Saturday – Snails
Sunday – McDos
Also, on a completely separate note, for guilt ridden (i.e. all) mothers only, I recommend this.
on 13 March 2006 at 14:19
Sweetie(s) given
on 13 March 2006 at 19:25
Sweetie(s) given
on 14 March 2006 at 09:09
JD, um, what precisely…and where’s your new blog mister?
Kristin, yes it IS very comforting, isn’t it?
BHM for the snails or the McDo or the range?
Sweetie(s) given
As for that blog post – more mothers should read it. I have to say for myself, though, that – now I am over the bout of postnatal depression – I have pretty much decided that I am a great mum no matter what I do. This is pretty easy once you realise that all those mums who talk about potty-training at 3 months and bed-sharing without ever losing any sleep and only ever feeding little Cosmo and Arabella organic, grain-fed grains etc are talking a load of bollocks. They are liars and I bet they don’t even have any babies.
on 21 March 2006 at 20:57
Sweetie(s) given
Wheelchair Hostile
The Waffles trotted out to the Africa Museum in Tervuren recently. It is largely unchanged since opening in 1910 and it now serves the double function of a colonial museum and a museum of colonialism. It tells you with a straight face how the Belgians saved the Congolese from the slave traders. It also says that when the museum opened a number of live Africans were imported and put wandering around the grounds for public inspection. It’Â’s a bizarre spot. It also boasts a number of stuffed animals including an elephant and a giraffe which the Princess took a real shine to. I thought she might be distressed by the tableau vivant showing a number of leopards chewing on an antelope type thingy but I neednÂ’t have worried. This is the child who says “Hello Mr. Quack Quack” when we buy duck in the supermarket; she is devoid of sentiment.
And while I am speaking of museums, I would like to touch on the difficulty of access for handicapped persons. I know all about this, because when you have a child, or indeed children, in a buggy, steps are much more challenging. I noticed that in the Africa Museum there is a sign on the double doors facing the road, saying “ring here for handicapped access”. As I watched the other day, the vast double doors swung open and a lady in a wheelchair and her husband emerged blinking in the sunlight. I can’t feel that this is the handiest kind of entrance for the wheelchair user. In the Musée des Beaux Arts in town, the handicapped entrance is much less grand and, apparently more practical, just a glass sliding door on to the street. The only problem is that it is routinely locked and you must ring for admittance and wait.
The Palais des Beaux Arts (or Bozar as, in my view, it rather affectedly likes to be known – I read an interview with the director where he said that he was doing all sorts of radical things including the name change to put it on the map and you could now get in a taxi at the airport and ask to go to Bozar and be taken straight there; frankly, I have my doubts) is built on a hill. You will always end up at the Rue Royale entrance when the exhibition is down at the Rue Ravenstein end. I appreciate that the site presented Mr.
Horta with certain challenges but he seems to have decided to make a virtue out of necessity and built the whole place around steps. I don’Â’t think thereÂ’’s a lift either. The staff are very helpful and always offer to assist in buggy lifting and, one assumes, that, if there were a lift, they might have chosen to direct one to it. In a wheelchair? Forget it, I advise. On the plus side the staff are really lovely and they not only carried my buggy around a large part of the Palais Stoclet exhibition but also a) let me use (free!) the phone in reception when I asked whether there was a public
phone I could use (yes, I am the last person in Europe without a mobile) and b) cheerfully and speedily served myself and the Princess with tap water in the rather swish café. I suppose wheelchair users could always just wheel into the café and have a nice glass of water.
My favourite inaccessible location though is the museum
in the Parc Cinquentenaire. Access to this museum is via a long flight of steep steps which, even for the able bodied, present considerable difficulties, if not in peak physical condition. The wheelchair user is directed to a door beside the steps (or at least was, I must concede, I havenÂ’’t been there in about a year). When you ring, you wait. You are then brought by an attendant through a number of dirty corridors past numerous dusty and apparently disused rooms and up in a service lift to the museum proper which is, to be fair, well worth your exertions in getting in. Do you think that the museums here just donÂ’’t want children and wheelchair users to visit? Why would anyone object to small children in a museum, no, really?
Fame
I got to write for the Bulletin. My sister asked whether I was abandoning the blog. We discussed as follows:
Me: No, I’m going to post in both places.
Her: The same text in both places?
Me: Yup.
Her: Excellent, that’s the start of syndication where the real money is.
