she heard that we were thinking about booking something for this year. The first week we suggested was all booked up. “It’s too late, forget it”, she said gloomily [don’t they get a commission, for God’s sake?]. We persisted. She sighed audibly. “How about the week of March 22?” I said. She raised what was left of her eyebrows and tapped her long manicured fingers on the desk, “Ah March 22, you might get something it’s so late, but there will be no snow”.
“Could you try it all the same?”
“Oh but it’s EASTER” she said contemptuously having peered at her calendar, “there will be nothing”.
Maybe some snow after all then. There was one one star apartment left which, she said, she would very much advise against taking, particularly with a family.
We left in a huff. She smiled merrily. Another victory for Belgian customer service. If we can’t find anything, the Princess will murder us. She and I have been looking at children skiing on youtube and she fancies the notion of herself whizzing down the slopes.
The Weekend of the Rat
Thank you all for your kind comments on my children’s singing. Just as well you did because my mother has still not inspected the winsome mites on Youtube. True, she is a little dubious about the computer and all its works. True, also, she had them sing live to her on the telephone but that is not the same thing at all. Her defence is that she has had a busy weekend, what with the rugby and everything. This is, clearly, no defence at all; she should have struck to berating the computer which, in my parents’ house, is known as the monster in the study. She has, however, started the book I gave her for her birthday. My sister-in-law recommended it to me and lent me her copy; a decision, I suspect, she now regrets as I still have it in my grubby little mitts. Lest there be any confusion, I hasten to clarify that my mother got a span new copy. A copy she has been reading with interest. It is set in the 1930s and is a series of funny tales (I think “gently humourous” is the kind of expression the blurb writers would go for) about the fictional diarist’s life in the English countryside with her husband and two daughters. “It really,” said my mother “gives you a feel for a period, it reminds me of Di Lampedusa“. As I told her, I suspect that this is the first time this comparison has been made.
This morning the joys of communal living were manifest from 6.00. Normally we wake our building when the children start screaming at 7.30. However, the students on the top floor were going away and spent their time from 6.00 huffing and puffing up and down with ski gear. It appeared that the best way to get poles down was to fling them into the stairwell and let them bounce to the ground floor while laughing manically the while. Maybe it just sounded that way.
We took ourselves to a museum to let the boys run around and work up an appetite for a nap. Is there anything more appealing than a large museum with few visitors, endless corridors and enormous rooms filled with odd items? Usually this museum is empty but today, we coincided with a series of activities to celebrate the Year of the Rat and a distressing number of people were milling about in the foyer. Happily, they all appeared to want to sign up for calligraphy demonstrations and we were allowed to inspect the exhibition of miniature Chinese houses in peace. We also admired Cinderella’s carriage in splendid isolation. All in all, it was a very satisfactory morning, the only crisis was caused by one of the bottles we had brought for the boys leaking all over the bag it was in and my husband’s jumper. Daniel pointed to the wet floor and said sagely “Michael spill actimel“. (Actimel is the work of Satan, the kids all love it because of its knacky little bottle and then they can’t get their mouths round it and spill it down their fronts. Every time I give them a bottle, the two lads say “very careful”. I digress.) On leaving, the foyer was still heaving and, in a very Belgian way, the lady in the cloakroom was refusing coats (see proof they’ve never had this many people before). “It’s full, I’ve already said it’s full, go away, do you expect me to hang your coats on the wall?” she said angrily to a crowd of innocent punters who, having purchased their tickets, were not going to be let into the museum until they had divested themselves of their coats, something Madame in the cloakroom was steadfastly refusing to allow them to do. All that was missing to make it a classic Belgian scene was for someone to start complaining about the linguistic regime.
Tomorrow is the start of mid-term. Herself has been signed up for a week long course of sport to which she is looking forward with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner. It’s a bit difficult to get to and the hours are different from school, leading to some logistical difficulties. When the boys were in the bath this evening I explained at tremendous length to my husband that, if I had to leave work early to collect herself I would prefer it to be Thursday because I have a lot on tomorrow and then I’ll have to leave a bit early on Tuesday, because it’s pancake Tuesday and we’ll be making pancakes and then I’ll be a bit frantic but, if on the other hand, I collect her on Thursday, I can get a good run on things on Monday, leave calmly on Tuesday and, by Thursday, all should be well for me to knock off a little early and collect herself, but, on the other hand, if I did have to collect her tomorrow, then he should let me know because I would take the car to work. He said, “what, sorry, I wasn’t listening, do you want to get her tomorrow or Thursday?” “Thursday”, I said, a shade coldly.
In our continuing efforts to illustrate to our sons that they both have a mother and a father and that they have not each been assigned to a particular parent, I took Daniel rather than Michael out of the bath again. My impudence was greeted with an outburst of angry weeping from Michael. I explained firmly that I am Daniel’s Mama too. “NO! Daddy, Daniel’s Mama!” he said. I think we have a mountain to climb here.
And finally, did you see that Carla and Sarko got married over the weekend? Maybe they should have waited until the Year of the Rat started. Don’t be like that, it’s supposed to be auspicious for marriages.
Happy Birthday
Today is my mother’s birthday. Yesterday, I gathered my children together to get them to sing happy birthday winsomely.
They gathered. I attempted to record them but the camera was out of battery and it kept shutting down despite their winsomeness. Mr. Waffle hunted for more batteries. While he did so, the Princess went to get some plastic cake which would add lustre to the singing display. Daniel wanted the cake. The Princess would not give it to him because he was only a baby. We encouraged her to share nevertheless. She lost her temper and said she would not sing unless she alone held the cake as was only right because only she could hold it properly. She began to cry joining her brother in disharmonious weeping. Michael was beside me for the duration hoping to get his gums around the new batteries that were being slotted into the camera “Can I? Can I?”. We removed the cake from the arrangement, the batteries were safely stowed in the camera and the Princess led her brothers in song. And yes, I know, it’s a bit dark.
