belgianwaffle

Family

Loving publishing


Posted in: Family, Reading etc.

The sun is shining.  The works on our road are nearly finished.  The ominous looking spots which appeared on our daughter’s torso last night have faded. The paediatrician said it was probably just “un petit virus” and she is fine.  All is rosy.

Sister-in-law, the publishing executive, came to stay for Easter.  She is godmother to the Princess and came specially for her birthday, we were suitably pleased. I find the publishing exec fascinating.  She always comes bearing manuscripts. Yes, things that are going to be books. Fancy!  And you get to see her name in the acknowledgements.  And she gets to go to book launch parties and (when pressed by me to say whether she’s seen anyone glam) she says things like “Zadie Smith came too, apparently she left Alain de Botton’s “Status Anxiety” party early to be there” or “I saw Salman Rushdie and Martin Amis chatting and there’s something you don’t see often”. Yes, for a whole range of reasons.  It’s all very thrilling. Though I’m sure she really enjoyed staying in with us on Saturday night and re-watching “Bridget Jones’s Diary” on VT4. I like to think that she regards her trips to Belgium as a sort of rest cure.

Publishing is a different world.  One of the editors in their publishing house left and took an author with her. Why? Well no one else at our house really loved him.  I mean, when accountants leave firms and they take clients with them, is it because no one else in the firm really loved big biz inc.?  Really, isn’t working in publishing fantastic? You get paid to love your authors and sit around all day reading their books. In the evening you go to glittering literary events.  You get copies of books free with the words “uncorrected bound proof – not for sale or quotation” on the front.  What could be better than that?

I must say, however, that the pub. exec., is very devoted to her job and dutifully loves all her publishing house’s authors (well, almost all, they publish some authors even a mother couldn’t love). It was for this reason that, on Sunday evening, we drove to a remote and unusually unattractive Flemish hamlet which features in one of their books. It was, I concede, only slightly out of our way.  And, though it was ghastly, she was charmed. Very endearing.  Some day that girl will make a wonderful editor: she loves her authors.

Lovely Lier


Posted in: Family, Princess

Today we went to Lier for the day.  We were able to do this because I had gone to mass last night.  Today is Palm Sunday: longest mass of the year.  I went to a very long mass involving processions, palms, longest gospel of the year and a sermon (this last is usually skipped in Ireland, they know how much the congregation can bear).  Arrived home, late and exhausted, clutching my palm (some kind of laurel in this part of the world, we use pine at home, wonder does anyone actually use palm?). I was not, however, as exhausted as Mr. Waffle who had been heroically minding, feeding and entertaining the Princess at her crankiest time of day.

This talk of vigil mass reminds me of a story a friend of mine from Northern Ireland told me.  When he was a child in the 70s and the troubles were at their height he was whisked off to America for a holiday by kindly Americans with deep pockets.  Apparently six of them were chosen from his school by raffle.  I asked whether he had had to consort with Protestants “only on the plane” said he.  Obviously some of the good-natured Americans’ intentions were not realised.  Anyhow, being a catholic ten year old from the North, he was very catholic and, in those days, there was no Saturday night vigil mass in Ireland but there was in America.  He refused to believe that Saturday night mass counted and insisted on going on Sunday as well.  One Sunday, his American family was going on a trip and didn’t go to mass.  He was scandalised and refused to go until they had gone to mass.  Very challenging for our transatlantic cousins I’d say.

Anyhow, Lier.  If you are an English speaker, Belgium is full of entertaining town names.  Lier boasts the suburbs of Lisp and Lint and nearby are the towns of Boom, home to a clay pigeon shooting establishment, and Duffel, where they first made the coat.  If you want to live in the Brussels suburbs, you can choose to reside in, inter alia, Dworp or Erps-Kwerps (next week funny names from Wallonia – this is a politically correct website).

