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Archives for August 2006

Kerry

31 August, 2006
Posted in: Family

It all seems so long ago. What with the trauma of Doggy and the drive to Dublin and everything (no sign, since you ask, no reply to the pathetic fax either). The parents-in-law rented a house to which we were all invited to stay (and do your parents-in-law organise holidays for you? No, hah, you should have chosen your husband with greater care). Our holidays are now officially the cheapest part of your year as we live off our loving parents.

Despite rain almost every day, we also had sunshine almost every day – that’s Kerry for you. The publishing exec who spent all her childhood summers in Kerry had memories of golden sunshine and she packed accordingly. On her first morning (need I say that the Princess was overwhelmed with excitement upon catching sight of her aunt – for a normally articulate child, all she could do was yelp) she arrived down to breakfast (early, the disadvantage of being beloved by the Princess, she likes the objects of her affection up good and early) scantily clad. She was preparing to go to Skellig Michael with the piccolo cugino and his insane parents (by the time we had arrived they had already been kayaking and visited Daniel O’Connell’s house, later they snorkelled and the brother-in-law ran up a mountain – you may determine on which of these ventures they brought their son). Her father and I looked at her converse runners, skinny jeans and skimpy top dubiously. Oh she said airily “I have a woolly jumper”. How we laughed when we realised that she meant something like this rather than this. So off they went. The Princess and I had contemplated going but were spared the ordeal by inertia. For ordeal it was. As the publishing exec said “those monks were hardy”. As you know hermits like to retreat to the desert. Ireland has always been thin on deserts (that rain again) so they went to Skellig Michael as next best thing, it being remote and miserable. They all came back looking like refugees on the telly (except the piccolo cugino, who seemed fine). The publishing exec said that they had sat on the boat on the way out with a crate around their feet to try to keep warm and while the boatman’s assertion that there was a covered space on his craft was technically accurate, I think that the party had envisaged something more than a small square of tarpaulin which would cover only one person at a time. The island was very beautiful and so on but the steep steps, no handrail and knowledge that they would have to go back on the boat kept the party suitably nervous.

Meanwhile, we were having a lovely time back at base deploying the expert babysitting services that were a feature of our time in Ireland. At least once every day we went out with no children at all. Gasp. We went to a smart restaurant. The unfortunate publishing exec spent hours on the beach with the Princess starting before 9 one morning and only coming back at lunch time. No greater felicity can be imagined for all parties involved. Except maybe the publishing exec. And probably, the parents-in-law were tried pretty high the night we came back to find all three children up and the Princess bouncing off the walls saying “this is ridiculous, we should be in bed”.

We got to see a bit more of the piccolo cugino on this trip. He is the best child. Smiley, gorgeous and sleeps through the night. Of course, my children are smiley and gorgeous too but you will spot the significant respect in which they differ. I wonder could it be diet. I watched in awe as my sister-in-law spooned home made mush (cinnamon and sweet potato) into her willing son’s mouth. “What are you feeding the boys?” my mother-in-law asked me, perhaps worried that I would feel left out. “Um, I forgot to look at the label”. “Maybe carrot” opined the Princess looking at the orange gloop in the bowl. A low moment. When the piccolo cugino abandoned one of his meals in Kerry, I surreptitiously swooped it up and fed it to the boys. They were delighted. It was unfortunate that, as they finished it off, the piccolo cugino decided that he would like some more; I can see a lifetime of this torture by his big cousins ahead of him. Poor mite.

The Princess had a fabulous holiday and, if she’s happy we all are. She adores her relatives and seeing her interacting with them makes me sad that we don’t live in Ireland. We went to the beach every day. I swam twice and one of those times it wasn’t raining. We went for walks, we went to the hotel for drinks. It was very like the holidays I had with my parents and we loved it. Even the kiddies in the hotel were like the ones from my youth. No ipods, no playstations, just down in the basement playing with the moth eaten toys in the game room.

