I was pretending to bite the Princess on the arm for comic effect, she squealed in delight and then suddenly lost interest. She said to me coldly “stop it, Mummy, I’m not for eating”. What are you for then, sweetheart?” I asked, slightly maliciously. She rolled her eyes and said “I’m for talking”.
The Eagle has landed
My brother and sister called my parents from Kathmandu this morning. My mother was delighted to hear that her ewe lamb had arrived safely in the Nepalese capital. He asked whether she had got their email and she said no. He began to double check that she had followed all the correct procedures for downloading when my sister snatched the mobile from him, muttering indignantly about the expense of giving this kind of advice on an Indian mobile from Nepal. There’s a good joke there about call centres; fill in the blanks yourselves please.
When my brother headed off to visit my sister in India, I had the following conversation with my mother:
Her: So, he’s off to India this week.
Me: I’m sure he’ll have a great time.
Her: He’s been really fantastic since your father has been ill.
Me: Yes, he has been very good.
Her: To be honest, I’m a little worried about him going.
Me: I can imagine, but Daddy’s on the mend now.
Her: Oh no, not because of me and Daddy but you know, India, it’s so far away and so different.
Me:Â But, but, your youngest daughter lives there.
Her (defensively): Well, it’s different for your brother, he might get ill.
Me: But, but, she was ill all the time.
Her: Well, your brother is very delicate.
Me: Gasp of outrage.
In conclusion, it is true what they say about Irish mothers and their sons and, apparently, sibling rivalry never really dies.
Some exaggeration for effect
This evening, I described our weekday mornings thus to my husband and daughter.
At 6.15 Michael rouses his parents from sleep with sounds of indignation. Mr. Waffle says to me “You stay in bed, I’ll get him”. Somewhat to his surprise and mild resentment, I invariably accept this invitation. My will power is nil and I am not a morning person. I find that this always gets the day off to a good start.
Michael howls in continuing indignation that his Mummy has not come to fetch him and I put my head under the pillow and snuggle up to the duvet. Mr. Waffle puts Michael in the playpen and showers and shaves in precisely 30 seconds. Daniel wakes up and by this time the guilt is too great to bear and I usually stagger out of bed about 6.45. The second he sees me, Michael starts to scream. I pick him up and he stops. Daniel and Mr. Waffle continue about their business (sucking on a toy and eating breakfast respectively) ignoring this touching scene. Mr. Waffle then prepares porridge for the boys and straps them into their high chairs. They squeal and reject the porridge with contumely. I feed the boys some Rice Krispies. Michael sits on my lap and Daniel stands holding on to my chair looking up at me hopefully. The Rice Krispies are always a disappointment to him and he spits them out on the floor.
The Princess gets up. I say, “I think I’ll have my shower”. Mr. Waffle says to the Princess “Que-ce que tu veux manger, ma puce?” The Princess ignores him.
“Princesse, Papa t’a posé une question.”
No response.
Me: She’ll have Rice Krispies.
Mr. Waffle pours out Rice Krispies and adds milk.
Her: Mummy is today a school day?
Me: Yes, honey.
Her: I don’t want to go to school and then (transferring her attention to her breakfast), no, don’t want, I want Corn Flakes.
Mr. Waffle’s face acquires the set look that characterises his morning appearance and he puts Corn Flakes in a bowl.
Her: Encore.
Him (severely): T’auras encore quand tu as fini ce qu’est dans ton bol.
Her (collapsing into loud sobs): No, je veux MAINTENANT.
Me: Look, just give her some more cornflakes. I’m going to have my shower.
Princess looks at Mr. Waffle in triumph and I hot foot it to the bathroom pursued by a weeping Michael crawling at speed. Daniel continues phlegmatically chewing on a plastic toy. I spend three hours in the bathroom showering and flood the floor while Michael sits outside wailing and head butting the door. From the distance I hear the sound of the Princess bawling hysterically about some fundamental right which has been breached “non, je ne veux PAS du lait dans mes corn flakes”.
I emerge from the bathroom swathed in towels and rescue Michael (sodden of course from the flooded floor and his ocean of tears) and comb my hair and put on make-up with him in my arms (“Michael, let go of the comb, ok so, you have it and I’ll put on some mascara, Jesus where are all the teeth, have you eaten them, open your mouth, open your mouth, ow, don’t bite, stop it”). Daniel is now sucking peaceably on a wooden toy. “Daniel, honey, you’re the best boy”. I am rewarded by a beaming smile and an invitation to suck on his toy.
Meanwhile, a dressing drama is unfolding in the Princess’s bedroom.
Mr. Waffle: Tu mets tes vêtements!
Her: Non, je ne veux pas.
Mr. Waffle: Tes chaussettes vont sur tes oreilles.
Me: That’s right, your socks go on your ears.
Princess puts socks on her ears.
