Children: Put on Spongebob, please, please, please.
Me: Alright, alright, alright.
Michael: Not in French.
Me: It’s French or nada.
Michael: Oh, not Nada, ok then French please.
Poor Michael, as though “nada” were another new language I am about to pull out of my back pocket and force him to learn.
Some links for today.
I am indebted to the ever brilliant Ms. Kellaway for drawing my attention to this piece on spiders and this on pie charts.
You need to be Irish to appreciate this piece on the planning process in Ireland. Or maybe you don’t, who knows what planning is like in distant lands?
You know the way professions seem to run in families, lawyers beget lawyers, doctors beget doctors etc. Well, this would seem to have reached epidemic proportions in Irish politics.
And finally, some disappointing news about family dinners from the parentonomics man:
There are studies showing that family dinnertime is a good thing. Dinner is where the meaningful conversations take place. From this, I take it that continual pleading to sit still or eat your vegetables or don’t wipe your dirty face on your shirt doesn’t cut it. Read more.
French
The other night, Daniel woke me up in the middle of the night. He was crying. “What is it?” I asked anxiously. “Please don’t make me watch Sponge Bob in French anymore.”
Despite having very little visible French, Michael still often uses French syntax when speaking in English. He generally describes injuries thus: “I’m sore at my knee”.
The Princess speaking about the generosity of a waiter which I considered significant and she considered no more than her due: “He only gave me one tablette, in fairness.”
Irish
I am doing a short Irish course. No sniggering. This may merit a post of its own in due course, there’s something to look forward to. I was telling the principal in the children’s school about this and the Princess interrupted me (sharper than a serpent’s tooth etc.) and said “Tá Gaeilge uafásach aige.”* In unison, the principal and I snapped back “aici!”**. I tentatively suggested to Mr. Waffle that he might like to speak to me in Irish as well as speaking to the children in French and he put his head in his hands. I am taking this as a no.
*”He speaks terrible Irish”
** “She!”
Me (singing): Free, free, set them free, if you love someone set them free.
Princess: No, Mummy, if you love someone, set him or her free.
Me: Listen to the seagulls.
Colleague: Yes, they are very excitable today.
Me: Imagine, before this building was here, centuries ago when the Vikings were here, even before that when there was no Dublin at all, the same seagulls were screeching around the sky on this very site.
Colleague: Well, hardly the same seagulls.
Me: OK, not exactly the same seagulls…
I see that Finslippy has trouble getting out the door in the morning. So do we. Part of this is because I am a late person and Mr. Waffle is a punctual person. Part of this is because the children move at the speed of flies caught in treacle and we often have to dress all three of them to try to hurry them up and get them out the door.
Take a random morning, at 7.45 Michael came into me screaming. He had dreamt that I had gone to Cork on the train and left him behind. No persuasion of mine (including my presence) could persuade him that I had not committed this sin. I am slightly hoist by my own petard here as I have very vivid dreams myself and can be quite cross with my loving husband for transgressions of which I have only dreamed. Michael continued to scream from 7.45 until we bundled him into the car at 8.45. Daniel was initially cross but calmed down and the Princess was largely good.
When we got into school, the Princess insisted that I accompany her to her classroom on the 4th floor. I panted up. Since I had gone all that way, I decided I might as well check something with the teacher. The other night the Princess came home asking for a dictionary for school. She was unclear as to what kind of dictionary it was. Was it an Irish/English dictionary or an English dictionary or an Irish dictionary? Also, there was no dictionary on her booklist. Was there some approved kiddie dictionary that I should buy? When I asked the teacher about this, it turned out that they were not using dictionaries at all. It was pure fantasy. She sounded so convincing though. She was absolutely mortified by my conversation with the teacher and turned tail and fled back down the four flights of stairs and out to the front door where her father was waiting for me. Between us we bullied and cajoled her back up the four flights of stairs and into the classroom. I really felt for her. I remember myself, the occasional awful juddering moment when school and home and truth and fantasy collided. Oh well.
Is it any wonder I’m exhausted when I get to work?