I always think about my own mother on Mother’s Day. I still miss her. I suppose it would be strange if I didn’t.
My little family dutifully delivered for me despite the fact that it comes hot on the heels of my birthday which is always a big effort. I had a very nice breakfast, flowers and a card and, best of all, I didn’t have to get up at 6.30 to drop herself to the airport as her father kindly did so.
I trust you had a satisfactory day yourself, if you celebrate.
When I was growing up my mother often talked about the man made famine in Ukraine in the 1930s. I have to say, I was not particularly interested at the time but it occurs to me now that my mother was born into a farming family in 1936 and that that famine probably had a direct impact on her family and her neighbours, at the very least in terms of what crops they were growing. No wonder she spoke about it, she must have heard a great deal about the damage that central planning did to Ukraine.
My cleaner is Ukrainian. She’s about the same age as me and I do think about what she has had to put up with in her life time compared to me. To talk to her is awful, I feel so helpless in the face of her misery and distress. She has relatives stuck over there and I think she is going out of her mind with worry and I can’t do anything useful. She said sadly, “All the Irish people are being very kind but it is too terrible.” It is indeed.
My neighbours have taken in a Ukrainian family. She’s a doctor and there are apparently close links between Irish and Ukrainian doctors (who knew?). Herself and her husband who lived in a grown ups only house until now have been amazed just how much energy and enthusiasm a nine year old has. The child also has a medical condition which means he has been stuck at home for Covid as well. How utterly grim. It’s all just grim. The neighbourhood whatsapp group has been hopping with offers of help but it all feels very limited. I listened to a wonderful – thought very sad – podcast where people talk about their home cities in Ukraine. A man who was a couple of years ahead of Mr. Waffle in school was working in the Ukraine and was killed.
Honestly, if this were fiction, you would say it was too unlikely – a conflict with so few shades of grey, a heroic president who was formerly a comedian, a full scale invasion in Eastern Europe.
This year he has brought us a four day weekend and, honestly, nothing could be more welcome.
Poor Daniel is sick though recovering. A negative Covid test but a bit miserable all the same. Mr. Waffle, Michael and I turned up for 11.30 mass in our local church only to discover that masses were at weekday rather than Sunday times. Mass was over. Alas. Michael rejoiced, naturally.
Trying to find out where to get a 12.00 mass in Dublin is very difficult. The archdiocese categorises by church and while I can see that might be handy in a general way, it was not useful on this occasion. I found an excellent English website which listed all the masses in Dublin by time and then by location. Not so godless after all, it appears. Anyway we went in to town to the church in Whitefriar street to find them locking the gates against us. No 12 o’clock mass. We actually tried to visit the other week to take in its shrine to St. Valentine and relics and the door was briskly (and I felt slightly gleefully) shut against us by the same man. The house of the Lord is always open indeed. Mind you we had had to skirt the parade to get there and even at that early hour, not all of the parade goers seemed sober. So perhaps a wise precaution on balance. We eventually got 12.30 mass in St. Theresa’s on Clarendon street where they had gone all out with the music and had a lovely solo singer and all manner of musical instruments including perhaps bagpipes? Anyway they played us out to the quintessential St. Patrick’s day hymn, “Hail Glorious St. Patrick” very nicely done.
Mr. Waffle and I tried to get home and around the parade but to no real avail so eventually we gave it up as a bad job and watched a bit of the parade. Views were poor but I love to see people leaning out of the windows upstairs in city centre buildings (it reminds me of this picture):
Then we had lunch in town and went home about 3 before it all became a bit too raucous. A lot of people waving Ukrainian flags as well as Irish ones and the authorities had bedecked the city in both. This chimes with our official St. Patrick’s day message which focuses on Ukraine.
In unrelated news, I found where all the jam jars in the utility room have disappeared to; they’re hidden in the shed. Our facilities for summer jam and jelly making are intact. And the way things are going, we might need them.
Finally Aunt is still in hospital, seems to be reasonably well but the hospital is now closed to visitors due to surging Covid cases. It hasn’t gone away, I suppose although there was nary a mask to be seen in town today. Another colleague tested positive yesterday but I am now much less unnerved by this than I used to be. I wonder is that entirely a good thing.
My mother-in-law was 80 on March 1. She has been unwell for a number of years suffering from dementia. When she was well, she was a delight. I found her lovely company. She was clever, interesting and kind. She gave very good advice but only, and this is crucial, when asked for it. She had a fund of phrases which I always found very calming though, possibly not very practical. When something went wrong, she would often say serenely, “We live in an imperfect world.” She was fascinated by small children and, of course, particularly her own grandchildren. She was always telling us about Piaget (she trained as a psychologist) and I learnt a surprising amount about child development from her given that I was pretty much always exhausted when the insights were being shared. She and my father-in-law rented houses in Kerry every year when the children were small and all the family went. Those holidays were a godsend and the children loved them and loved being with their cousins. I wish she were still well and could enjoy her birthday; we all really miss the person she was. Alas, we live in an imperfect world.
I am the child of two academics. Mr. Waffle is the child of hippies. I believe in my heart of hearts that everything is a competition. Mr. Waffle thinks nothing is a competition. In fact, “It’s not a competition” is one of his favourite phrases and he once applied it to an Olympic race. To be clear, the Olympics are a competition.
I am a pushy parent. Mr. Waffle is a “relax and let the child develop; let the child explore and learn without direction; let the child discover what he/she likes” parent. Do you think my children would be able to speak French now, if I let him have his way? I think not. However, I am forced to confess that he and his brother and sister are very accomplished. Mr. Waffle’s brother is a superb piano player having developed an interest in the piano and never having been forced to play a scale (I mean, he did play scales, obviously, but by himself out of interest). Mr. Waffle didn’t like piano and gave up and nobody cared. What kind of a world is this?
We bought Michael a guitar over lock down and he played a bit when we got it but then stopped. He’d had some lessons in school pre-Covid and expressed an interest so we got it for him as a possible lock down hobby but it just didn’t seem to take. Over the last couple of months though he’s picked it up again without pressure from anyone (my parenting method means I can only have so many irons in the fire and guitar playing is not one of them). I hear him strumming in his room the whole time and he has got immeasurably better without anyone forcing him to practice or making him do lessons.
Point to Mr. Waffle. You will recall that everything is a competition.
*If you are reminded of “This Be the Verse“, please keep your views to yourself.
My 92 year old aunt had a fall and is in hospital but she seems alright – nothing broken – but still, sub-optimal. I am gracing Cork with my presence today so that I can visit her in hospital. I am assured hospital visits are now allowed. If not, I will be very irate when I get there.
Updated to add: I got in. She was pleased to see me. She seemed pretty well. I left her with the Guardian and she was pleased.
