Meet Hodge.
Family
Alphabet soup
They say that God never gives you a burden you cannot carry. This is why I have three children but only two birthday parties a year.
Yesterday we celebrated the boys’ fourth birthday with their friends. Even when we sent out the invitations, I knew there were too many. We did get some refusals but then other parents brought siblings along for the hell of it. In the end there were 19 children under 7 in our tiny house. Had the weather not been fine, we would have gone insane.
The showing from school friends was disappointing. There were only three:
-U, a lovely, gentle, quiet boy who wandered around hoping that his father would come back soon;
-Z, who wedged herself between the sofa and the bookcase and only emerged in the last half hour and
-S, whose sister is a good friend of the Princess’s so was therefore invited though both boys loath him (the feeling appears to be mutual). S’s sister J came as company for the Princess. As the day went on, J started to wilt. The poor mite had a cough, a headache and a temperature. We did not have her parents’ number. Her father arrived to collect them an hour and a half late (car broke down) by which time poor J was asleep on the sofa and even I was going off her brother S.
The other 6 children invited from school didn’t come. Possibly just as well.
Montessori school produced many more attendees:
-S2 whose father asked could he drop sister C as well (age 2) – S2 was a very well-behaved little boy and C, despite my misgivings, a confident and self-contained two-year old. I was charmed by S2 who came up and kissed my hand – he will go far. S2’s father shares a name with a friend from college and cross-examination elicited the information that he is my friend’s first cousin. Small country and all that.
-D who was great and, of all the girls, the most up for participating in the running and jumping games – at one point, I saw her holding 4 boys up with a Ben 10 laser gun – her mother turns out to be a former girlfriend of the man whose wedding we attended two weeks ago – small country again;
-E who is a big, boisterous, noisy boy;
-J whose parents didn’t bother to respond to the invitation (bitter moi?) but who turned up unexpectedly with S2’s delegation and also an arm in plaster. I distinctly heard the plaster crack on at least one occasion but to be fair to J he was a very tough, chirpy child and there were no tears. I passed the information about the cracking noise on to S2 and C’s father who collected J and considered my duty done.
M who used to be the boys’ teacher in Montessori and does parties at the weekends in exchange for a fee. She face-painted and made balloons but in retrospect we would have been better off having her do crowd control in the garden.
Then there were the neighbours:
-S3 and two-year old D from next door. I was slightly startled when their father dropped them and scooted off saying, “If there are any problems, drop D back”. I had expected that, given his tender years, a parent would stay with him but no. In fact, like our other toddler C, he was no trouble. He promptly sat on top of his tractor, which had been passed over the garden fence some time previously and not returned, and stayed there. He and his sister are vegetarians and impressed me by a) staying away from the cocktail sausages and b) asking for rice cakes and carrot sticks, which were really only on the table to impress the parents, and which the other children treated with the contempt they deserved;
– M, a shy only child, asked to go home several times but in the end, stayed the course;
O, another only child but a more forceful one. She spent the afternoon in the back garden with nothing on but a party dress accessorised by goose pimples despite repeated attempts to get her into a cardigan. When her father came to collect her, I didn’t recognise him at first. “How can you prove you’re her father?” I joked on the doorstep. “You can keep her,” he said with alacrity. That’s a convincing response, I have to say.
C who is 2 and whose mother mercifully stayed with him. C, I feel got a rough deal as he had to eat the rice cakes and carrot sticks but was clearly desperate for chocolates. He lives entirely on a diet of healthy, organic food. Can this be right?
And finally ourselves:
Cousins J and G. The waffle-in-laws had hoped to drop J and depart for a couple of hours to bond with their daughter but it was not to be as we desperately needed them to stay and help with crowd control which they dutifully, and very effectively, did. We have pledged ourselves to come and repay the favour when J turns 4 in March.
The Princess, who was very virtuous – she lured Z out of her safe place between the bookcase and the sofa, made sure that she was fed and brought her upstairs to her room to play. At one point, I noticed that 2 year old C was missing and found her safely with the Princess playing with dolls.
Michael had a great time. He was a green monster (face paint) and he and friend D (also a monster) went around roaring at the other children.
Daniel enjoyed himself too but was slightly more weepy about various injustices (I wanted to be first in the race). Much of his time was spent torturing me to open presents. I always feel that it’s rude not to open presents as children arrive but after yesterday’s excitement, I can really see the merits of putting the presents aside until everyone has gone home. Almost every item the boys received was attached to cardboard backing by an intricate series of wires which required all one’s attention to unpick. Undivided attention was in short supply. I have no real idea who gave what. Pieces of important looking plastic wrapped carefully in film littered the floor, separated from the toys to whose successful functioning they were integral. We have finally and definitively lost the battle against plastic toys. We now have to swim on a sea of plastic to get anywhere. I was astounded that they got no books at all.
This motley crew had to be entertained. By far the most successful game consisted of running past Mr. Waffle (who was a monster with a scarf tied over his eyes – the advantages of a classical education) to the end of the garden.
Three legged races were less successful due to poor co-ordination and similar problems were encountered with the egg and spoon race.
Pin the tail on the donkey and find the matching card hidden in the garden were regarded as very dull by the hard chaws from Montessori (let’s put it this way, J didn’t break his arm pinning the tail on the donkey).
At one point, in the vain hope of exhausting the punters, I promised a prize for everyone who could run up and down the garden ten times. As I distributed my spot prizes (purchased in the €2 shop only the previous day), the children of the new Ireland rose up and protested to a man: I don’t want a pencil, why has he got a car?, I want the baby’s bottle full of sweets. It was hilarious and terrifying in equal measure.