Smoky
Charles Emmanuel, the Baroness’Â’s [our landlady is a Baroness, Belgium abounds in minor aristocracy] current agent on earth, came to install a smoke alarm for us the other day. I had never met him before but when a dashing man in his late 20s wearing a fedora hat and black polo neck while smoking a pipe turned up on the doorstep, I immediately guessed his identity. Charles Emmanuel is, in fact, French not Belgian and was anxious to assure me that his stint as the landlady’Â’s agent was to be brief as he would shortly be going back to Africa. I think he felt that doing the bidding of the Baroness was somewhat beneath him. I said that the Baroness would be sorry to lose another agent and he said, “Oh I havenÂ’’t told her yet”.” I began to warm to him; he was clearly as indiscreet as I am. You will recall that the Baroness and her husband are, to the lasting regret of her tenants, divorced (heÂ’’s the handy one). I asked him whether there was any chance of a reunion. Apparently not, underneath the civil front which their tenants see, the
pair are at daggers drawn.
And while I’Â’m on the subject of Belgian aristocracy (broadly), I feel it worthy of mention that Mr. Waffle’Â’s former bossÂ’’s secretary was a Baroness and she regarded him and his colleagues with the greatest disdain. We met her once in the park and she entirely ignored Mr. Waffle’Â’s civil greeting. He was elated. “Why?” He said enthusiastically that he would now be able to use a sentence which hadnÂ’t been in common currency since the century before last: “The Baroness cut me in the park”.
And, finally, does anyone else watch Place Royale? Look, I come from a republic, I get a kick out of seeing programmes
about monarchies and reflecting that that, at least, is one thing we donÂ’t have to pay for in Ireland – “Point de Vue” anyone? Anyhow, I notice that as a sign of the esteem in which the KingÂ’’s third child Prince Laurent is held by the programme (which remember is largely devoted to Belgian royalty) they sent a trainee to cover his opening of something in a Brussels suburb. Fabulous stuff.
Friar Tuck
on 13 March 2006 at 17:56
Even if I did share it, it would not belong in this post. Doubly sorry.
belgianwaffle on 14 March 2006 at 09:07
FT, yes, you need to get your own blog up and running. What was that about nagging…
37
Today is my 37th birthday. Yes, I know, I do sound a lot younger. Thank you. Less of the barracking down the back, please. I am beginning to feel my age. Yeah, I know 40 is the new 30 (or as a friend of mine said on hearing that another friend’s 80 year old father was to remarry, 80 is the new 70), but approaching 40 has come as a bit of a surprise to me. I can see my face thinning out, getting that slightly gaunt and hollow look that trying to meet the incessant demands of a toddler on zero sleep will give you, particularly, if youÂ’re an older mother and you have baby twins as well. Why oh why didn’Â’t I have my children at 22 when I had the energy for it?
I will be 20 years out of school this summer. My oldest friend attended her 20th school reunion recently, much against her better judgement. She tells me that it was dreadful, “very Cork”. “But wasnÂ’’t it fascinating to find out what everyone was doing?” “Well” she conceded “it might have been, but all anyone talked about was husbands and children”. The oldest friend has a glittering career as a diplomat (this is obviously more impressive in Cork than in Brussels, where there are more diplomats than natives) so I asked whether her former school friends had expressed suitable awe. After various modest disclaimers she said “that no, it hadn’t come up – though they did express amazement that she wasn’Â’t married with children. I would be the first to say that having children is very challenging and rewarding etc. but, you know, having a glittering career is very challenging and rewarding too (with the added bonus that it makes for more interesting conversation –- toilet training doesnÂ’’t regularly feature). One of her former school mates summed it up by saying to her condescendingly “ oh well, having children is very hard; itÂ’s not for everyone”.
So, clearly, this all made me feel better about my achievements: one husband, three children, one job. I’Â’m having it all; my life at 37 is perfect. However, at the moment I donÂ’’t feel like I’Â’m having it all; this lengthy maternity leave has
largely turned me into a housewife and I’Â’m not at all sure how I feel about that. I was ludicrously pleased when I was able to order a dustbuster and a blender based on my supermarket points. I spent days admiring our new fridge.
The other day I said to Mr. Waffle, ““Great news, I have solved a mystery”.” I think he felt that I had oversold my discovery when I explained that it was how our cleaning lady manages to wipe down the kitchen counters without leaving a water swipe mark (if you want to know – itÂ’s by using window cleaning spray, I hope it wonÂ’t kill us all, but they are delightfully sparkly). The final blow came when I was watching an old episode of “Friends” on the telly in which MonicaÂ’’s cleaner said to her, ““Mrs. Bing, this tile cleaner is terrific” and Monica said “Really? I made it myself itÂ’s one part amonia, one part lemon juice and a secret ingredient.”” The cleaner asked, ““What’Â’s the secret ingredient?”” I leant forward listening closely, only to have Monica dash my hopes: “”What you think IÂ’’m going to tell you my secret ingredient?”” Yup, I guess I’Â’m a housewife now, alright.
