belgianwaffle

Princess

Chi Chi Chorizo


Posted in: Middle Child, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

This is what the children shout when they travel alone in the lift in our building. Why is that?

The boys also say “big stop” while chasing each other round the house with a magic wand (Daniel) and a piece of the supporting architecture of the Fisher Price garage (Michael). They appear to be holding these items as though they were guns. Obviously, they haven’t got toy guns. Are we or are we not fully paid up members of the middle classes? Though I have fond memories of my own toy gun with caps for extra loud bangs. I digress.

In the creche they told me that Michael made a little girl cry by trying to knife her in the back (with a plastic knife) saying “je vais te tuer”. Wouldn’t you cry? “Je vais te tuer” is a very popular expression with the boys at the moment. Where did they get it? I know that the knifing in the back comes from Gaston in Beauty and the Beast, they are very taken with that and constantly re-enact it with one of them chasing the other round the house with whatever implement comes to hand. I keep telling them that Gaston is a baddy but they don’t seem to care. Sigh.

They are, however, all talk and no action as can be seen from their interaction with a dangerous cat earlier today (well, given that it was dark in there you might not be able to see the cat’s utter indifference but you can certainly hear the boys’ terror when it turns its head to see what the noise is).

Surely not cupboard love


Posted in: Ireland, Princess, Travel, Work

The Princess was in Ireland with her father last week. When she left on Monday morning, she was sad to leave me. By the time she arrived in her grandparents’ house at lunch time, she was so excited to be there that she couldn’t spare the time to speak to me on the phone. This continued for the duration of her stay. I was amazed on Thursday, when she came back, how delighted we were to see each other. Really thrilled, big hugs, much affection.

This week, I am away for work and she has consented to speak to me on the telephone which is a great relief. This morning she said “Mummy, I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight” and I was was very touched (our girl can be a tough cookie). The first thing she asked, though, when she got on the phone, was “have you got my crunchie?”

Update – She is consistent too.  The first thing she said when I arrived in the door last night was “have you got my crunchie?”  “That’s no way to greet your mother or indeed anyone,” I replied.  She paused smiled broadly, gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear “have you got my crunchie, please, Mummy”.

Weekend


Posted in: Family, Ireland, Princess

On Saturday we went to Planckendael again – it’s like a safari park but less glamourous.  I have had it with Planckendael.  The Princess said that she would rather go to the supermarket and conducted herself accordingly throughout the trip.  We paid 50 euros to get in (and the boys were free) and they spent their time looking at frogs in the river and playing in the elaborate playgrounds. “Will we go and see the giraffes?”  “No!”  The Princess mortified me by going into meltdown at the entrance to the cafeteria where she wanted to stay watching television.  She lay on the ground, blocking the door and screeching.  This loud screaming in public is a very recent development and I am desperate to stop it.  We then climbed up a rope yoke which the Princess loved but the boys were scared and had to be carried.  It is hard to walk up a rope surrounded by netting carrying a small boy.  We got down eventually, the Princess did not get down.  There were words.  We lost her at one point and I was terrified.  There were further words.  We instructed her that, in future, if she ever got lost and could not find someone who worked in the establishment, she was to ask a Mummy to help her.  Yes, yes, picture the scene, there you are having a nice time with your family in Flemish and a weeping lost little girl attaches herself to your group – fabulous eh?

On Sunday, we had our upstairs neighbours and some friends around for coffee.  Our upstairs neighbours are lovely Italians.  There are only two of them and every time I go into their flat which is the same dimensions as ours but oh so different, I am convulsed with envy.  They have white furniture (no children, obviously).  She is finishing a PhD in art history and has acquired all kinds of lovely furniture at auctions and flea markets over the years.  It looks lovely in our 19th century building, unlike, say, my self constructed coffee table from Habitat.  Anyhow, over coffee yesterday the talk was all of our return to Dublin (with the occasional digression into how the recent NATO war training exercise went, from my friend C – she who combines defence work and orchestra management in her portfolio of activity – good news, we won).  They were all curious about what our house in Dublin is like and I, with my fondness for histrionics, put my head in my hands and said “hideous, absolutely hideous”.  I had, alas, completely forgotten that the Princess was there and she looked up at me, shocked and tearful and said “But Mummy, you said that our house was lovely.”  Much furious and, I fear, ineffective backpedalling followed.  I could kick myself.

