When I came home the other evening the boys were working hard on sheets of paper. They explained that they were working to foil burglars. First, they had written their names and crossed them out so that the burglars would not know that they lived here. Then, Daniel had written, “I hate you” to show that they were not welcome. Then the boys decided that this approach would not fool the hardened criminals whom they were trying to put off. So, one of them [my guess is Daniel on Michael’s instruction] wrote “Toys 1,025 4 Free” (actually 4 rfee but let us not quibble). Their plan was to stick this notice, which they had photocopied a number of times on the printer, up on various toyshops. Then, as they earnestly explained to me, the burglars would go into the toyshops and be caught by “the cops” in a sting operation.
Michael
Language
I asked the children recently whether they thought I spoke better Irish or French. Instantly, all three said “Irish, of course!” I was surprised. I can read well in French, I have been known to draft work texts in French and I speak it well enough to say anything I want to say, within reason. Alas, I have none of these skills in Irish (although I did have an excruciating work conversation in Irish on the phone during the week the memory of which makes me blush). Of course, the difference is that my Irish accent is, understandably, fine (although purists may point out that I have city Irish much further from the real thing than its country cousin) but my French accent is clearly foreign.
Feis Ceoil
The school had a singing and recitation competition on Saturday. The boys were both very brave but failed to scoop any medals. Michael took this very hard. “I try and I try, but still I don’t win,” he sobbed as the kindly adjudicator mouthed “sorry” at me over his heaving shoulders. The same adjudicator proceeded to award his sister second place in her category which she regarded as no more than her due. If I were giving out medals, I would have given one to Daniel, I think, who did his impression of a child from the Connemara Gaeltacht.
In completely unrelated news, herself walked a neighbour’s child home this afternoon and came back carrying a bag full of swag. Apparently, every day when coming home she, the childminder and the boys, meet a nice lady who lives on the street. The Princess had informed the lady that her birthday was coming, as indeed she has informed everybody. The lady acted on this information and as the Princess was passing her house this afternoon, she came out with various offerings. Unfortunately, the Princess has inherited my sense of direction so she has no idea in which house exactly her benefactress lives nor is she aware of other useful identifiers like the lady’s name. She has composed a thank you letter to hand over next time she meets the lady in the street and that is the best we can do for the moment. Who says the big city is an unfriendly place?
Busy Lives
Michael came into the parental bed looking bleary eyed this morning and greeted me with, “What are we late for today?”
Why you Should Try to Keep your Small Children away from Police Stations
To renew the children’s passports, we have to bring them to a police station and let a Garda look at them. This may or may not be because Mr. Waffle was not born in Ireland but in a country well known to harbour dangerous subversives (Canada, since you ask). So on Sunday we trooped into the station where the Gardaà duly looked the children over and pronounced that they matched the photos. During that time, I fielded the following questions from the Princess based on a series of posters on the wall:
What is rape? [Having looked at these excellent but disturbing posters]
What’s human trafficking?
What’s a drug dealer?
While doing this, I had also to break up a fist fight between the boys on the subject of Daniel’s wellingtons.
Unrelated: Praxis, please advise on the capitalisation of the title.
Round Up
Parent teacher meetings: Herself, v clever, but continues to coast along without making the slightest effort (this is all very well in primary school but I can see disaster looming in the long term). Michael, too early to tell whether clever or not, but does not apply himself, particularly to colouring (try to care but just cannot, am clearly a bad mother). Daniel, tries very hard and worries a great deal about what everyone will think of his efforts. Due to power of will alone he can now nearly, nearly read. I think I should rely on Daniel for my pension. None of them shows the slightest interest in Irish or desire to speak it despite encouragement from all quarters. Sigh.
Went to see Tutankhamun exhibition on Saturday at the request of the children who are learning about ancient Eygpt in school. We queued for an hour with our pre-purchased ticket but, as a fellow queuer pointed out, at least it wasn’t raining. It was a bit dull in the end but the children, amazingly, seemed to enjoy it. Probably because they were given headphones.