A housewife and out of touch with “the young people” as I understand they are known. Let me give you an example. A friend of mine who is a competition lawyer said of a small town in England, ““I went to a rave there.””
Me: What a rave, a rave??
Her: No, a raid, you know, where we turn up at a company’Â’s office and go through their stuff looking for incriminating papers.
Me: Oh right. Do you go to raves?
Her: No.
Mr Waffle: I donÂ’’t think that they have raves any more.
Me: Really?
Him: No, I haven’Â’t read about them in the paper in ages.
Roll on 40. And has anyone seen my glasses?
poggle
on 10 March 2006 at 10:34
Oops! Hippo birdies!
Knobber
on 10 March 2006 at 10:46
bon anniversaire waffleroo
jackdalton
on 10 March 2006 at 14:14
Hap’birty, ‘waf… you Oldie you 🙂
poggle
on 10 March 2006 at 14:17
You got the Doc to come out of hiding!!
Beth (Homepage)
on 10 March 2006 at 14:35
Happy Birthday! You don’t look a day over 28. You know, I assume.
groupie
on 10 March 2006 at 14:51
Happy Birfday. I love the idea that the career diplomat might be taking the easy route out.
kristin (Homepage)
on 10 March 2006 at 15:17
happy happy birthday! you ought to go enjoy yourself and take in a rave. or a raid. either sounds preferable to getting the little men to sleep.
happy b’day!!
xo
Friar Tuck
on 10 March 2006 at 16:24
Or as I once heard someone say, why didn’t you have children when your parents were young enough to take care of them?
Minkleberry
on 10 March 2006 at 19:49
Happy birthday. And gaunt and hollow is in, don’t you know- just look at Terri Hatcher xxx
Lilo
on 10 March 2006 at 20:32
Many happy returns Ms Waffle. You’re not the only person born in 1969 wondering how it is that 40 seems to be galloping up so fast.
bobble (Homepage)
on 11 March 2006 at 00:16
I think it’s only natural to feel ten year younger than you actually are and surprise yourself when you realise you aren’t. I do it constantly. My last rave was 1990 by golly.
disgruntled
on 11 March 2006 at 12:53
>Happy Birthday … I’m younger (by a couple of weeks but still, these things are important) but even so managed to humiliate myself at work by asking my staff what ‘crazy frog’ was. Apparently it’s some sort of popular beat combo for telephones.
Angela (Homepage)
on 11 March 2006 at 13:30
Happy happy Birthday! To celebrate, I will be throwing a huge rave in my basement. We will be serving energy drinks, and will only allow admittance to those carrying a hard boiled egg.
beachhutman
on 12 March 2006 at 00:17
Happy birthday Young Waffle.
belgianwaffle
on 12 March 2006 at 21:10
Oooh, thank you all for kind birthday wishes and sweetie bonanza. You’re all younger than me, aren’t you? And tell me, do you really need hard boiled eggs to get into raves?
Norah (Homepage)
on 13 March 2006 at 11:13
Happy birthday Waffly. Ibet the secret ingredient is bicarb of soda.
belgianwaffle
on 14 March 2006 at 09:06
Thank you, thank you Norah. Should I try it or would that just be too sad…back at work this time 3 weeks. Goodness gracious me.
dmts
on 14 March 2006 at 22:05
happy belated birthday Ms Waffle – let me tell you, as someone on the down-hill slide into the decade that is being hailed as the new 40’s that the view isn’t too bad at all. (although it’s a fairly gin-fuelled view!)
belgianwaffle
on 21 March 2006 at 20:58
Ooh gin fuelled, how lovely…
They Love Me
The intro – I’m going for warm and humourous here.
Mrs. Waffle is a harassed mother of three small children [one two year old and five month old twins] who is based in Belgium and has been writing a blog for a number of years. Allegations that she got this gig by attending an ante natal course with the lifestyle editor [and his wife and Mr. Waffle, she hastens to add] are not entirely unfounded. Though I am sure that you would agree with her that having a baby is going to extreme lengths to get an appearance on the website of a magazine, however illustrious, especially when
one realises that she could just have emailed and asked.
