Father of friend (to Princess): Why do children like television so much? It’s not real is it? It’s not got real people like here (gestures expansively round bar).
Further father of friend (listening in): But real people are booorrring.
Princess: And television has programmes specially devised for children.
Me: Do you always do what C (our childminder) says?
Her: Yes.
Me: Do you always do what Mummy and Daddy say?
Her (laughing): No.
Me: Then why do you always do what C says?
Her: Because C is strict. Â You should be strict too like C and J&P [the heart surgeon and her husband who operate an impressively tight ship].
Me: Would you really like us to be stricter?
Her: Yes!
Me: But you always cry when we’re strict.
Her: Those are tears of joy, Mummy.
A while ago, Dooce had a post about her decision to write about her daughter Leta on the internet.  Then, the Game Theorist had one too. And he referred to a Slate article about this very same topic. I have a feeling that Beth is going to do something similar.
Like most people, I am ambiguous about this. Unlike Dooce, I don’t make money from my blog; does this make matters better or worse? I’m putting my children in just as much danger as she is and/or exploiting them just as much and I can’t even make money out of it? On balance, I think it makes no difference. Dooce isn’t writing about Leta for the money, she’s writing because she loves her and that’s true for all of us. I started this blog to let my family know what the children were up to. So now that I am moving back to Ireland I will give it up, you observe. Not at all. I love it. I am keeper of the family archive. At the end of every month I print down a selection of the 100s of photos we take and put them in an album and carefully label them (don’t hate me). I write about my children because, I know, if I don’t, I will forget.  I write about them on the internet because I am a show-off and I love the attention. If I didn’t have a blog, I would intend to write all these things down, but I wouldn’t. I like being part of a community (no scoffing) and I like that people read what I write (kind, good, generous nice people, unlike, say, my brother who can’t understand why anyone on earth should be interested).  I suppose I could wait until the children are old enough to read it themselves but at the rate the Princess’s reading is progressing, it could be years before we get any progress on this front.
I spoke to my mother about this the other day. This is the woman who does not use her credit card on the internet for safety’s sake and who, for many years was very reluctant to use the internet at all on the basis that she might accidentally download something illicit or dangerous or both: this despite constant reassurances from her children that you usually have to pay for that kind of material. In response to my concerns, my mother said briskly “Nonsense, they are very lucky children and they will be delighted to read all about themselves when they are bigger.”  You know, maybe she’s right.
I am on my last work trip for this job. Frankly, this is a mercy.
This morning I left my husband to drop the car into the garage for repairs, meet movers who are coming to decide how much money they will charge us to get our belongings back to Ireland, let in more random people who may want to rent our flat and generally mind everything. I also left the country with Mr. Waffle’s mobile phone and our camera nestling in the dim recesses of my handbag. He was not pleased when I told him.
I got back to my hotel this evening to find that I had left Mr. Waffle’s mobile phone on the desk (why always keep it in a handbag, why not strive for new and different ways of making things difficult?). This was a pity because there was a message from the Princess’s summer course saying that it was nearly 7 and was anyone coming to collect her. I then remembered that I had told the childminder, C, that we would collect the Princess on Monday because it was too difficult for C to travel by public transport with the boys and the Princess (the course being some distance from our house). This is information I may not have relayed to my husband. I have just rung C who tells me that Mr. Waffle had arrived home, realised that the Princess was not there and turned around to go and get her taking the boys with him as C’s working day was over and he did not want to impose. I would have imposed myself but I have much lower standards than he does.
Any minute now, I am going to phone home and see how things are going and, gentle reader, I am very afraid. I think that I will plug the line that I have specifically asked not to travel in my new job and that I do not intend to leave him alone again until the children are in their teens.
Ecole Maternelle 2006-2008
Monsieur Marion,
Dernier de rang,
Portail, sonnette,
Bicyclette.
Madame Marie
Classe d’accueil.
Valérie, Tatienne
Première maternelle.
Madame Christine,
Dans la classe,
Chaise jaune, Matthias,
Etiquettes, Pinces à linge, Tablier, Plumier,
Farde (de communication),
Cartable.
Fancy fair, école en fête,
Quand est-ce que la pluie s’arrête?
Madame Martine,
Boîte à tartines,
Dans le bac,
Sur le crochet,
Bobo,
Repas chaud,
Garderie,
DVD.
Madame Bénédicte, Dany,
Chausseurs de gym.
Madame Sylvia,
Sous le préau,
Cours de récré,
Hasta luego,
Larmes, bisous,
Twinkle, twinkle n’y sera plus.
Only rhymes and scans in parts. Very modern, no? Alternatively, it could be a list of vocabulary. Extremely modern.
The Princess completed her education in Belgium today and I felt quite sad as I walked her to and from school. She was unmoved.
I took the three children as well as the childminder and her two children (it seemed like a good idea at the time) to the ophthalmologist this afternoon. We spent an hour and a half there. Truly, these are times that try men’s souls. The Princess was excruciatingly badly behaved.  The only crumb of comfort was that both she and her brothers were very well behaved during their longish examinations and didn’t whine about the eye drops which appeared unpleasant.
I noted, by the simple expedient of nosily peering over the doctor’s shoulder as she typed up my children’s results, that the beautifully dressed and charmingly behaved boy who was waiting patiently for his appointment, shared a surname with the woman who will one day be queen of Belgium. I later pointed this out to the Princess and followed up with the rider that this was, effectively, her first chance to impress a Prince and it had been an abject failure. I further told her that I did not think that a real Princess would insist on lying (with her brothers) on the waiting room floor with her feet in the air showing off her stripy underpants. I know what you are thinking; sarky comments of this nature are unwelcome.
On the eye front, the Princess and Michael have identical optic nerves (who knew you could tell); the Princess very deftly manoeuvered letters to reflect those on the screen; Michael mortified me by not knowing what an apple was or any of his colours (“I dunno”) but Daniel redeemed my reputation. The Princess and Michael, as well as their identical optic nerves, share perfect eyesight.  This was the good news. Unfortunately, poor Daniel’s eyesight is not improving. We have been given a prescription for stronger glasses and he may yet have to have an operation. We will have a long note to take to someone in Dublin. I imagine we will have to translate it first.