Lier is very pleasant although we were unable to fully appreciate its marvels as the Princess didn’t like it much and roared all afternoon.  An attempted stop for tea had to be hastily and humiliatingly abandoned as she was a bit noisy for the establishment. Arrived home and she went straight to bed for a nap, so spent the early evening perusing the Sunday papers.  Excellent, though I fear we will pay for it later.  Since we’ve got back from Cork, herself has only been waking 2-3 times per night.  On Wednesday night she only woke up once.  In case you didn’t know, this is excellent. Whether this exceptionally positive trend will continue or not is difficult to tell.  I bet you’re waiting for further news with bated breath.

Comments
belgianwaffle

on 05 April 2004 at 10:21

Bated breath indeed. You may relax in relation to your role in the syndicate, last night was typical. After she woke up for the fourth time it all became a bit of a blur but I think that she may have woken up 6 times. Deep sigh.

Locotes

on 05 April 2004 at 11:06

No no no, I’m sure once you think about it clearly that it was definitely just the 4 times. No more. No less. Yeah?
*nudge nudge wink wink*Sorry for your sleepless night though – the joys eh?

belgianwaffle

on 06 April 2004 at 21:56

And another thing, Locotes, I bet you had to look up “revolving door”. And last night was only three times…

Locotes

on 07 April 2004 at 08:26

Well of course I did, My Irish is of a typical pass level iffiness – “chuaigh me go dti an siopa, agus cheannaigh me aran agus bainne” – and that’s about all I have! Truthfully, for the ‘door’ one, I was just looking for some phrase that would suit the blogs that don’t fit anywhere else…
Ok, the Princess is having a laugh with me now – I might have to find something new to gamble on – the number of nappies used per day perhaps…

More about me


Posted in: Family

I received the following email from my friend C following my last posting:

“Welcome back to blogland. I was checking out your latest entry and I noticed a link called ‘More About Me’. Hilarious. A web site in which you talk endlessly about yourself and there’s room for a link called ‘More About Me’. Slightly disappointed that the link contains no more about you, apart from the fact that you’ve only been a twentysix user since November last year.”

Should I put in an update to keep C happy or is there really more than enough information available from my entries?  Hard to know. Would you like to know my interests and hobbies?  Do you care? Don’t you know that mostly my interests and hobbies consist of mopping up baby vom? Will this lure you in to read my entries?  Very hard to know.

Well, let me tell you more about me. I speak loudly and clearly.  This is a severe affliction to me. Particularly since I’m Irish and most Irish people speak in soft musical tones. I blame my father for this, when I was growing up he used to say to me “Her voice was soft and gentle and low, an excellent thing in a woman”. Not sure where the quote is from, probably John Knox, sounds like the kind of thing he’d say.  Anyway it used to drive me insane.  You know how it is, action/reaction.  Latest manifestation of this, occurred the other night in the cinema with the Glam Potter (Big Fish, since you ask, it was ok, and, no, I still haven’t seen Lost in Translation).  We were early and before the film started I began explaining to her my plans for the future and when we might move back to Ireland. All this arose because she has put her daughter down for school and am wondering whether I should do the same for the Princess or will we be back in Ireland by then.  School starts at two and a half in Belgium so the problem is reasonably imminent.  I digress.  I was expounding away and suddenly the GP hissed at me “Stop”. “What?” “Everyone in the cinema is listening to you because you’re speaking so loudly.” Oh dear, well I’m sure they were just rivetted by my future plans.. On the plus side, I am excellent at presentations, even the people right at the back can hear me.

On the new 20six platform, my background music will be very loud to drown out the sound of me muttering to myself. Well, actually, no. As a middle of the road music fan, I like my background music to be just that, sort of subdued Norah Jones. In fact when I was at home last week, I had to come down stairs in my pyjamas and ask my father to turn down his music. I grant you, that felt a little odd.