Back in Dublin we got together a number of our friends with children and sat around marvelling at our progeny and exchanging news briefly between bouts of “what a gorgeous baby, clever boy, good girl etc.”. Unfortunately, one friend does not have children. The poor man, he should never have been invited. It was hard to tell which part of the afternoon was the worst, was it when I sneezed on him (I seem to have become allergic to Dublin), when one of my friends and I sat opposite him on the sofa breastfeeding or when the Princess came in and took off all her clothes? I bet he’s really keen to have kids himself now or maybe allergies?

The tragic incident of the dog in the plane

30 August, 2006
Posted in: Princess

Last night we got in about 9.00pm and eventually found ourselves in the baggage hall with two hungry boys in a buggy, two large bags, innumerable smaller bags, two car seats, two tired cranky parents and one hyper small girl (high as a kite on smarties).

Me: Where’s Travel Doggy?

Her: He’s in my pocket.

Me: No he’s not.  Is he in your bag?

Her: No.

Me: Did you leave him on the plane?

Her (mournfully): Yes, I forgot him.

Me: How could you do that?

Her: I only have one pair of hands and Daddy was saying hurry up and the boys were crying and I had to put on my coat and…

Him: It’s our fault.

Me (about to collapse in tears – yes, really, it was a long day):  I know, I know.

Me: Let’s try to get back on the plane and see whether we can find him.

Him: Are you mad?  Honestly, you’re more upset about this than she is, let’s go home.

Me (swooping her up in my arms): I’m going to bargain with the passport official.

The passport official sent us to lost property.  The lost property guy said that the plane we came in on had already left (well, we were last off, we had already spent some time on a toilet run and feeding hungry babies takes time also) and doggy was probably on his way back to Ireland.  We got a number of contact details but my heart sank. If you saw a filthy cuddly toy would you keep it or chuck it out?  Meanwhile, the Princess was anxiously tugging my arm – “tell him that Doggy has a shamrock in his mouth and floppy ears, so that they can find him”.

We emerged into arrivals with Mr. Waffle pulling two bags, the Princess seated on my shoulders while I pushed the buggy with a car seat and various bags balanced precariously on the handles (no trollies, mais naturellement, it was that kind of day), to see a single business man leaping into the only taxi big enough to take 5 people.  Eventually home by 10.30.  The boys were surprised and delighted to see their home but, alas, anxious to play.  Nevertheless, they were unceremoniously bundled into their beds much to their upset.  The Princess was a tougher nut to crack but, eventually, Mr. Waffle and I were able to collapse into bed whereupon Michael woke up with a nasty cough.  He spent the remainder of the night in our bed where he alternated sleeping with bouts of weepy coughing and sniffing and delighted handclapping (I said that they were pleased to be home).  Mr. Waffle and I are feeling fresh as daisies today.

Furthermore, you will be disappointed to hear, this morning the Belgian authorities told Mr. Waffle that they had found no trace of Doggy and the Aer Lingus automated reply said, if you have a complaint put it in writing otherwise go to our website which will have everything you need (patently not the case).  He sent them a pitiful fax (text below for your delectation) but I am not hopeful.

“My three-year-old daughter left her favourite toy on flight EI 638 from Dublin to Brussels last night.  By the time we realised, it was too late to get back to the plane.  The Brussels airport lost property office says it does not deal with items left on planes, and the ground handling firm (Flightcare) has not seen the toy.  Both suggest we should try you.

The toy (”Doggy”) is a small brown dog with a shamrock in its mouth.  It is small and worn but it means the world to a little girl.  If it has been found we would be extremely grateful to get it back (we can send somebody to collect it in Dublin airport, or pick it up in Brussels).

Could you get back to me on the above numbers or by e-mail?”

Six degrees of separation

29 August, 2006
Posted in: Ireland

So, I was off with no internet in Caherdaniel.  Remote, secluded west Kerry.  Also wet west Kerry.  I’ll come back to that.  What with the remoteness and the seclusion but presumably not the wet, west Kerry appears to be attractive to the famous. I was somewhat surprised to see a statue to Charlie Chaplin in Waterville.  I was even more surprised to hear from my mother-in-law that when hitching round the ring of Kerry with a friend (this is the kind of bohemian family I have married into) in her youth, she ran into the famous comic.  They both pretended not to recognise him and had a chat about the weather (wet, of course).  My mother-in-law had her camera in her bag but decided to leave him in peace but when they were parting her friend blew their appearance of cool indifference by saying “Well, goodbye, Mr. Chaplin”.

