Her: When I grow up I want to be a fishmonger?
Me: Why sweetheart?
Her: I want to know about fish.
Later.
Her: When I grow up, I want to be a thief. Pause. I don’t want to go to prison though. Further pause. Mummy, you said children don’t go to prison, didn’t you?
Princess: Mummy, Mummy come quickly Michael is playing with electricity.
I arrive in to find Michael has plugged in the television and turned it on. He is sitting mutinously on the couch, clutching the remote and challenging me to remove it from him on pain of hysterics.
Please note that his older sister still does not know how to turn on the television.
We had a parent-teacher meeting for the Princess the week before last which I found very comforting. Her teacher showed an admirable level of knowledge about our little girl which, considering that there are 26 kids in the class is, I think, no mean feat. She showed us how the Princess was progressing on acquiring the range of skills that children are supposed to know by the end of the year and it was all very welcome and illuminating. That child is so like me (she is a fidget – when I eat dinner in Cork, my father places all the condiments out of my reach so that I will not irritate him by unconsciously playing with them – and a daydreamer) and her father (she is too cautious to do many of the exercises in gym and she is stubborn as a mule). For me, what was best was that she said that the Princess was very like 70% of children and just didn’t make friends in a way that we would understand the term. I can see that this is true from her interactions with other children but I’m relieved to hear that its completely normal.
Our flight from Brussels to Dublin was delayed by two miserable hours, one of which was spent in the airport and one on the tarmac at Brussels Airport. While at Brussels airport, a kind man with the most extraordinary socks admired our children. He looked vaguely familiar and I asked had we met but he said he thought not. We chatted on, he was pleasant to the children. He looked v. familiar. Did he live in Brussels? No. Some further discussion revealed that he was “in the grocery trade”. And then I recognised Supermarket colossus Senator Fergal Quinn and I tell you what, come the next senate elections, he’s going to get my vote – he was both pleasant and unassuming. No, I have no idea what his politics are, it just shows, it’s still worth kissing babies in politics. We met lots of other people we know and lots of them knew him as well so in the end we had a big group of people chatting together around our fratchety children. Alas, though everyone said how lovely they were (tactful people), nobody had any occasion to remark that they were well-behaved because we were not. The plane offered us the traditional helping of MEPs (Prionsias de Rossa and Avril Doyle both looking a bit grumpy) and, of course, Commissioner McCreevy sitting up the front looking a bit self conscious, I thought.
Anyway, they were obviously all a bit peckish as the flight was two hours delayed with the deeply unwelcome result that those in the middle of the plane had a choice of crisps or shortbread for lunch. We arrived in Dublin airport crabby and hungry and the purchase of two sandwiches for the scandalous price of 9 euros only abated one of these problems. I am not a fan of Dublin airport but I will say for them that the presence of Santa dispensing sweets in the arrivals hall certainly built up a bit of good will. We knew he was the real Santa because he knew we were going to see Grandma and Granddad. Imagine.
However, all that was yesterday and today has been a much better and more peaceful day. And we don’t have to travel again until Monday when we get the train to Cork.
Happy Winter Solstice.
Following an admirable tradition thought up by the Dutch Mama, soft toys in our house are called after their donors. The Princess won a giraffe at the fair and we asked the stall holder his name so that we could pass it on to the giraffe (suitably feminised as the giraffe was definitely a girl).
“Francoise” said our girl “what a strange name”. Her father and I protested that it was a classic French name. “Like Manon”. She shook her head. “Or Sophie.” “No, but”, she volunteered hopefully, “we have two Imanes in our class”.
I don’t write much about work here but I think this little vignette gives a flavour of what it’s like:
Polish colleague: Did you enjoy N [his boss]’s party?
Me: Yes, she throws an excellent party. What time did you leave at?
Him [sheepishly]: Actually, I didn’t. N had to put me to bed.
Me: Goodness.
Him: Thank God I’m gay, otherwise it would have been really embarrassing.
The office has been one great love in of parties and presents over the past week. A male colleague had to flee the office saying “the estrogen in here is overpowering”.
Have I mentioned before that I enjoy my job? And not just for the end of year partying, but possibly also for the reasons outlined by Alice here:
“It’s hard to admit that sometimes you’re happier when you can be away from your kids for a while. Working mothers still feel guilty that their careers are important to them. There are certain antiquated notions to which we cling: Children are the light of our lives; women would rather nurture than achieve; when children grow up and leave us we wither away.”
I tried not to but I have to say it; you know I love my children, don’t you?