Visiting


Posted in: Family, Princess

Tuesday, March 23

Mr. Waffle drove us to glamourous Charleroi and we hopped on the Ryanair plane. While I am no fan of Ryanair, they are cheap and, to be fair, very nice if you are travelling with babies (big plus).  We flew to Shannon because, alas, there are no direct flights of any kind from Bxls to Cork. Although the Princess was very good on the plane, she did require lots of entertaining. After an hour and a half’s flying, I was running out of entertainment options. Have decided not to visit my sister in Chicago after all (9 hour flight from Bxls). The loving parents were there to collect us. Princess was in outstanding form having been waved at by lots of random strangers on the plane or “toy picker uppers” as she thinks of them.  Packed brilliantly – one, yes one, bag only, so managed to fit everything in the boot of the parental car. Then spent half an hour trying to strap the Princess into the car seat my mother had borrowed with my father intoning dolefully from the front of the car “we won’t be able to get out you know, our ticket will have expired”.  We got out.

Wednesday, March 24

My father found me feeding breakfast to the Princess.  He waved at her, she waved back at him.  They were delighted with each other.  My father said “they’re almost human, aren’t they?”  Quite.

My cousin called round. Her baby was due in May last year, a month after mine but was actually born in January, at 24 weeks. And she, the baby, is absolutely fine.  Isn’t that amazing and fantastic?  Apparently she is walking and, technically, she is younger than our crawler. My father was astounded to hear that her grandfather actually looks after her. On his own. He is now terrified that this might set a precedent…

Thursday, March 25

Went to Kinsale with my mother and the Princess.  Weather was beautiful and Kinsale v. picturesque.  Princess was, however, unenthused about Kinsale and its glories and spent the time on the walk to Scilly squirming unhappily in her pushchair. She was somewhat revived by a cup of tea outside the Spaniard (our girl is fond of cold tea) but screamed blue murder when put back into the pushchair. A day of less than complete success. Became convinced that she was coming down with something. Parents felt not. They were right, mercifully.

Friday, March 26

Have I mentioned that my aunt lives next door? Well, she does and she loves the Princess. The feeling is mutual. Princess was displayed to all of aunt’s friends and dutifully admired. Felt aunt was pushing it when she called over the builder working on her house saying “Wally, I’m sure that you’d love to see this beautiful baby.” It has to be said that Wally was only medium enthused “Sure all babies are beautiful.” “But this one is particularly beautiful” she said. He seemed unconvinced. She was most disappointed, I hope that she’ll still pay him for his work on the bathroom tiles.

Saturday, March 27

Saw in the Examiner property supplement, the house which Locotes was laughing at on his website is for sale for 160,000 euro. Good grief.  Watched rugby match because mother made me (she either taught or knows the mothers of half the squad). Because my mother got so excited every time we scored a try, the Princess would clap her little hands also. Mother was entranced.

Mr. Waffle called. Our Irish friend in the Netherlands has given birth. Clearly the relaxed Dutch attitude to childbirth has affected her. She gave birth in the morning and was on in the afternoon for a chat. Those Dutch people.

After dinner, abandoning my poor mother to babysit, I skipped off to see my friend for whom I bridesmaided.  Had most entertaining time looking at wedding pics.  When I came home, my mother was sitting in the dark talking to the Princess who was refusing to go back to sleep.  Most trying.

Sunday, March 28

Went to mass with the parents.  Father arrived first and mother, Princess and I were somewhat later as we had to retrace our steps to find doggy who had been carelessly chucked out of the pushchair.  Father was ensconced three rows from the front with no one in front of him.  We slunk in beside him, 10 minutes late. Gospel was about the woman taken in adultery. The sermon was about forgiveness for adultery. The priest addressed his remarks exclusively to me. I was strongly tempted to hold up a placard saying “It’s ok, I have a husband in Brussels”.

Forced by my evil mother to stay up until 12.30 watching the golf. I hate to say this, but it was kind of exciting.   Between 12.30 when I went to bed and 7.30 when I got up, the Princess woke up 7 times to check that I hadn’t abandoned her with a babysitter again.

Monday, March 29

Further cousin called. Inspected the Princess and found her beautiful. Mildly depressed me by saying that it took her two years to find a job. But secretly a bit cheered. Maybe am not utterly without hope after all.  She is now gainfully employed.

