Yes, ok, you thought that we’d been sold into the white slave trade by the Sicilian mafia but, as it happens, no.  I felt that I ought to update here because I rang a friend today to make arrangements for the weekend and she said “but you’re in Sicilyâ€.  I explained that I was back and she said “but I read your blog every day and you’re not backâ€.  While I am, of course, touched by her enthusiasm for this website, I feel that she should know that you can’t believe everything you read on the internet.  Pressure of work and a sick child [leading to the utterly laughable experiment which my loving spouse and I attempted yesterday and today respectively, of trying to work from home with an, again respectively, sick and recovering three year old on our hands] have kept me from telling you hair raising tales from the Sicilian hinterland but just you wait, this weekend, all will be revealed.  I know, I know, you’re on the edges of your seats out there. Look, Mum, if you’re really keen you can start with the hundreds of photos on Flickr.
Sicily
Tomorrow morning we leave for a week’s holiday in Sicily.  I am looking forward to this trip with a mixture of fear and anguish tinged with a slight hint of enthusiasm.  Before we go, we have to pack. In other words, now, tonight, we should be packing.
We will need:
A buggy, two parasols and buggy board;
Two car seats;
Two travel cots;
Two strap on to table high chairs (having established on a previous visit that the island of Sicily is entirely unequipped with same – the Italians love their children and hold them in their laps, we are heartless);
Two separate baby monitor thingies (one for the boys’ room, one for the Princess’s room);
Bottles and bottle sterilising kit;
A small plastic sheet for fear the the Princess may have an accident in the hotel bed;
Enough milk, babyfood and nappies to keep us going until we can hit the shops;
Two guidebooks and three maps (speak to my husband please); and
Sun cream, mosquito spray, hats, swimming togs, clothes for the boys, clothes for the Princess, clothes for us, good clothes for all five of us (we are travelling to attend the christening of the royal cousin who, being a quarter Sicilian is claiming his birthright by being christened somewhere warm and sunny).
I fear that the plane may just not have room for us and our stuff. And I am actively, genuinely concerned that the car we have hired will not be big enough for us and all our gear.  And to add insult to injury, there are local elections coming up in Brussels.  What is the relevance of this you ask? I will tell you, it means that all the pavements are being redone to encourage us to vote for the incumbents.  We are therefore unable to use our garage and will have to trek miles to our car with our mammoth supplies and all our children at an ungodly hour of the morning.  And the forecast tomorrow is for hail.Â
And now for the enthusiasm:
The royal grandparents will be there;
The publishing exec (or babysitter number 3 as we have taken to calling her) will be there;
We will all get to see the royal cousin for the first time and see his parents doing the parenting thing (depending on their availability – they do, after all have a three month old baby of their own – they have been pencilled in as babysitters 4 and 5);
The royal cousin has a Sicilian grandfather (or babysitter 6 again, subject to availability, see previous) who has said we can use his washing machine;
The hotel is fabulous with an outdoor pool and lovely food and run by charming people with a daughter who entertained the Princess for hours last time we were there (provisionally known as babysitter number 7);
The Princess may finally be able to wear her Summer dresses outside the house because, please God, it will be sunny – mind you, this brings to mind a serious concern which is that I have no clothes and, more especially, no clothes for sunny weather (entirely unnecessary in Belgium to date this year) and no time to buy them either and I will be holidaying with my sisters-in-law (babysitters nos 3 and 4, try to keep up) who are, quite possibly, the best dressed women in Ireland and though, I don’t aspire to keep up with them, I would like to be able to appear in public with them without having Italians pointing at me and laughing;
The Italians entirely live up to their reputation as the most child friendly people on the planet (I remember being surprised when the airport security man with the gun at Palermo airport dandled the Princess and gooed enthusiastically at her) so who knows what other random and additional babysitters we may be able to identify;
Sicily is beautiful and we will be staying near the seaside town of Cefalu which is gorgeous and also, very importantly, has a beach.
Update on our return next week, please hold your breath.
Wedding
The Princess came hurtling down the corridor at me when I got in from work the other day. “Mummy, mummy look!†She was anxious to show me a picture of Mr. Waffle and me on our wedding day. “Look, Mummyâ€, she said “you’re wearing a wedding dressâ€. “Yes, darling, that’s the day Daddy and I got marriedâ€. She digested this for a moment and then said “But why isn’t Daddy wearing a wedding dress?†Why indeed? Later, we made rice krispie buns and watched my wedding video. Nobody else will watch it with me and I don’t see why she shouldn’t suffer. The poor child gets to watch so little TV that it was a big treat for her (recent pathetic comment “can I watch TV again when it’s my birthday?â€). The vid was made by a friend of my mother’s with a camcorder. We didn’t ask for it, but I must say we were rather charmed with it when we got it. However, it is somewhat prejudiced – it mostly features the cameraman’s friend, my mother. In fact, half of my speech is missing to allow for extra footage of her hat. Still, the Princess didn’t mind that, but she was very distressed that I wouldn’t talk to her. “But I AM talking to you, honeyâ€. “No, Mummy, I want you on the telly to talk to me.†Can’t help you there, my sweet.
