belgianwaffle

Middle Child

Socialising


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

Last weekend, the Princess went to a birthday party in one of Dublin’s more exciting suburbs. It boasts horses in front gardens (this is not a good thing in Dublin, you’ll have to trust me here) and, if you type this suburb + shooting into Google, then you get 26,100 results. However, she emerged unscathed.

That evening her father and I went to dinner at the houses of friends who live in a rather different Dublin suburb. For the hell of it, I typed “much nicer suburb + shooting” into Google and it reproachfully asked me whether I meant “much nicer suburb + shopping”.

Meanwhile, Mr. Waffle got a call from the childminder asking whether she could take the children to a party at the house of a little (francophone, North African) boy they regularly played with in the park. He said yes and I probably would have too but I had some qualms subsequently. This is the problem with having two working parents. While I was perfectly happy to drop the Princess off to gangland shooting suburb as the birthday girl was a classmate whom I had met, I was uneasy about them all going to a strange house where I didn’t know the child or his mother even though their childminder stayed with them the entire time. Sigh.

We also got invited to lunch by friends – she is French and he is Irish and her parents (who do not speak a great deal of English) were staying for a week and I think that they felt that it might be useful to have some other French speakers and French speaking children about. All very pleasant – they are French farmers from deepest darkest Brittany and I was fascinated to hear that his parents were native Breton speakers and hers spoke a local dialect but, of course, they all learnt French French at school. While both our friend’s parents understand dialect and Breton respectively, our friend understands neither. It has to be said that the policy of the French state seems to be a little hostile to languages other than French within its borders. My husband, who knows everything, told me that as recently as the first world war only one in five Frenchmen spoke French. Well, they’ve fixed that then.

For the record


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

Princess: 18.7 kilos
Daniel: 18 kilos
Michael: 14.8
Me: Exactly what I weighed the day before Michael and Daniel were born. Let the record show that the day after they were born I reached my lowest adult weight ever: I spent my pregnancy vomitting and almost the only things I was allowed to eat were lentils. I regard pregnancy as akin to a diet plan. But still.

We were in my sister’s house. She has a weighing scales and we were curious. Curiousity killed the cat and, even more pertinently, information made him fat. Well indeed.

Last patch


Posted in: Middle Child, Twins

The ophthalmologist has declared that Daniel does not need to wear his patch any longer. Rejoice with me. Even an obliging, good natured little boy does not like having a patch applied daily. Hurrah.



In a separate development, he has no recollection of ever seeing tan tights before and is fascinated by their glossiness. He seems to be keen to ladder mine by draping them around his person and trying them on. New, of course.

A challenge


Posted in: Family, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins

Kind Uncle: Here is an alphabet puzzle, my little nephew.
Me: Gosh that looks quite hard.
Mr. Waffle: Did you buy it in Barcelona?
Kind Uncle: Yes, why?
Mr. Waffle: I think the alphabet is in Catalan.


The Economy


Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Princess, Twins

The Princess came down to watch the news last night. “Oh no, not more about the money we all owe, they’ve said it already, we know it.” How true.

Meanwhile, Daniel announced to me that “Parnell Square is where we march”. It is indeed. This will be a useful piece of information for you, should you wish to avoid traffic restrictions when in Dublin.

Dressing up


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

Me (to the boys): This is your sister’s school and you two will be starting there in a while.
Daniel: Will we wear a uniform?
Me: Yes, you will.
Daniel: Like our sister’s uniform?
Me: Yes indeed.
Michael: Hurrah, I will wear a skirt!

When we got home, I changed into jeans, runners and a fleece, and trotted out to cut the grass. “You look cool”, said my daughter. I fear that prolonged exposure to Irish fashions has not improved anyone’s dress sense. And we were already coming from a low base. Sigh.

Finally, I have got all my hair cut off. A nice Lithuanian lady gave Daniel and me the same style. It cost us 28 euros in total. Pleasingly economical. I am quite happy but the complete absence of comment other than from my children and that, frankly negative, is a little disturbing. Kissing Michael goodnight he said, “I don’t want you to kiss me, you look like a boy, you’re not like my Mummy”. When I went to collect them from Montessori school, the teacher took one look at me and said, “Ah, that is why the boys came into school and told me that their Mummy is a boy, now.” Sigh.