The house isn’t really hideous, it’s just small and in need of some work.  I was talking to the heart surgeon about it last night and she put her finger on the problem: just as all our friends are settling in the houses they are going to be living in for the rest of their lives, we are moving backwards.  That is exactly the problem.  All our friends are moving in to nice big houses and we are going back to a starter home.  It’s not hideous, it’s relatively hideous.  I hope that in 3 or 4 years we’ll be able to move somewhere nicer but, for the moment, we will have to make the best of it.

Meanwhile, the heart surgeon is back at work after a mere three months (she does live in America so this is extraordinary luxury by their standards) and working weekends and nights and so on (as is her doctor husband) with a 3 year old, a two year old and a three month old.  She is expressing four times a day.  She’s also decided to renovate her kitchen.  I can’t quite imagine how tired she must be.  She told me, in tones of great glee, that, as she had a couple of tough procedures today, her husband was going to mind the baby last night and she was decamping to the third floor for a full night’s sleep.

I’ve been keeping a secret


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess

No, for the umpteenth time, I am not pregnant.

The Christmas before last I said to my husband that we had to decide whether we were going to move back to Ireland or stay in Belgium because, if we were going to stay in Belgium, we had to buy a house. A three bedroomed, second floor flat is not ideal for bringing up three small children. We decided that we would move to Dublin in September 2008. Now, obviously, it didn’t make much sense to tell anyone about this decision in December 2006, so I have been not telling employers, employees and children for a long time. It’s exhausting.

Last week, Mr. Waffle told his employers. On Friday we told the Princess that we are moving back (some of you may consider that this is a radical solution to our difficulties with L). On Monday we told our childminder and our babysitter. And today I formally told my employer and colleagues and now I am telling you.

Mr. Waffle and the Princess are in Dublin this week. In an excess of efficiency they have visited her new school (an Irish language school – please don’t ask). After hearing her father and the headmaster converse in Irish for ten minutes, she ran from the room telling her grandmother that this was “pointless and useless”. I can tell it’s going to go well. What do you think? She’s also got her school uniform, this is more pleasing. It has a tie. There will be photos.
I am very sad to be leaving this great job and my lovely colleagues. I am very sad to be leaving Belgium and my friends here. On balance though, I think we are doing the right thing. We are very fortunate in both having lovely families with whom we get on very well. We want to see more of them and so do our children. I want my children to be Irish not Belgian (though I see that the Princess is testing this enthusiasm by already adopting the nastiest of Dublin accents, she said to me on the phone this afternoon “Oi don’t want to talk to you, Oi don’t loike the phone”). One of the best things about going back was how our friends in Dubin reacted; they all seem to be genuinely delighted. Despite all its shortcomings (and oh they are many), I do like Dublin and I know I will enjoy living there.

For obvious reasons, the move has been very much in my mind since Christmas but I didn’t want to blog about it ar eagla na heagla (see how I’m taking to this Irish thing?) but I have been taking notes and now I’m putting them here. Because I can.

8 January

Ask my mother what she did with all our furniture when we moved from a large detatched Georgian House to a much smaller semi-detatched Edwardian one. Answer: Moved it all and got rid of none. My mother points out that result has been 20 odd years tripping over pieces of furniture and an attic which strikes terror into her heart. On the plus side, she says I can now have the Nelson sideboard, if I want it. Point out that I have more than enough furniture of my own for my tiny house.

9 January

Prepare first spreadsheet.

January 10

Asked the garage whether they would sell us a car with the steering wheel on the wrong side. They were reluctant. They said that it would be expensive and we would have to wait a year. In inimitable Belgian fashion, 6 (yes 6) people behind the reception desk ignored me for some considerable time but finally, to their evident regret, had to relent and pay me some attention.

January 11

Consider for the umpteenth time the amount of our stuff. My mother often says to my sister (to the latter’s intense irritation): Helen, you have too much of this world’s goods. She’s not the only one. Wonder what size is the attic in our house in Dublin. Curse myself for never even having looked in the attic when we bought the house. My sister says to me, “Mummy is delighted that you are coming home”. I am touched until she adds, “she says that maybe finally you will take all of your stuff out of her house”. My father-in-law is also anxious that we should remove all our stuff from his garage (barbecue and large outdoor heater – a wedding gift from the time when they were a sign that you were trendy rather than a sign that you are an eco-terrorist). My mother-in-law has, however, volunteered to mind our antique sewing machine until we have a house large enough to accommodate it. I suspect that my father-in-law is unaware of her kind offer.