Went out with friend the bride again. We had a lovely dinner in town and reminisced about school. Mostly about how hideous it was. And I said “Who would have thought that nearly 20 years out of school you would be a consultant heart surgeon and I wouldn’t have a clue what I want to do?”  This got a laugh out of her because at school she never, ever did her homework and I was always very virtuous.  She comes from an interesting family. Her mother’s siblings are notoriously brilliant and sporty and so are their children. One of her cousins won the Pulitzer Prize. You would think that at the family reunions saying “My 34 year old daughter is a consultant heart surgeon” would trump any other offerings, but I think that “My daughter just won the Pulitzer Prize” may be a winner here. I put this to my friend, but she said, no, mostly they just say “My God, it’s just a nightmare, why do you think she dresses like that…”  Mothers can be hard to please.

Came home to find the Princess sitting up in the kitchen chatting animatedly to my mother. She gave me a dirty look on my return.

Sister texted us from Chicago to say that she has finally got the keys of her new apartment, having waited six months for the sale to close.

Tuesday, March 30

Began our trip back at 9.15.  Father tense as he wanted to leave at 8.30 (for margin). Passed the journey trying to initiate my mother in the mysteries of predictive text. Eventually sent a message to my sister in Chicago saying “Great news love ma and la”. Got to Shannon at 11.10.  Checked in baggage. Weighed 17.7 kilos as against 12 on the outward trip. Mostly because of the range of presents received by myself and the Princess from our generous family.  Hounded by Ryanair into departure lounge, tense that we would miss plane (unnecessary tension).  Realised in X-ray queue that I had no money and when I left machine in Charleroi was broken.  Would it be fixed? If not how would I pay for the bus in Charleroi?  Borrowed 50 quid from my saintly mother. I’d say, in some ways, she must have been relieved to see the back of us. Ryanair stewardess spectacularly nice, did safety demonstration where Princess could see her and smiled at her throughout. Princess watched in rapt attention.  I’d say this was a bit of a novelty for the stewardess as well. Journey home uneventful but horribly long. Collapsed into flat at 5.15.

Comments
belgianwaffle

on 01 April 2004 at 09:49

Um, “events” is pushing it, but thanks for your comments. Can I say how impressed I am that MC is walking and also that no I can’t get video to work and worse, it is obscuring text in a way that seems only to happen to me. Deep sigh.

Locotes

on 03 April 2004 at 22:09

Now that was a grand tale – glad you had a good time back in the People’s Republic – but how could you not?!160,000?? Ouch. No wonder daring to have a house with 7 or so rooms can cost a cool million. You guys could be onto something joining the ol’ property game…
Ah, it’s a shame I was actually working on Monday night, or else I could have joined you guys for dinner. A damn shame. Next time for sure. 😉 So where did ye head for? I can imagine a consultant heart surgeon would probably have fancied more than a quarterpounder from Lennox’s…though personally I have no idea why.

ps – poor Wally. He was onto a loser there from the start…

Skiing


Posted in: Family

We’re back.? We had a fantastic time.? Well, Mr. Waffle and I did. Difficult to know what the Princess thought of her days in the creche since she can’t talk. Have a niggling concern that she may not have enjoyed herself as she roared lustily every morning as she was handed in to the creche people and woke up every two hours at night. So, review of the week:

Travel

Took the train there and back. Infinitely superior to air travel. There is a direct train from Bxls to the train station nearest the resort. Only slight disadvantage, we ended up sitting near hyperactive 8 year old twins. It is difficult for a baby to sleep when twins keep running up and down the aisle screaming. Inevitably, we were all sitting in the same seats on the return journey. Train station a complete nightmare. Thought bad thoughts about the architect as we lugged a baby, a pushchair, a travel cot and two large bags of clothes up and down a series of steep staircases while ducking other people’s skis. Bus journey to Val Thorens from train station unspectacular on the way up but on the way back, Princess was sick. Mr. Waffle with great presence of mind and absence of squeamishness caught the vomit in his hand. Yeuch. Kind mother of two sitting opposite plied us with tissues. Princess, none the worse for her adventure, grabbed doggy and fell back asleep. Doggy now smells of vomit despite our best efforts at “surface washing”. However, my sister in America is coming to Cork next week with two doggies which we found on the internet. I am in Cork the week after to collect them (and also to see my parents) and then we will recklessly throw vom doggy in the washing machine.

