Princess

Number of guests: 23

Of whom children: 13

Of whom children under 1: 4

Number of faces painted: 7

Number of children concussed by collapsing chair: 1

Number of slices of birthday cake required to  restore concussed child to happiness: 1

Ladies and gentlemen, I think that we have a success on our hands.

The Princess is refusing to go to bed these days. We have a bedtime routine, possibly the only successful parenting strategy we have adopted and, until now, it has worked perfectly. She might have got up during the night but she always went to bed. Recently, though she has been stretching the bedtime routine. It’s been taking about an hour and a half from when bed time is first mooted to lights out. In between there is bathing, singing, pyjama putting on, hugging, bottle taking, story reading and chatting, not necessarily in that order. And then there is a howl when we close the bedroom door which is a new and unwelcome feature. And the time between getting the Princess finally into bed and collapsing into bed ourselves is getting shorter and shorter.

Last night was particularly grim. Her father put her to bed and at 8.30 refused to get an extra bottle and closed the door. For a while we listened to her thumping the door saying “papa, papa” and sobbing hysterically but I crumbled and said I’ve got to go into her. He promised to come and rescue me, if I wasn’t out in ten minutes. When I opened the door, she was sitting on the floor red in the face with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her little body was all hot and she was shaking. She was, however, down but not out and she looked at me balefully and said “Go away Mummy, I was calling Daddy not you”. Why, thank you sweetheart. Anyhow, I took her into bed and sang to her and calmed her down and then her father came and we both talked to her and then I left and then, finally, he left. And by the time we had finished, it was well after nine.

In consequence of last night’s late bed time, she was like a briar this morning. She woke up at 7 (too bright Mummy) and climbed into bed beside me (Mr. Waffle was not there, having been in with the boys polishing off the later night shift) and lay there like a soggy sock (I was originally going for limp rag but I thought I would try to invent a new cliché). She wouldn’t eat her breakfast, she wouldn’t get dressed, her chair was too far from the table waah, waah, she wanted a nut from her father’s muesli but he had EATEN THEM ALL (cue Mr. Waffle going to the kitchen to sift through the muesli box for a nut) – you name it, everything was dreadful. She would try the patience of a saint, in fact she did and Mr. Waffle spoke quite harshly to her in the matter of putting on shoes. She came running to me, sobbing hysterically “Daddy scared me”. Poor Mr. Waffle was crushed.

Normally her father walks or cycles to school with her, but this morning, for a variety of reasons, we all ended up driving there in the car. Mr. Waffle deposited the Princess and me outside the school and drove on to the creche with the boys. I suppose we should have realised that this change in routine would confuse her but I wasn’t really expecting to end up holding a wriggling hysterical child who was calling after a departing car “just one last hug, Daddy, please” as other parents looked at the ground and presumably thought “newly divorced, the poor child won’t see her father until Monday”. I brought her nto the classroom and there was prolonged wailing when I made to leave. I stayed for ages, but in the end, I had to go (I know I have the most accommodating job in the world but they do actually expect me to come in in the morning). Her teacher chose this morning to tell me that she is not having very good days at school at the moment. After I left the classroom, I hung around outside for a moment to check that she had calmed down. Even if she cries, she usually stops when we’re not there to hear her. But not today. Peering through the glass pane at the top of the door, I could see her clutching Hop Hop and crying as though her heart would break a good five minutes after I’d left the classroom. But I really had to go, so go I did.

I’m not sure what all this is about. I suppose our dizzyingly complex childcare arrangements for the month of April are taking their toll on her. If it is hard for her father to know who is doing what, it must be even more difficult for her. Breda O’Brien in the Irish Times has taken over from Oliver James in the Observer (he seems to have been tossed out in the revamp) as my guilty conscience in the matter of childcare. If you wish to know the kind of guilt Breda is excellent at inspiring, see this. A couple of weeks ago she said that parents who work full time must get used to their children sleeping less well at night as they try to make up during the night, time they couldn’t spend with their parents during the day. I wonder, could there be something in this? I’m her mother; it’s all my fault anyway, isn’t it? The boys, however, seem to love the creche though they both have runny noses. More guilt, but different guilt. Variety is everything.

