At mass, Michael announced to me in an under-voice, “Two boys from my class say that there is no Santa.” “Rubbish. Who brings the presents then?” I asked. “They’re not sure, maybe another magic person.”

Daniel: Who’s Peter?
Me: You know, Peter, first pope?
Daniel: No.
Me: Thou art Peter and upon this rock I shall build my church?
Him: What?
Me: Well Peter means a rock.
Him: No it doesn’t.
Me: Look it doesn’t work so well in English, you’ll just have to take my word for it.
Mr. Waffle: Tu es Pierre, et sur cette pierre je bâtirai mon Église.

Daniel: Have you still got the mark from where you burnt yourself filling the hot water bottle?
Me: Yup. I might have it forever actually.
Him: You’re lucky that you didn’t get that in the late 90s.
Me: Why is that Dan?
Him: You would probably have been burnt as a witch.

My children hate throwing things out. An empty cereal box can be re-purposed. The plastic wrapping on a magazine can be used to choke a sibling. They watch me like hawks to make sure that I don’t illicitly dispose of things.

Daniel said to me the other night, “You’re not a real Irish Mammy.” As I mentioned before, I received “The Book of Irish Mammies” for my birthday and the children are measuring me against it and, regrettably, generally finding it a very good fit, so I was rather pleased when he said this but a bit surprised too. “Why not?” I asked. “Because you are always throwing things out.”

All I can say is, if I’m always throwing things out, why do we have so much stuff?

Before I ended up staying in Cork for the weekend, we had planned to go to Northern Ireland for a day trip. The children were not enthused. Mostly because they, quite rightly, scented the prospect of a health giving walk. The Princess however began to plough a particularly fertile furrow. “I’m scared, we’ll be bombed,” said she. “Don’t be daft,” we said pointing to the Belfast agreement and, more practically, the people we knew from Northern Ireland and the fact that the sixth class school tour was going there; she knows that her school principal is not a man for taking unnecessary risks. It was at this point that Daniel felt inspired to intone from the back seat “Ireland unfree shall never be at peace!”

I think we may have to look a bit more closely at his reading material. Mr. Waffle tells me that Daniel has been reading a “very green” children’s history of Ireland and Mr. Waffle feels that peace and reconciliation may not be among the themes addressed. All the more reason to take them off to see the glories of Northern Ireland where they can see swords being beaten into ploughshares with their very eyes or, more likely, have a walk followed by tea and a bun in a National Trust property.

Michael: Ow, ow, ow.
Me: What happened?
Michael: I put my eye on to the bulb at the centre of the Death Star to look at it closely and burnt my eyelid. Ow, ow, ow.

Daniel: Oysters are mammals.
Me: No, they’re not.
Daniel: Are you sure?
Me: Yes.
Daniel: How do you know they’re not mammals?
Me: Well, they have none of the characteristics of mammals at all, they don’t give birth to live young…
Daniel: How do oysters have baby oysters?
Me: I don’t know really.

Pregnant pause. Please forgive the pun.