Family

I am visiting my parents for the weekend.  Mr. Waffle is minding the children alone.  My heart bleeds for him. 

My father seems to be recovering apace.  Alas, on the day he emerged from hospital (last Sunday), the downstairs toilet broke.  Obviously, getting a plumber in to fix the toilet is out of the question in boom time Ireland, so for the past week my father has been traipsing up and down to the bathroom, despite the fact that he has strict instructions to only climb the stairs once a day.

Today, I sourced a thingy to attach the handle to the flushing device. Perhaps I do not have a long term future in the plumbing industry as I now have no recollection of what it was called. I removed the lid from the toilet cistern and spent half an hour kneeling on the toilet lid wrestling under water (clean water, I like to think, it goes into the cistern before it goes into the toilet) with a pliers and a singularly unyielding piece of metal while fielding helpful comments from my mother.  I fixed it.  I am very proud.  Let us hope it remains fixed, at the very least, until I leave tomorrow.

A while ago poor Michael was sick. Nothing serious, just a runny nose, a cough and a bit of a temperature. But, if I put him down, he roared. It was one of my half days and I had tried to nap in the afternoon because I was tired after a difficult night with Michael and had a slight cold of my own but anyone will tell you that, even if your twin babies are asleep with their minder, having a little girl poke you in the eyelids is not conducive to napping. So we went to the supermarket, hung out clothes, fed the neighbours’ cats and generally laboured for the afternoon. The childminder left me on my own with all my children about 6 (terror) and, unexpectedly, Mr. Waffle was stuck late at work (disaster).

By 7.30 the boys were cranky and tired, particularly Michael, but every time I tried to put him to bed he would wake up and cry. Perhaps the whooping from the other two didn’t help. While I was in the bathroom running the bath for the two healthy ones, Daniel was putting his new found crawling skills to good effect in the bedroom and I kept darting in to check that he was alright. I couldn’t put Michael down because he was deeply miserable and the Princess was lying in our bed saying “I’m sick, I’m sick, pay attention to me not to Michael, Mummy come here”. Under other circumstances, it wouldn’t have been a crisis, but I was so tired and it seemed to me that they all wanted me immediately and I couldn’t split myself in three so I shouted at the Princess “You are not sick, you are being a pain”. I had never shouted at her before. I have occasionally gone into another room, stuffed a towel in my mouth and had a rewarding silent scream, but I had never shouted at her. It was absolutely dreadful. She went pink, then white, then pink again. Daniel who I had just plumped down on the bed thought that I was shouting at him and he began to cry in terror, big round tears coursing down his little chubby cheeks (Michael was still in my arms and completely indifferent, I can’t feel that he is the sensitive one among my children). It was awful. I started to cry myself, the combination of guilt and self-pity proving irresistible. I picked up Daniel to comfort him and Michael started to cry because he was not now in my arms. The Princess looked at me in horror – what’s wrong, Mummy? “Nothing” I said sniffing “I just can’t manage everyone and look, Michael is crying now”. She hopped up and put her arms around Michael (who screamed some more at this unnerving development) and said “Don’t you mind him, Mummy, I’ll look after him.” You know how it is, once someone is nice to you when you start to cry, all you can do is cry some more. As I rescued Michael from his sister’s embrace and kept an arm round a more quietly sobbing Daniel (who later in the evening squealed in terror when I put him sitting on the bed – happy memories, clearly), she said “Mummy, when will you be happy again?” So I said that I would be happy by the time she counted to 60 (that’s one minute, everything is a pedagogical opportunity for the pushy parent, you know) and so, I gathered myself together and faced into the remainder of the evening and, I suppose, we all survived.

I have registered to vote in the Belgian communal elections on October 8. How proud I am of this fact. How I have lorded it over other expats who have not registered to vote on the feeble grounds that voting is compulsory, once you have registered, and the fine for not doing so is hefty. How I have spoken eloquently of doing my democratic duty. How I should have known I was riding for a fall.

You may have noticed that it has been a bit quiet here lately. Partly this has been because of our ongoing dispute with Mr. Gates, partly, it is because I have been travelling for most of the past week but largely it has been because my father has been having open heart surgery and I was too scared to blog about it in case I, somehow, jinxed matters. But, almost miraculously, he seems to be recovering well from a second bout between his ribs and a hacksaw wherein his ribs came off worst. Obviously, the bout with the hacksaw was followed by a number of people poking around his beating heart to ensure that it would stay doing just that. And since the last bypass has lasted 20 years, I am cautiously optimistic that all will be well. Today the patient was sitting up in bed asking for the newspaper. But we all got something of a shock. My sister flew home from India last weekend. After much agonising, I decided that I might be more useful when he came out of hospital and, upon my husband’s nobly volunteering to mind the children, rushed to book a trip to Cork for the weekend of October 8.

Ah, October 8, just how hefty do you think that those fines are?

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?

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.

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.