Le “fancy fair†and le “rugbyâ€
On Saturday, the Princess’s school held its annual “fancy fairâ€.  I understand that this is an event that takes place in all Belgian schools towards the end of the school year.  There’s a concert, games in the yard, a bouncy castle, food and organised fun.  I was at pains to explain to anyone who would listen that although the words “fancy†and “fair†do exist in English, the combination conveys nothing to the native speaker but, alas, I was ignored except for by the Princess who said to me crossly “it’s le fonzy fayereh Mummy, you’re pronouncing it all wrongâ€.Â
All of last month, we have been importuned by the school to assemble stalls, bring food, disassemble stalls and bring more food. The Princess made a costume for a medieval maiden and had dress rehearsals in the concert hall.  Yesterday was the day of the “fonzy fayereh†and we were awoken by the sound of a thunderstorm breaking over the house.  It poured all day. The bouncy castle was more of a bouncy swimming pool.  Although the food was excellent (thereby pleasantly confirming my prejudices about the Belgians), food eaten while huddled in the bike shed of the school yard and staring at the pouring rain is just that bit less appetising than food partaken of in bright sunshine. Also, the boys’ buggy has broken. In particular, the rain cover can no longer be attached. The new buggy has been ordered but will not be available for at least two weeks (welcome to the consumer Mecca that is Belgium) so, to get tickets to purchase the food, I had to run across the yard in a gale pushing the buggy and holding the rain cover between my teeth.
Also the concert was not the success that I had hoped it might be. I went with the Princess to her dressing room to find a number of harassed staff trying to dress a number of wailing children. Â When I left her, as instructed by the harassed staff, she joined in lustily with the wailing majority. Â For her turn on stage, she was, for reasons unknown, right at the back and, therefore scarcely visible. Â I blame jealousy among the other students.
The day ended with a communal dinner which was scheduled for 6 but started at 7.30 by which time a lot of the younger participants were hyper or tetchy or, particularly appealingly, both. We managed to rock our saintly sons to sleep in their (somewhat damp) buggy but unfortunately, they were awoken almost immediately by the loud music that must obligatorily accompany organised fun of any kind (yes, I am old and bitter, is that a problem?).  On the plus side the music was that of my youth.  Princess watched in horror as her parents sang along to Simple Minds (Don’t, don’t, DON’T, don’t you forget about me.. and so on). A taster for her of what her teenage years will be like.
What with the excitement of the fonzy fayereh, Mr. Waffle missed the rugby.  He had, however, recorded it from the French telly for later viewing. We had heard the result (Munster beat Biarritz, hurrah) so I asked him whether he wanted to watch it, now that he knew the results.  “Yes†he said “it’s much better than waiting for an hour and a half for Munster to loseâ€. From my point of view, the highlight of the match was seeing an interview with Ronan O’Gara where, fresh from the fray, he speaks in French to the interviewer.  His French is strongly accented, with a Cork accent, that is, but, frankly, let those of us without sin cast the first stone etc.. Mr. Waffle and I were very impressed with his vocabulary (we love to patronise) and I pointed out to Mr. Waffle that, since he had attended the same school as my brother, his French teacher was almost certainly my brother’s best friend’s mother (try to keep up here, I am giving you an excellent insight into what it is like being from Cork) and that she would be proud. Or at least, presumably, she would have been until the interviewer asked Ronan how the Munster men were feeling and he replied “Nous sommes très, très jolis.â€
Boys, boys, boys
Daniel and Michael will be eight months next week and I feel that the time since they were born has flown. I was looking at Daniel this morning and I was just amazed how big he’s got (though he was always big). There he was sitting up, beaming at me saying ba, ba, ba. Michael can’t sit up or say ba, ba, ba but, hey, he has the teeth (ok, half a tooth and a bump on his gum). I feel that I never see the poor mites. Now that I’m back at work, they spend all their time with the childminder or at the creche. On my half days on Wednesday and Friday, I bond with the Princess and they languish in the creche. This works really well for me and her, but I’m not so sure that it’s good for them. When they are a bit bigger, I think I might take them out of the creche for the afternoon occasionally but for the moment, her highness and I really like the current arrangement. Yes, I am heartless, sue me. It seems to me that they used to be more cheerful but maybe, they’re still cheerful most of the time but I just see them most at their worst time of day (in the evening). Or maybe the conjunctivitis and racking coughs they have had continually since I started back at work are upsetting them. I remember when the Princess got conjunctivitis first, I spent hours on the internet looking it up, I rubbed cream on her eyeball (I can’t tell you how much she enjoyed that), I took her to the doctor and I worried. With the boys, I just think, ‘oh, conjunctivitis, it will pass’. Though of course it hasn’t. Hmm. All my children have rotten coughs. It seems to me that the Princess has had a cough since the day she was born (as her Nana says “that child has a terrible chestâ€), but since starting at the creche, the boys have joined in. Late at night, our flat echoes to the sounds of concerted coughing; it’s positively Dickensian.
