The other morning, Michael had a nosebleed. I’m not sure why though I can imagine several explanations. He wiped blood all over his face and clothes. While I had my back turned Daniel fell or was pushed and cut his lip and bled freely over his chin and onto his t-shirt. Then the child minder arrived; it’s hard not to be defensive in these circumstances.
Middle Child
Plucky Little Belgium
Since Daniel acquired glasses, we have been spending a lot of time and money in the opticians. I’m glad it’s a nice one near home. Mostly we are served by the owner’s daughter, an efficient pleasant woman about my age. The other night, I went in to get Daniel’s glasses repaired (he and Michael had tugged them apart at the creche, it’s nice to think of them having fun) and her father was there. He was dealing with some other people and I settled down to wait, conscious all the same that Mr. Waffle was at home with three cranky children who needed dinner and bed. Finally, it was my turn.
Me: Hello, I wonder could you fix these glasses, I think you have a file on us.
Him: That’s not a Belgian accent.
Me: Er, no, it’s not, I’m from Ireland.
Him (heavily accented): Ireland, Ireland, then we can speak English.
Me (proferring deformed glasses): Mmm. Yes, if you like.
Him: Do you know Hertfordshire?
Me: Um, no, never been, I’m afraid.
Him: My father was in England during the war.
Me: The first world war?
Him (misunderstanding, I think): How old do you think I am?
Me: Um, the second world war?
Him (at cross-purposes): He died in the war.
Me: I’m sorry to hear that. In England?
Him (baffled): No, he was in England in the first world war; when he was 13.
Me (not wanting to be unsympathetic but feeling we are getting nowhere and also conscious of my loving husband and children, home alone): I see, well, I wonder, have you got a file on us?
Him (not to be deterred): He learnt to be an optician and then set up in Dendermonde when he came back.
Me: Oh Dendermonde.
Him: No, in England.
Me: Yes, I see.
Him: He died in the second world war.
Me: I’m very sorry to hear it.
Him: Yes, I was only 10.
Me (mind reprehensibly fixed on the glasses): That must have been very difficult for you.
Him: Yes, he was betrayed.
Me (surprised): By whom?
Him: He joined the résistance straight away immediately and he was betrayed by [not clear, some local perhaps]. They ask me why I do not live in Dendermonde but I know they are traitors and I can smell corruption and racism. Though, his daughter [I think the daughter of the man who betrayed his father] is a very nice woman.
Me (genuinely interested and having put the glasses to the back of my mind): How did your father die?
Him (producing formal black bordered mortuary card showing a handsome midddle-aged man): My father was taken away by the Germans and died of typhus in the camps in March 1945. I went to see him once in prison in Ghent before he was taken away. It was a hard time, the English were very good to us, an English Major and his daughter, she is an old woman now, June, but she is godmother to my daughter.
Pause.
Him: I think we’ll have to send those glasses away to be fixed.
I forget how much these things are just below the surface in Belgium where two world wars were fought. Coming from a country that was neutral in the second world war and where (aside from Northern Ireland which is a long way from Cork and, after all, another country), the last major conflict occurred over 80 years ago, I have never, in living memory, lost a relative except to illness, accident or old age. Sometimes I forget how very fortunate that makes me.
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We have a copy of Walt Disney’s “Lady and the Tramp” in book form and the boys love it. We also have a book of Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” and this is also much loved. I’m not sure where they came from but they are among the boys’ favourite books despite our constant attempts to plug works we prefer.
The boys, have, however, totally confused the two works. As a special treat we got out “Beauty and the Beast” on DVD and they were transfixed. At first sight of the beast, they were both terrified and sat there pointing at the screen saying “Ladybeast, Ladybeast!”
I know it’s not the flu
Because the one time I had the flu, I could barely struggle out of bed. But I have got a nasty cold.
Yesterday, I spent all day in bed, being poked in the eyeball from time to time by a very bored Princess. Our cleaner kindly agreed to stay all day and keep an eye on herself but I think she (the Princess and probably also the cleaner) has now decided that there is such a thing as too much television. She went off to school today with a spring in her step.
Our cleaner is a very nice woman from the Eastern part of Poland and she disapproves profoundly of my decision to work. Yesterday, she said to the Princess – isn’t it nice to have Mama at home instead of her going off to work? The Princess was gobsmacked; here she was having the most boring day of her life and she was supposed to like it. I was mildly gratified.
And in other whinging about the help news (is there anything more irritating, than someone who does that?) our childminder does not, like me, believe in always telling children the truth. I like to think that it builds up their soft skills. The other day, Daniel, expressed a desire to see the childminder’s daughter C. It was 6 o’clock in the evening, the childminder was just leaving, she said “you want to come with me, you want to see C?”. Daniel’s little face lit up. Why would she torture him this way? As I say, building up their soft skills.
Finally, the Princess has a half day at school today, I rang L’s mother who lives around the corner to ask her, if she could take the Princess this afternoon, in view of my enfeebled state. She croaked on the other end of the phone – no, I have the flu and so has my husband and my two year old. Given that she was just starting to feel ill when she was around here on Friday afternoon, perhaps it is the flu after all.
Back to bed, while I still can.
More mornings
Last night the Princess arrived into our bed, most unusually, at 3.00 in the morning and stayed there alternately chatting and poking until 6.00.
This morning we had the usual chivying, hurrying and harrying to get out the door with an extra nugget of exhaustion for three of the main players. The Princess was, perversely, extremely good. I am not sure whether this is as a result of engaging in charades last night when she got to pretend to be each of us in the morning in turn. It was funny. She enjoyed our appreciative laughter but maybe she finally realised that we would like it, if she would just get dressed in the morning.
Anyhow, Mr. Waffle was tired, sick and short-tempered. Michael came out of the kitchen and said crossly “Daddy, a bit mean”. Daniel sat up in his chair. His lower lip wobbled. “What’s wrong darling?” “Daddy fâché, Daniel sad.” “What that noise?” “That’s the sound of Mummy’s heart breaking”. Alternatively, it could have been Mr. Waffle saying “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’ll toughen them up”. At least he’s not feeding them Calgonit; you will be pleased to hear that there appear to be no ill effects to date.
MÃcheál
I have a good friend called Michael and sometimes I call him MÃcheál and I have got into the habit of calling my son Michael MÃcheál affectionately from time to time also.
In recent days, Daniel has started coming up to me and saying anxiously “Daniel MÃcheál!”. I have tried to comfort him by telling him he is Dónal which is the Irish for Daniel or Danny Boy which is friendly but he’s having none of it; “Daniel MÃcheál!” he insists. His sister has, however, decided that the boy suffix is a good one and she now calls her other brother MÃcheál Boy which shows that she really is from Cork.
While I’m talking about slang may I thank those who enlightened me on Australian slang – bonza sheilas.