14 January

After much humming and hawing decide to travel to Ireland for interview I am most unlikely to get on the basis that, if I did get it and the job came up in September my family would be able to eat every day rather than just every second day. This problem would mostly affect me and Mr. Waffle as the children prefer not to eat anyway.

18 January

Mr. Waffle hands in notice to the creche. The boys will be finishing there at the end of July. I will be a little sad to end our relations with our excellent creche.

21 January

Flight is delayed and arrive, Cinderella like, at friends’ house in Dublin at midnight. My friends are up awaiting my arrival with tea sympathy and advice. I love their house. It is a home from home as I used to live there. In fact, due to the many parties my husband and I held there, many people still think it is ours. Alas, it is not. I have stayed in the spare room many times and always enjoyed an excellent night’s sleep. On this occasion, I do not. Some vagary of their security system means that the overhead light flashes on every two hours and wakes me in considerable alarm. It is distressingly like being with small children.

Interview is, as expected entirely brutal. At the end, I ask about how many people they expect to appoint and they tell me that they give comprehensive feedback. I say I will look forward to that to general laughter from the board. I’d like to think that they were laughing with me but, I doubt it. [Didn’t get the job].

23 January

Princess and I go round to Glam Potter’s house and I reveal to her sum total of our likely income in Ireland for first two years. She is appalled. How will you survive? I am not comforted.

17 March

Having refused to think about or organise anything for the move in two months in the hope that, oh I don’t know, it would organise itself, I am jolted into action by a series of questions from my mother and brother who are visiting over the weekend. The heart surgeon rings from America and asks a series of hard questions as well. I am now worrying actively.

The Dutch Mama asked whom I had told about my plans to return. I explained that we was waiting until the end of April to tell our children, our employers and our employees about our plans and that I was slightly dreading this event. I was comforted her reply:

Dreading?

Sure it will be brilliant.

Employer: I’M LEAVING! (implicit, for something better, didn’t I always say you don’t pay me enough)

Employees: I’M LEAVING! (implicit, for something better, look at what an exciting international life I have)

Children: Guess what? Brilliant news. Mammy has got a great new job in Ireland, and we’re going to live in a house with a garden, and you can have a swing of your very own, and we’ll be able to see granny every single weekend. Won’t it be just great! And we’ll come back on lots of visits too. And we can invite your friends to come and play on your swing. And we’ve found you a lovely school.(I’d leave out the gaelscoil detail for now if I were you).

Life will be way easier for you in Ireland, and lots of fun.

25 April

Mr. Waffle has told work he’s leaving. I’ve told my boss informally and will hand in my notice next week. Tonight we decided to tell herself. At first, she was very excited but then as the implications sank in, she became distinctly apprehensive. “Why can’t we move to a house with a garden in Brussels; Brussels is my home”. This is true, she has never lived anywhere else and we have never given her any reason to believe that we would move somewhere else. That was, perhaps, foolish in retrospect. “Where will I go to school?” “In Dublin.” “What language will they speak in school?” If I had realised that I was going to be asked this quite so early in proceedings, I would have prepared a different answer from “Irish”*. She started to cry. She was scared, she wouldn’t understand and all her friends were here. This was the first time I really, really realised that we are definitely going and I felt like crying myself. I love Brussels. However, we perked her up as best we could and stressed the advantages which are many – well, otherwise, why wouldn’t we stay here? I am afraid for her. Mr. Waffle says, I can’t have it both ways, saying that she’ll be uprooted from all her friends one minute and agonising that she has no friends the next. Actually, he’s wrong, I can.

* There is a reason why we are sending her to an Irish language school and it’s largely and embarrassingly to do with the fact that Ireland isn’t quite the classless society it once was.

Still in recovery


Posted in: Princess

We had the Princess’s birthday party on Sunday. It was brutal. Unlike everything else in my experience, children’s birthday parties are always worse than one fears. A week beforehand we sat down with the Princess and asked her who from her class she wanted to invite. She named 8 children, two of whom we had never heard of. Mr. Waffle designed invitations and sent them out into the world (via the classroom assistant) with an RSVP note. We got 4 replies, 3 yes and 1 no. Four children didn’t reply at all which I think is appalling. It also makes me sad because, clearly, the Princess’s party wasn’t first on their priority lists.