The Creche

We booked ourselves in for a series of six lessons with the ESF. The ESF also run the creche. The creche opens at 9.00 and skiing lessons start at 9.00. Do you see a problem here ? First morning we presented ourselves with the Princess’s kit:

3 pairs of bootees

Proof of vaccinations

Complete change of clothes

Sunglasses

Suncream

Snowsuit

Hat and scarf

Gloves

Pushchair

Doudou (sort of doggy type thing, though obviously, we weren’t going to give them doggy, in case they lost him, so gave them an inferior substitute – actually a hat that she likes to snuggle up to).

3 nappies

Packet of “mini-toasts”

Bottle

Formula

The girl on reception looked coldly at our offering and said “Where’s the spoon for the formula?” We had forgotten the wretched spoon. Did they have a spare spoon? Oh no, they’re all different. Spent almost an hour racing round the resort trying to find formula. Eventually ran it to ground in the chemists. 20.70 for a can. And we left it behind us. Rats.

Skiing Lessons

After missing lessons the first morning due to the formula incident, every morning we tried a different permutation to get to our lessons on time. Mr. Waffle was very perturbed by our lateness (I married the only punctual Irish man) and, thus, every morning began in great tension. We tried walking to the creche before 8 with our skis. We tried having Mr. Waffle’s brother, an excellent skier, ski down with our skis, but nothing worked. The creche took our baby at 8.50 at the earliest and it took at least 15 minutes to get to lessons from the creche.

So, after an inevitably late start, we joined up with our group. They were a very nice bunch. Our instructor, C, was sweet and determined that this group should know no fear. On the whole, he gauged the mood of the group well. He called us the “the group of the traverse”. We liked to ski slowly. One of the girls in our group, a Croatian architect, was very good although it was only her second time skiing. She explained that she had travelled from Zagreb with a group of 30 ski instructors. They would put her on the top of a black slope and say “Relax, go…”. She found the mornings a form of gentle relief from the regime of terror in the afternoons.

We went off piste for the morning on Thursday and we took an hour and a half to go from Cime de Caron to Lac du Lou. C said that it was a new record for him. No, not in speediness… meanwhile Mr. Waffle’s brother the expert skier had done the same run in 20 minutes.

In the evenings we would come back to the residence and talk to people in other classes at level 2 or, worse, level 1 and say “We did some more blues today” and they would say things like “We did all reds and blacks today…” Very distressing. Nevertheless, C nursed us along and by the end of the week we were really much better and even did a (very easy) black with no fear. I think I may finally have reached the intermediate rut.

Skiing for Babies

If I get a job, we may go skiing again next year (I don’t think that we could possibly contemplate the ruinous expense of another skiing holiday otherwise). We looked into the possibilities for babies. If we play our cards right, by age 6 the Princess will be able to go for the “Etoile d’Or”. This means that, according to the brochure, she “can ski everywhere including black runs [she will do] timed giant slalom and a technical test”. If on the other hand she is a bit slow she will only be getting ready for the third star “at the end of the week she manages all situations, i.e. slalom, control of speed, good co-ordination, and even more the black run”. I am fascinated and slightly alarmed by the prospect of seeing my daughter eclipse my feeble abilities so thoroughly at such a young age. And this, note, will be achieved by a child who, according to the books, will still need help brushing her teeth.

Socialising

Yes, lots of same. We shared a chalet with Mr. Waffle’s younger brother and his friends. It was all very pleasant. Everyone in the group either had a partner or a sibling or both on the holiday so it was all very incestuous. I felt like I was starring in a sitcom. But we did have a great time. Except, one presumes, for the only singleton in the chalet who ended up sleeping in the main room and being woken every morning at cock crow by the Waffle parents looking bleary-eyed and shovelling yoghurt into their infant.