Meanwhile in Dingle, many years ago, a friend of mine who is something of a celebrity in his own right his father being one of Ireland’s best known literary giants was out on a walk when he came across a lost American tramping about in the rain (that rain again).  When the American asked for help, my kind friend took him back to his hotel not deeming it safe to leave him alone in the wilds of Kerry.  They chatted on the way back and took a mild shine to each other but it was not until perusing the Kerryman the next day that Billy realised that he had been touched by greatness because Tom Cruise in a press conference had said “I wouldn’t be here at all, if my good friend Billy had not found me and brought me to this hotel”.  He was over to make that grisly flick “Far and Away“.

Finally, as you will be aware, everyone in Ireland is closely linked to Bono, so you will be unsurprised to hear that the house my parents-in-law rented for 20 odd years in Caherdaniel (though not this year, alas) was owned by Bono’s uncle.  Apparently there was a lot of speculation locally that it might be left to Bono (though why this would be when the man has children and grandchildren of his own is unclear) when he died but he obviously decided that Bono had enough stuff and the pop superhero and his family were not, in fact, holidaying down the road from us.  However, I know that you would like to hear that had Mr. Waffle played his cards right, he could have, as a young man, babysat for Bono’s little cousin Rupert.

 

Hello, world.

28 August, 2006
Posted in: Family

Did you miss me?  I was in deepest darkest Kerry going cold turkey from the internet.  I would have updated yesterday but I was still recovering from the trauma of the previous day’s drive from Kerry to Dublin.  We set off at 10.00 and until 14.30 all was well.  From 14.30 until we reached our destination at 18.00 the following noises emanated from the back seat:

Michael – Waah, waah, waah, I hate this, let me out I hate you all, waah, waah.

Princess – I feel sick, open the window.  Close the window.  Open the window again, I feel sick.  I want to do a wee.  I am not pulling Michael’s hair.

Daniel – Gosh, I have this really loud voice, I’ve just discovered that BWAH, BHAH, BWING.

Michael – WAAH, WAAH, I hate you all, she’s pulling my hair.

Daniel – I have no hair but I have a really loud voice, let’s try that again, BAH, BWAH.

Princess – Are we there yet?  I feel sick, open the window.  Close the window, it’s too cold.

Repeat.  No fading. Updates on actual holiday to follow.  Edge of the seat stuff, I know.

Living off the fat of the land

16 August, 2006
Posted in: Family

I had my best night’s sleep in ages last night. I lay down with the Princess at 10.00 to persuade her to go back to sleep and didn’t wake up until 5.00 am when she prodded me awake with the magic words “I’ve had an accident Mummy”.  I discarded my sodden pyjamas and rooted round in the hot press for a pair that I might have left behind when I moved out of home about 14 years ago.  Why does one keep this stuff?  Did I really think that denim dungaree shorts were ever going to be fashionable again? Really?  Anyhow, I found a pair of pyjamas but there was no elastic in the bottoms (really, would it have been too much of a risk to have thrown them out in 1992?).  This morning as I wandered around the house with a baby under one arm and a dirty nappy under the other while holding up my pyjama bottoms with my teeth, my loving husband was kind enough to say how very attractive that look was.

We had decided to go to the beach and I was not to be deterred by driving rain.  Welcome to Ireland, the land that global warming forgot.  On the drive down, I kept seeing new buildings that hadn’t been there last time I was home.  Mr. Waffle looked around nervously before suggesting that I keep my eye on the road to avoid headlining in the Examiner as “Architectural novelty causes freak pile up”.  This boom just keeps on booming. 