Last night the Princess got up three times to check with her loving parents “Is it my birthday yet?” And, this morning, after 364 days of waiting, that day finally dawned. Her grandparents from Dublin are here to join in the celebrations and supply a suitable array of presents. Although they are slightly run down from the 24 hour babysitting regime they’ve been enjoying since they arrived on Sunday, I was pleased to see that they were up at 7.00 this morning to join in the birthday celebrations. Many of her relatives sent presents in the post. She got a lovely dress from my parents and I am delighted to report that after opening it she instantly scurried to her room to “get a hanger for my dress”. Breakfast was taken in front of “my Cinderella for the television”; which my brother kindly sent her. Her brothers unfortunately, ahem, forgot to get her anything for the morning but by the evening they had rectified this terrible omission. Her father took the day off work and minded babies while she went out with her grandparents to choose a suitably magnificent birthday cake.

I can’t believe she’s three; finally, she’s old enough to eat toys with small parts. I used to wonder why three was such a big watershed in the world of toys with small parts but now, I think, I understand. People say that, in ways, two year olds are like adolescents (I can’t wait, no, really) and I see what they mean. In retrospect, until she turned two, she was reallly a baby but in the past year she’s turned from a baby into a little girl and though, obviously, she will change a lot, I think I can see the child she will be until she turns 13 and the adolescent hormones kick in and we spend 5 agonising years waiting to see what kind of grown up she will become. And though there are many great things about having a baby (don’t be sarky, I DO occasionally refer to them here), it is wonderful having a little girl. She tells me that she likes my hair or my shoes or that she doesn’t. She has opinions. Strong opinions. She is quite sensible. She loves rules (No feet on the table Grandad). She is not a bad conversationalist, we can go for a cup of tea and have a chat. It is fascinating to try to see her getting a handle on how the world works. And funny. She is affectionate – before she goes to bed she puts her arms round me and whispers to me “I have a secret to tell you Mummy; you’re my best Mummy in the world”. It is not clear to me why this must remain secret, but I am gratified. She then informs me “you can have a new hug but I only have old kisses”. Old kisses are fine by me. She sings. My favourite is “Believe me if all those endearing young charms” which I started singing to her at bedtime a while ago because my mother used to sing it to me. I love to hear her lisping “It is not while beauty/And youth are thine own/And thy cheeks/Unprofaned by a tear/That the fervour and faith/Of a soul can be known/To which time will but/Make thee more dear”. She has a prodigious memory. She can sing a song in Irish (Beidh aonach amarach since you ask) even though she doesn’t speak any Irish. She knows many, many of her books off by heart. I use her as a supplementary shopping list (remind me to get shampoo on Saturday – she never fails). She is fascinated by everything. Frankly, this has its drawbacks, there are times when you feel that it’s just not necessary to explore what Mummy has in her bag and, yes, gosh, that is really a breastpump. She is fluent in two languages although occasionally there are difficulties separating things out [on the phone to her father “et maman a trouve un parking place sur le road!”]. She will frequently repeat to her father, in French, something I have just said to her. I am rivetted by this instant translation service but, curious too, her father and I speak English to each other – does she really think that he can’t understand what I say to her? She can read two words. Hey, it’s a start. It would appear that after ‘OK” the first word that she can recognise is, appropriately enough, “me”. She is beginning to dimly perceive that other people have feelings too. [“Did you have a nice time sweetheart?” “Yes, but Daddy was a bit distressed because the babies were going waah, waaah”.] I trust that shortly she might, in some way, try to accommodate other people’s needs or am I indulging optimism a little too far? I know this sounds sappy, but it is lovely getting to know her as she gets older and more sophisticated. Of course, on the minus side, this means that I lose my iconic status as full time working mother with three children under three, but what the hell. You know, being a parent isn’t as bad as it’s made out to be.

Me:  Sleep tight sweetheart.

Her: Why can’t you wake tight Mummy?

Him: Actually, that is possible.

Him: Hurry up sweetheart, Mummy has to go to work.

Her: What? Work? Again? But she went yesterday.