I was out four nights last week. Are you amazed? Dear reader, I am shocked. I don’t think that we will see such debauchery again for some time.

Sleeping

Very little of that. The Princess woke every two hours. I am getting mildly desperate. On nights that we weren’t out, I went to bed at 7. She is better now that we are home and only woke twice last night, but the fact remains that I haven’t slept through the night since last April. I was very optimistic about the “No cry sleep solution” which I saw Fluid Pudding was reading and promptly purchased. I note, however, from her recent posts that after 30 days of the no-cry sleep solution FP has abandoned and gone for the cry it out method. And it worked. Should we try again?

Birthday

Not really anything to do with skiing but it will be (drumroll) my birthday on Wednesday and if you meant to send a card and a tasteful gift, you should probably get going…

Comments

on 09 March 2004 at 21:10

Well, you do ski at a funny angle and, what’s more, I have the photos to prove it. I’m sure you’re feeling better now…

Locotes

Glad to hear you had a good time – a skiiing holiday always sounds like a good laugh, something I must do at some stage.

I like the shamrock on the dogs – very nationalistic. 😉

And I have to commend Mr. W on the vomit catching – I can’t guarantee I would have done the same. In fact, I could well have lept out of my seat to avoid any ‘splashage’. Then maybe grab an annoying 8 year old to wipe the mess with. Kids on any form of public transport….there should be a law against it… Yes, Locotes, I too used to think that kids ought to be banned from public transport but look at me now… just you wait.

Locotes

on 18 March 2004 at 12:50

Well yes, I did think you’d say that – which is fair enough. I prefer to think that by the time I have kids in my 50’s I’ll have my fortune earned so that all transportation will take place either in my porsche, or in the landrover I buy for the nanny.
*grin*

(Hey, nothing wrong with dreaming)

belgianwaffle

on 18 March 2004 at 19:13

Trust me, you won’t be transporting the kids in your porsche.

Cooking and Sleeping


Posted in: Family, Mr. Waffle, Princess

Before the Princess was born, I was a really dreadful cook. I could reliably burn instant microwaveable food. However, since the Princess’s birth a weird thing has happened, I have learnt to cook.  There are lots of things you can’t do with an awake small baby including reading.  One thing that you can do though is cook and, over the last nine months, I’ve been doing lots of it and, slowly but surely, I have been getting better.  The one snag is that, so far, I haven’t managed to successfully cook anything for guests but when cooking for two, I really am pretty nifty.  Or so says loyal Mr. Waffle. Larger groups are a problem, I lose my nerve and go to pieces.

Last Friday night, I attempted my most ambitious dinner (for two) to date. We had mashed potatoes (ok, so far so uninspiring, but with grated nutmeg note) with a Jamie Oliver roasted lentil thing and duck breast (with apple fried in butter and fanned around it on the plate) and a port sauce.  I have to say this was ambitious, perhaps a mite too ambitious. It required lots of having everything ready at the same time, so when poor Mr. Waffle came into the kitchen to innocently inquire whether we needed more stands on the table, he found a snarling wife with a pan in one hand and a bottle of port in the other. That duck fat gets pretty hot, so when I added the port, it went everywhere, Mr. Waffle and I dived for cover in the hall (fortunately, Princess was in bed) and, you will be pleased to hear, sustained no lasting injury. Early Saturday morning, I found Mr. Waffle up a stepladder washing port stains off the kitchen ceiling. Still dinner WAS nice, although I spent the remainder of the evening recovering from the strain of making it.

Sunday night, I decided that we would have roast chicken, so far so easy you may say, but I have a problem with roast chicken, I can’t make gravy. I always just end up with lumps of flour on the whisk.  So I followed a recipe I found in Nigella Lawson for gravy without flour. More a jus, apparently. Alas for the jus, I put the chicken on the bottom of the oven. Guess what, you’re not supposed to do that, that’s why they put in all those shelves in. Although the chicken itself was fine, even the addition of white wine and stock didn’t make the juices from the pan taste anything other than pretty unpleasant. No, I am certainly not above instant gravy, but the Belgians are. Bisto and the like are unobtainable in this jurisdiction.