So, all the kiddies arrived between 3.30 and 4.00. My attempt to play pass the parcel was stymied partly by the trickle of new arrivals which necessitated greeting and present opening and partly by the Princess’s best friend from school, L. Mr. Waffle does not like L. How L treats the Princess on any given day determines whether our evening will be pleasant or unpleasant. I like L’s mother and she lives round the corner from us. I often take L for an afternoon or the Princess goes to her house. L does blow hot and cold but I haven’t really seen much harm in her. On Sunday, I fundamentally revised my view. She did not like the Princess getting attention from the other children from school. She insisted that they sit out pass the parcel with her. Since L’s mother had not yet left, my opportunities for discipline were limited. When a little boy from the Princess’s class (who seems like a lovely child) tried to talk to the Princess or play with her, L intervened and took him away. She gathered the two other children from school round her and excluded my daughter. I could see that the Princess was upset but I think she doesn’t have the emotional sophistication to understand why or to see what’s happening with any clarity. It was abundantly clear to me that L was only nice to her when she (L) was cross with the other children. All of the other children at the party were basically nice, pleasant little people and, it is unfortunate, that my daughter had to be “friends” with the annoying one.

We had hired a children’s entertainer to, well, entertain. I deeply disapprove of this. We always had wonderful parties when I was little with treasure hunts and all manner of excitements organised by my mother. On the other hand, we had a big garden; the Waffle etablissement is a second floor appartment. Like all the things of which one disapproves, it’s never so bad when you’re doing it yourself. She was due to arrive at 4.15. There was a brief moment when I thought that she might not come and I think that this may be the closest I have ever come to a panic attack. Don’t mock the afflicted.

She came, she was dressed as a witch. She was worth every penny of her exorbitant fee. L announced that she was not a real witch. When the witch asked whether the children liked colouring, L said she did not and encouraged her coterie to do likewise. When the witch left, L craned her head out the window to see the witch getting into a car and changing and announced this to all the children there and pointed out that the Princess did not have a real witch at her party. I wanted to smack her but I just ignored her. Later my daughter told me that the witch really liked her because she (the witch) had asked the Princess to help with the spells. It did not even cross her mind that the witch might be nice to her because it was her birthday, let alone because her parents had forked out a considerable sum. I can’t help feeling that the poor Princess has the emotional IQ of a gnat and, of all people, she is least likely to appreciate the implications of being friends with a little manipulator.

Despite my concerns, I think she did, on balance, enjoy her party and, I suppose, that is something.

How could they?


Posted in: Princess, Reading etc.

The return of Berlusconi has given the media a field day looking out his most inappropriate quotes from old files and happily awaiting new ones.

His most annoying comment of recent times is on the new Zapatero government in Spain which has a majority of female ministers.  According to this source, Mr Berlusconi suggested it is “too pink.”   He went on to say “he [Mr Zapatero] has asked for it, he will have problems leading them,” adding that “[i]n Italy there is a prevalence of men in politics and therefore it is not so easy to find women who are ready for the government.”

Magdalena Alvarez, Spain’s infrastructure minister, described the remark as offensive and said that “[m]any of us women would refuse to work for a government that had Mr Berlusconi as prime minister.”   Berlusconi tried to make amends by saying that he “greatly appreciated the colour pink in that government” and that “[i]t’s possible that the female members take a series of measures stemming from the everyday life, from the concrete reality of being a mother, a wife and perhaps also a working woman.”  “Perhaps also”?   I found this link on further comparisons between Messrs. Berlusconi and Zapatero; again, unflattering to the former.

When I came in to work, earlier this week, a female colleague drew my attention to this picture of the new Spanish Minister for Defence reviewing troops in Madrid.  She is the first woman to hold the post and also seven months pregnant.   It perked us both up.  Viva Zapatero.

Meanwhile, on the domestic front, I fear that all is not what it might be in the arena of gender stereotyping.  I had the following conversation with the Princess this evening.

Me: How was your school trip to the farm today?

Her: Great, I rubbed a sheep, a donkey and a bull [Really?]. Can I have horse riding lessons?  I didn’t rub a pig.  There were no pigs.   There was a dog though but we weren’t allowed to rub it in case it bit us.  We had Peter Pan on the bus in French and all the songs were in French [spirited rendition of same].

Me [a little overwhelmed by the flow of eloquence]: Was the farmer there?

Her: No, just our teachers.  There was another woman who showed us things.

Me:  That was probably the farmer.

Her: But it was a woman.

Me: But women can be farmers.

Her: But she had a baby.

Me: Even women with babies can be farmers.

Her: Sceptical expression.

Imagine women with babies can even be Spanish ministers for defence.