Happy birthday, Mummy.
More mornings
Last night the Princess arrived into our bed, most unusually, at 3.00 in the morning and stayed there alternately chatting and poking until 6.00.
This morning we had the usual chivying, hurrying and harrying to get out the door with an extra nugget of exhaustion for three of the main players. The Princess was, perversely, extremely good. I am not sure whether this is as a result of engaging in charades last night when she got to pretend to be each of us in the morning in turn. It was funny. She enjoyed our appreciative laughter but maybe she finally realised that we would like it, if she would just get dressed in the morning.
Anyhow, Mr. Waffle was tired, sick and short-tempered. Michael came out of the kitchen and said crossly “Daddy, a bit mean”. Daniel sat up in his chair. His lower lip wobbled. “What’s wrong darling?” “Daddy fâché, Daniel sad.” “What that noise?” “That’s the sound of Mummy’s heart breaking”. Alternatively, it could have been Mr. Waffle saying “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’ll toughen them up”. At least he’s not feeding them Calgonit; you will be pleased to hear that there appear to be no ill effects to date.
Landmarks
On Friday afternoon, the Princess’s schoolfriend L came round to visit. We had arranged that L’s mother would take both girls back to her house around the corner later in the afternoon while I went to collect the boys from the creche (Mr. Waffle being stuck late at work). As she departed (in her Cinderella dress), L asked whether the Princess was staying in her house. This was something L’s mother and I had discussed but not for that evening. L’s mother said that she could, if I agreed. Upon being importuned, I agreed and send her off with her toothbrush, doggy, a pair of pyjamas and the confident knowledge that we would have to collect her later when she realised the enormity of the undertaking. She has only spent one night apart from both parents in her whole life.
At 8.10 we sat together on the sofa and telephoned prepared for a tearful Princess. Not a bit of it, she was having a wonderful time and would see us in the morning. Goodnight. We were dumbfounded. Through the night as we got up to ply the boys with milk and to implore them to consider sleeping as a viable alternative to shouting, we passed her empty room with the curtains still drawn and we worried. We needn’t have. I collected her in the morning and she was perfectly composed. Yes, she had a lovely time, thank you.
Saturday afternoon was not satisfactory. Daniel did not nap and our normally sweet tempered middle child was transformed into a screaming nightmare. We went to a toyshop to buy a present for a friend and Daniel fell in love with the model train.  We could not get him to leave. In the end his father had to carry him out struggling and bellowing. He’s a big boy, when he struggles it is not a pretty sight. We decided to go to a café. When we came in with our brood, the other patrons looked at us warily, as well they might. I couldn’t get the double buggy past the tables and that was when we should have left but we didn’t. A kind man came and picked up the various items that we had dropped on the floor very slowly. Mr. Waffle controlled the bellowing Daniel. Michael and herself made a bid for freedom. Everybody stared at us. I thanked the kindly customer while silently cursing him for not letting me pick things up myself which would have been much quicker. We installed ourselves. I took Daniel upstairs to change him. He screamed. Michael would not be separated from me. He screamed. I brought the two boys up the narrow winding stairs together. I changed Daniel he perked up and stopped howling briefly. We were on a knife edge though. We got back to the table. I took off his hat. He screamed. I put it back on and he stopped but not before, to my mortification, a kind American lady at another table had given us a book to read to him. We decided that I had better take Daniel home. Michael refused to countenance my leaving without him. I left with the boys. Daniel would only leave on condition he got back to the train. We went back to the toyshop. Michael was very good about leaving. Daniel was not. It took all of my strength to put his writhing person back in the buggy. We went home. All very tiring.
On Sunday morning we went to Mass where the Princess informed me in loud tones, just after the consecration, as the church was silent that she hates Mass. While, I can sympathise, I am not yielding. Not yet, anyway. Also, I’m hoping to cure them of the habit they all have of shying away when I put holy water on their foreheads. Why is it only Protestants have Sunday school?
On Sunday afternooon, we dropped the Princess off for a party at a friend’s house or, more accurately, at the house of friends of ours whose daughter the Princess could probably not identify in a line out. I felt a bit nervous about this as almost all the other guests were from the birthday girl’s class in school but it passed off peacefully. I am now quite impressed by my daughter’s independence. While she was at the party, her father and I briefly regained our sanity and then woke the boys from their nap and took them to the park on their tricycles. When we collected the Princess, I was particularly struck by the utter lawlessness of the little boys at the party. There were two who were screaming and jumping on balloons and a number who were thumping. I am not sure whether this behaviour is unique to boys in this school (it’s one of these schools that encourages the development of the whole child – I have a traditional view about these things, so sue me) or, as I fear, absolutely typical of four year old boys. I can’t wait until I have two of my own to let loose on an unsuspecting world.
And finally, this afternoon, our childminder called me to say that she was sick, so I took the afternoon off and came home to mind the troops who were suitably gratified to see me.
I was in the kitchen dispensing food and I heard Daniel say not nice. I turned around and to my horror saw that he and Michael had bitten through a packet of calgonit and ingested a quantity of same which Daniel was spitting out. It’s not clear to me whether Michael tried it or decided against.
Much panic ensued. The Princess was saintly and entertained her brothers while I rang their father, the paediatrician and then the poisons helpline (he had the number to hand). The lady on the poisons helpline was very helpful (much more so than the Calgonit website which I have been scouring since) and said that it was more an irritant than poisonous. I said that they both seemed fine but she said that the effects might not be visible immediately and to watch out if they started to cry or wouldn’t eat. Not conclusive symptoms, I fear.
I am watching them like an anxious mother hawk.