I was reading Nigella Lawson’s thing about chicken and she said that she was a product of her generation and always got fresh organic etc. etc. but for her mother the emphasis was on making indifferent ingredients taste fantastic, mostly by the addition of lots of butter, as I understand it. This struck me as kind of strange, because my mother and I are just the opposite. Not that I look for indifferent ingredients, or that I can necessarily make them taste fantastic but I am not hung up on fresh organic, I mean, I will buy organic if I can, but, if not, then not (except for chicken, battery chickens are too terrifying).   My mother on the other hand is a zealot (she is also an excellent cook and perhaps part of the reason I never bothered to learn, competition was just too fierce).

When I was growing up, we had a fishmonger who delivered fresh fish to the door, or sometimes we went into the market to pick up something.  The fishmonger knew my mother well and they would have long chats about what fish we should have and what their respective children were doing, driving other waiting customers to the edge of reason.  We had a chicken lady for fresh free range chickens.  A couple of times a year, my mother would drive to Limerick (about an hour away from our house) and pack the boot of the car with a frozen cow, pig or lamb, cut into pieces (and bagged, and bagged) by the butcher she knew from Bruree near where she grew up.  He was a farmer on the side and due to my mother’s local contacts, I suppose, he felt obliged to hand over his best animals.  When the Limerick meat ran out, there was always Ashley, her butcher in the market. Ashley, knew a good customer when he saw one and always saluted her cheerily.  She began to feel obliged to buy from him every time she passed. To avoid our house overflowing with dead animals, she used to send one of us children in first to check whether Ashley was at his stall and, if not, she would scurry in to make her other purchases.  And then there’s the vegetable lady.  She supplies organic vegetables and free range eggs.  I suppose, when I first heard that there was a vegetable lady, I had certain expectations of what kind of person she might be. I mean, picture to yourself a vegetable lady.  Anyhow, she turned up at our front door one day when I was at home, and in this terribly superior English accent said “I’m the vegetable woman, is your mother in?” Bizarre.  Still I suppose, fair enough, why shouldn’t she grow organic vegetables in Cork?  I was at home one weekend when I was about six months pregnant and she said to me “Oh you’re pregnant, jolly well done.” Very odd.

In other news, Princess has recovered from recent mystery stomach bug but has developed nasty cough. We discovered this last night when we let her cry for an hour between 10.30 and 11.30.  One of us went to comfort her every five minutes but it still felt pretty grim leaving a sobbing inconsolable baby behind.  Everytime we went in to her, she would wind her chubby little hands around our necks or grab on to hair, nose or ears. It was heartrending, and occasionally painful, disentangling her.  Eventually at 11.30 she developed an alarming cough so, we abandoned our attempt and brought her into our bed for the night.  Even I can see that we are sending out mixed messages.  I am sure that Gina would not approve.  There was an article in yesterday’s English Independent about her. Some unfortunate journalist had a two and a half year old who woke up to play every morning between 4.00 and 8.00.  To summarise the article, not now post Gina he doesn’t.  Gina said a revealing thing as reported in the article: “Mothers don’t like to apply my methods because it interferes with their lunches at Cafe Rouge”.  I think that this is perhaps a little unfair.  Firstly, because, I feel, most mothers are motivated by their child’s best interests and, if that means no Cafe Rouge lunches, then, I suspect, most mothers would say fine.  Secondly, I think that the real reason mothers don’t like Gina’s methods is because they sound heartless (though I would concede that they may be short term heartless, but long term better for baby etc.). Finally, food in Cafe Rouge is kind of mediocre anyway, so why would you bother.  Do you think Gina is a little disapproving of mothers?

Finally, went wild at sales and bought baby clothes that Princess does not need. Must stop buying baby clothes before I beggar us.

Comments
Blake 

on 21 February 2004 at 18:19