Her: J’ai une idée, peut-être ils vont sur mes pieds.
She puts on her socks and runs around the house clad only in socks until forcibly brought back to base.
Mr. Waffle (face becoming increasingly set): Princesse, mets tes vêtements.
Me (putting down Michael): Come here sweetheart.
Her (eluding my grasp and giggling hysterically): No, I don’t want.
Michael: Somebody put me down waah, waah.
Daniel: Would anybody like to suck on this excellent book?
Me: Don’t be cross with her.
Mr. Waffle: I have been up since 6.15, would it be too much to ask that I might get to work on time? (sets off in hot pursuit).
Mr. Waffle: Si tu mets pas tes vêtements, c’est le coin colère.
Princess howling hysterically and, with a great show of reluctance, puts on her clothes.
Mr. Waffle: Bravo, mets ton manteau.
Her: NON, je ne veux pas.
Me: Sweetheart, please put on your coat.
Her: NO. It’s not cold.
Me: Well, it is very mild for late October…
Mr. Waffle (eyeing me menacingly addresses the Princess): Tu mets ton manteau.
Grumbling the while, she does.
Mr. Waffle: Où est ton cartable?
Her: Je veux l’autre cartable.
Me: Sweetheart, what’s wrong with the green bag?
Her: I want the red one.
Me: But why?
Her: Because I don’t like the green one anymore.
While Mr. Waffle, snorting with indignation, takes Daniel to be changed, I put down Michael and move her school things from the green bag to the red bag.
Michael: Waah, waah, waah, I don’t know whether anyone has noticed but I’m sitting on the floor here.
Kisses all round and the Princess heads out the door all smiles accompanied by Mr. Waffle looking like thunder. I shut the door and sigh with relief.
During this recital to the pair of them over dinner they both laughed and Mr. Waffle said “will we try to be nicer to Mama in the morning?” and the Princess said with shining eyes “tell me it again, Mama”.
I’m the gin in the gin-soaked boy
I had an excellent day at work the other day. As I drove home, destroying the planet, I listened to this catchy song on the stereo. As far as I was aware, all three of my children were healthy and cheerful (I’m the ghost in the machine). We had a babysitter booked for that evening (I’m the sunset in the east). All was right in the world (I’m the trojan horse in Troy). This, I thought to myself, ecstatically, is having it all (tum, tum, tum, tum te tum, tum). Is it though, enough to make up for the other 364 days of the year (I’m the half-truth in the lie)?
And, I know, I’m one of the lucky ones. I enjoy my job. My colleagues are lovely, my boss is a pleasure to work with and the work is interesting. But in the mornings, Michael is particularly clingy and he clutches on to my clothing howling desperately when I leave (mercifully, Daniel is very phlegmatic). Even to go to the kitchen. My mother used to say, when the Princess was small “she was fine until you came in” and it’s the same with Michael. He’s fine and then he sees me and he starts to cry. It will pass I suppose.
But it’s hard. I hate to sound like Breda O’Brien, but I do think that the Irish government is wrong to try to force single mothers and every other type of mother out to work. It’s hard when you are going out to an interesting, reasonably well paid job; it must be bordering on the impossible, if you are going out to some horrible minimum wage job. Especially, if you have no partner with whom to share the childcare. And, let’s face it, what generally works best with childcare is part-time and, mostly, part-time jobs are neither the most interesting ones nor the ones with the best prospect of promotion. My cynical colleague says “worse, come the economic downturn, they’ll all be told to go home to tend their children, two part-time women is one full-time man”. I’m not sure I entirely share this view but I do believe that this whole dilemma will continue until everyone in society acknowledges that children have two parents, both of whom have responsibilities, and that to accommodate this, it is as normal for men to work part-time as for women. I guess I’ll be waiting a while, then.
Monday night is quiz night
First, Mastermind. That guy, John Humphreys is dreadful at it. I’m not sure whose idea it was to have a little banter between quizzer and quizee after the specialist and before the general knowledge rounds but it leads to dreadful results. If say, the specialised subject were “Stalin and the gulags”, John Humphreys would probably begin by saying “Stalin, not a nice chap then?”
And then, University Challenge.
Art round
Him: Oh, it’s that guy, geometric shapes, whatchamacallhim.
Me: Albers?
Him: No, no the Garnier logo.
Me: Ah, Mondrian.
The moment you’ve all been waiting for
And then again, possibly not. Please see the Princess on video admonishing her students in the language of Voltaire.
In other news, as of yesterday, I am no longer breastfeeding. The boys have tired of beating dry gourds and even Michael has definitively moved to bottle. No more business trips with the breast pump then.
And finally, I bought wild boar in the supermarket this morning. Why? Because it was there. Do I regret this? Deeply. How long does it need to be marinated before it can be eaten? Five days. Sigh.