The text (something Belgian related as requested):
Fitting In
I have spent more time in Belgium than many of my fellow ex-pats. My parents, for their own obscure and possibly nefarious reason, took us to Heverlee for a weekÂ’’s camping every summer for many years. My father took us to see the Plan Incliné (a wonder of Belgian engineering – and what little girl wouldnÂ’’t like to see a large lock? Oh, stop sniggering). I shopped with my mother in city2 when it was a sparkling new shopping centre. I worked here from 1993-1995, 1998-2000 and returned here in 2003. Belgium is the country where all my children are born. Mind you, they are not little Belgians; it takes a lot more than just being born here to be a Belgian. I think however, the high point of my integration into Belgian society occurred last week.
I was wandering around trying to manoeuvre my double buggy into the shops at Porte de Namur. I was hindered, not just by the dimensions of the buggy but by the fact that it appeared to set off security alarms in the shops; truly I am blessed. I was perhaps a little crabby with the pleasant man in a scarf who approached me with an outstretched hand. ““Hello,”” he said. ““Whatever it is, IÂ’m not buying it”,” I thought crossly. ““Remember me? I’Â’m the waiter from the Rose Blanche“”. And then, I did remember him, he looked a bit different in his civvies, but he had made the Rose Blanche our regular stopping point in the Grand Place.
Like all foreigners, we used to go to the Roy d’Espagne but despite the presence of high chairs, the place is horribly child hostile (if you are childless, you might like to make a mental note of its suitability for you). The waiters hate you, your buggy and your offspring and make no effort to hide it. The Rose Blanche is an altogether more sophisticated and less draughty establishment boasting no high chairs and a large open fire. You might, therefore, be forgiven for thinking that children would not be particularly welcome, but you would be wrong. The staff there are lovely. This particular waiter once gave the Princess seven pieces of chocolate (you know, the piece of chocolate that is your statutory right with every cup of tea served in Belgium) which she promptly stuffed into her mouth before her horrified mother could relieve her of them – but his intentions were undoubtedly good and earned him a disgusting chocolatey smile from herself.
Anyway when this waiter finished cooing over the boys and saying he hoped to see them soon in the café, he took himself off leaving me feeling all warm and fuzzy towards the Belgians. Yes, they love me, of course I fit in, they’d be lost without meÂ….
Comments
poggle
on 10 March 2006 at 09:29
And was madam running up the curtains after all that chocolate? My nephew used to go doolally after much less than that.
beachhutman
on 12 March 2006 at 00:20
Never mind the CURTAINS.
But the danger – for sure – is that they’ll grow up believing chips need mayo.
{WHAT? There are other Belgian traditions? Nah}
belgianwaffle
on 12 March 2006 at 21:11
Thank you Bobble. Pog, yes. BHM, at a birthday party at McDos this am (too hideous to speak about) chips were served with mayo and ketchup. Felt you should know.
Fame!
For most of the next week I will be here. You are free to guess whether this is because:
a) The Bulletin magazine did an extensive trawl through potential expat bloggers based in Brussels and selected me to do a weekÂ’s guest blogging on the basis of my entertaining writing and penetrating insights; or
b) I know the lifestyle editor of the Bulletin.
If I am feeling energetic, I will also post my entries here. I may even meta-blog and talk about the challenge of thinking up material for the Bulletin. YouÂ’’d enjoy that.
Comments
chintzybling
on 09 March 2006 at 13:00
Well done by the way!
poggle
on 09 March 2006 at 13:06
Gosh – fame!
expat in california
on 09 March 2006 at 16:44
After reading your blog for the last year and thinking “I wonder who’ll play the Princess in the movie version?” – your big break is imminent! Congrats and keep it up – I am hooked on the adventures of the Waffles!
Friar Tuck
on 09 March 2006 at 16:54
I suppose you won’t be associating with the likes of us anymore, not now that you’re famous and all.
belgianwaffle
on 12 March 2006 at 21:07
Thank you Chintzy. Um, yeah, pog, you lived here, the Bulletin? Hello Expat lurker, thank you, are you Irish, just curious. That’s right FT, when is your blog going live?
poggle
on 13 March 2006 at 09:00
I didn’t live there, waffley – just visited a few times when the FFF was working over there …
belgianwaffle
on 14 March 2006 at 09:05
Well, pog, I think all the same, you probably know what the Bulletin is like…
poggle
on 14 March 2006 at 09:09
I probably do, waffley – I’ve lived outside the UK quite a lot and I don’t think those expat papers vary much ..