We got to the beach and put the Princess into her anorak and wellingtons.  She and Mr. Waffle went to the beach where the Princess cowered in terror at the sight of the ocean.  Mercifully, she wasn’t afraid of the dog which attached itself to them and presented them optimistically with a stick.  I waited by the car with an awake Michael kitted out in his anorak and an asleep Daniel.  When Daniel woke up, I put Michael into the buggy where he gazed dourly at the rain coming in from the Atlantic and lashing his protective plastic sheeting.  Daniel was cranky so I went to the boot to get out a bottle for him.  I was in a bit of a rush what with the screaming and the rain and, alas, locked the key in the boot.  Darn and double darn.  I fed Daniel, put him into his anorak and he joined his brother in the buggy.  I then emptied out the back seat and floor of the car of three car seats, the nappy bag, the bag of swimming gear (you have to admire my laughable optimism) and miscellaneous junk and tried to pull down the back seat to get to the boot.  It would not budge.  I started wondering frantically what I was going to do.  Could I get my parents to bus down to us with a spare key? Would I find a locksmith or a mechanic?  Meanwhile the rain continued to pelt down on our belongings and the boys had started to wail forlornly.  Yeah, ok, you worked this out already, there was a button thing in the front to open the boot.  The key wasn’t there when I opened it because it had been in my coat pocket all along.  How we laughed.  Hah.

The day was redeemed by lunch in the Blue Haven where the lovely staff (all Polish as far as I could see – more boom) provided two high chairs, heated baby food, brought our food speedily and brought some bread in advance to stop the Princess from starving.  The food was also really good, not something that necessarily goes with kiddie friendliness.  I couldn’t help comparing it with yesterday’s lunch in Fota where the food was atrocious and there were far more kiddies yet they only had two high chairs in total rather than the five or six which the Blue Haven staff airily told us were available there.

And the winner is..

14 August, 2006
Posted in: Family, Reading etc.

Just in case you missed them in the comments section, there were three brilliant entrants for my LRB/Ayun Halliday competition.  Kind, good people one of whose reward will be an LRB sub. 

This blog is becoming interactive: you may pick a winner.  In the event that the comments are tied (or, worse, non-existent), Mr. Waffle will choose a winner.

From Heather:

In this work Halliday preents the paradigmatic shift of the breast from signified to signifier. Whilst the feminist criticism of the 20th century reclaimed the breast from cultural and fashion icon bypassing successfully the tradionalist Madonna interpretations, Halliday has created here a cultural paradigm. She has shifted the breast from feeding the infant to feeding the memory and providing a reference point which is recognisable across cultures and genders . Here marks the zeitgeist of the mammary as memory…..;

From disgruntled 

Mama Lama Ding Dong inhabits the liminal space between memoir and manual; both bildungsroman and adult cautionary tale, albeit a feminisation of these essentially masculine genres…

From daddy’s little demon:

The centrality of the breast as catalyst, vehicle and avatar for self-actualisation is key to our understanding of human development and the pyramidical relationship of biological and psychological imperatives to personal growth and fulfilment as identified by Maslow’s paradigmatic hierarchy of needs. In her seminal work, Mama Lama Ding Dong, Ayun Halliday elevates debate on the significance of the breast as spiritual and cultural icon from the general to the specific via anecdote and analysis. In so doing she captures in personal terms its transition from physical reality to subconscious motif – the mammary as remembered.

In other news, there was a near murder at the end of the road and we were all interviewed by the Guards.  The victim is critical.  All a bit alarming.  We saw nothing, of course, because we were too busy wheeling children around.  And my parents live in a nice part of town or so we thought.  The guard who interviewed me said sadly “all these nice houses ruined by the presence of students; they should really have the university outside the town like in Limerick”.  Nevertheless, it appears that no students have been fingered for the crime.

Also, I know you’d want to know, we went to Fota where Mr. Waffle and I marvelled at the giraffes running across the Cork savanna, the Princess bonded with the ducks (30 euros in to spend most of the time looking at the wretched ducks, monkeys capering alongside treated with absolute disdain) and the boys were indifferent.

Tomorrow the beach to top up the children’s sunburn.  Yeah, I know, you’re rivetted.

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