The boys are now very conscious of each other. Daniel is much stronger, so whenever Michael starts looking at something, Daniel whips it off him. Michael just stares at the ceiling in saintly resignation. They both love sticking their fingers in each others’ faces. They are not so keen on getting fingers in the eye though (who would be?), so this creates its own problems. The other morning, I had Daniel sitting in the middle of the bed and Michael lying some distance away. I turned my back for ONE SECOND and there was a howl of indignation. Daniel had launched himself across the bed and managed to headbutt Michael. Impressive. They can actually both move about quite a lot now and if you leave them one place, you come back to find that they have worked their way round to the socket in your absence and are trying to work out how to eat it.
They eat everything, except, in the case of Daniel, food. It’s strange because Daniel is so much larger than Michael, you would think that he would be a bigger eater, but he does not like solid food and spits it out in indignation when it is offered; I have no idea how he keeps up his impressive bulk. Michael on the other hand bobs back and forward like an anxious woodpecker when being fed and howls if you are too slow with the next mouthful.
They both adore the Princess. Even though she manhandles them with considerable roughness, they can’t get enough of her. When she is in the room, they will only look at her which makes feeding them difficult, if the Princess refuses to stay in their line of sight. She dances with them (this involves parental support for the lucky boy). She grabs their chubby little arms and waves them around to chuckles of glee on their part. When she plays peekaboo with Daniel in the bath he nearly expires from delight.
Magic.
Reading
I was inspired by GP mama’s reading list to share mine with you. Yes, I knew you’d be fascinated.
“Guns, Germs and Steel: A short history of everybody for the last 13,000 years†by Jared Diamond. I have been reading this since before 2002. I know this because the price on the back is in Irish pounds so it must have been acquired pre-euro. I would keep getting bogged down on the role of fertile grasslands in the development of humanity and abandoning and restarting but a couple of months ago, I made a prolonged effort and got past the fertile grasslands and nearly finished it. In fact, I got to the second last page. Then, I put it down somewhere and my fabulous and efficient cleaner whisked it up and put it away. If she has a fault, it is her tendancy to rearrange by size books that I have neatly classified in alphabetical order (stop laughing at me). So, I know it’s there somewhere, I just can’t find it.
“Mary George of Allnorthover†by Lavinia Greenlaw. I was obliged to read this for book group and didn’t enjoy it one little bit though am forced to concede that it is very well written; the author holds down a day job as a poet.
“Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell†by Susanna Clarke. I am finding this surprisingly enjoyable. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to it but I’m about half way through now and showing no signs of stopping. It’s written in pastiche Victorian style and that is mildly trying. The author uses the word “presently†to mean now and this is not a mistake a Victorian would have made. I find it jarring and it keeps appearing “A spell to see what my enemy is doing presentlyâ€. Do you really mean in a bit? I don’t think so. Hey, this is my blog, I can be as pedantic as I like.
“The Great Ideas†by Suzanne Cleminshaw. Not fantastic. Nicely written but moves along rather sluggishly and, really, gifted 13 year olds are tiring. It’s set in the 1970s but somehow it feels like the 1950s and I don’t know why the author didn’t go the whole hog and set it in the 1950s altogether. One of the characters is a French femme fatale and I find her entirely unconvincing. I suppose living next door to France, I am not as seduced by the glamour of simply being French as the 13 year old narrator from Cleveland Ohio. Also, the French lady is Catholic and the author seems to feel that this is thrilling in and of itself and she nearly swoons at the sight of rosary beads. Frankly, it’s hard for me to get excited about rosary beads.
“We need to talk about Kevin†by Lionel Shriver. I’m in a book group. We had to read it. It’s not bad.
“Anybody out there?†by Marian Keyes. As you will know, I have a special devotion to Ms. Keyes as she lived second next door to my husband growing up and she did her first interview in a suit lent to her by mother-in-law. Do you think I’m joking? Oh no, I’m not. Also, I enjoy her books and this new one is fine but so far, it’s just a bit samey and I’m not as keen as I was on some of her other offerings.
How do I do this? How do I find the time to read you ask? Let me tell you. Every night I feed the boys for half an hour before they go to bed and during that time, with two babies attached, I read and turn the pages with my nose. I bet you’re glad you asked now. Do you think that image will stay with you?
