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.
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 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.
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.
Daniel has recently developed a slight rash on his arms coinciding with a spell of renewed cold weather and Michael’s continuing difficulty with his colouring assignments.
Me (rubbing on cream): Are you worried about something sweetheart?
Daniel: Yes.
Michael has gone up the stairs to the bedroom where he is swigging down his bottle (no comments please, no one is more aware than I am that the boys will be 4 and starting school in September) and getting into his pyjamas. I decide, in Michael’s absence, to see whether Michael’s misery is affecting Daniel.
Me: Are you worried about Michael?
Daniel: Yes.
My poor child, anguished about his brother and his brother’s misery.
Me: Why are you worried about Michael?
Daniel (loudly): I’m worried he will take my bottle.
Me: What do you want for breakfast?
Daniel: I want some lego.
Me: You can’t eat lego.
Daniel: I want lego you can eat.
Me: There isn’t lego you can eat.
Daniel (fretfully): Yes, there is.
Me (fretfully back): No, there isn’t.
Daniel (weepily): I want lego.
Me (crankily putting it on the table): There, are you happy now?
Daniel (crying): No. I want white round lego with butter.
Me (mystified) to Princess: Have you any idea what he wants?
Her: Yes, he would like a bagel.