Pass the parcel, musical chairs and statues had to be rejected as they would have involved the terrifying prospect of bringing everyone indoors (for music).
M toiled away inside making balloons and painting faces.
We pitched the two-man Ben 10 tent which the boys had received as a present. The children piled inside – thoughtfully removing their shoes first (they seemed to feel it was the right thing to do – we didn’t ask them to). Of course, they never put their shoes back on. We were therefore able to hit a new low in party child care. Not only did the children not wear their coats when in the back garden but most of them weren’t wearing their shoes either.
People, that was the longest two hours of my life. When I was growing up, my mother always had wonderful parties, all afternoon parties, for all of us and my father didn’t even help – I don’t ever remember him being there (though we did have Cissie – the lady who minded us). To be fair my mother had a big house and garden but even so, I have a whole new found respect for her organisational skill and daring.
There was no dinner that night. There was certainly no bath. I did my best to remove the spiderman/green monster face paint with make-up remover. I was only partially successful and the boys went into school this morning looking, respectively, pink and jaundiced.
I crawled into bed last night at 8.45 where I slept undisturbed until Michael joined me about 9.15 and put his freezing feet all over me and then again until Daniel woke me at 2.15 asking me why I had gone off with the woman in the hat. A mystery.
And, in what can only be called spectacularly poor timing, tonight I hosted my bookclub. This would merit a post all of its own under normal circumstances. Michael came downstairs every two minutes until 9.30, one of the participants got hopelessly lost and rang regularly for directions.
The evening went like this.
Michael (popping a cautious head round the door): Mummy, it’s dark, I can’t sleep.
Carry him back to bed.
Lost attendee: I’m outside a Maxol garage.
Michael: Mummy, I fell out of bed.
Carry back to bed
Lost attendee: I’m on the Dublin ring road.
Michael: Mummy, Daniel frightened me.
Lost attendee: I’m at a Superquinn.
And so on ad infinitum. My friend C suggested it was like a Beckett play and the lost attendee would never actually make it. More like a Greek play with a chorus said another as Michael yet again stuck his head round the door.
On the plus side, it won’t be my turn to host again for months.
Instructions for a virtuous sister
Firstly, we left her kit:
Then we gave her instructions:
Friday 18
Come to the house for 6.30, if you are running late, call babyminder.
You may wish to call Domino’s or dine from the richness of the fridge. DVDs under the telly.
Try to get the boys to bed about 8. They need to go to the toilet and wash their teeth before bed. They also normally get a story. Suggest you neutralise M with a book from ENVELOPE. Boys will likely reappear. Resign yourself to ensconcing them in your own bed. They will eventually fall asleep. Do not hesitate to move them – once they are asleep, they’re asleep. They may wake up wet in the middle of the night but it’s not very likely. They are likely to be wet in the morning. You will be very lucky, if you do not have to strip a bed while we are gone. Spare sheets in the hot press – you will need a waterproof one and a flannel one. The boys’ pyjamas are in the bottom drawer in their room.
M same routine (apart from bedwetting) but she will probably be happy to read to herself once safely in bed. You can let her read herself but try to get her light off by 9.30.
Collapse.
Saturday 19
Morning
You have four options:
(a) Go to GAA
(b) Go to library
(c) Go to park
(d) Something else
Options (a) to (c) are described below.
(a) If you decide to go to the GAA (car key in ENVELOPE), it starts at 9.30 and the drive is about 10 mins so you will need to set off at 9.20. Bring their hurleys which are in the round plastic white container in the shed that doesn’t have the washing machine, some water (flasks in kitchen) – should they be thirsty, and some sustaining liga – should they be unhappy. The boys’ kit should be in the drawers in their room (socks top drawer, t-shirts below and shorts third drawer). Michael is Lions and Daniel Barcelona. M can wear her tracksuit which is on top of her clothes on the wardrobe and boasts a picture of Ben 10. Everyone’s runners should be in the hall.
The boys will be playing on the grass pitch near the road and M on the all-weather pitch near the club house. If you do go, call M’s friend’s mother H. I primed her that you might be coming (she is about my age with brown hair in a bob – v. nice). Drop M with her and proceed with the boys to their pitch – you will need to put on helmets – it’s straightforward. If I were you, I would beg the trainer to make sure that, in the football match, they both get to run with the ball, otherwise they will howl. It should be over about 11 – they will all be given lollipops and the like after.
(b) If you don’t go to the GAA (and who could blame you), you might like to try the library. Library cards in the ENVELOPE – library books to be returned on the hall table. Again a driving adventure. One is nearby and small. You turn left down an alleyway immediately beside it and come out in a small on-street car park. When leaving you have to take your life in your hands and go back up the same small alleyway. They like to run up and down the ramp outside the library and I let them. V. important this library closes for lunch (1-2). Bigger library is a little further away. I have never been but parking is free and I understand it’s bigger and better. In my experience, bigger is not always better.
(c) Park: the closest is a tiny bit too far to walk so we would usually drive. However, the park is just grass so you might prefer to go to the other park which has a good playground. There is ample parking and the playground has lots to amuse the kids. Even better, there is only one exit so you can sit on a bench beside it and let the children play. Beside the playground, there is a cafe (though it’s a bit slow).
Lunchtime
The kids may eat tomato soup (in Knorr packet) and (if you’re lucky) sandwiches – cheese for Michael, ham for the others.
Party: The party is at 2.30. Presents will be wrapped and up on the bookshelf – invitation in the envelope. House is about 10/15 mins drive from us. Do your best to make children respectable but do not kill yourself. Go in with them and ask parents what time you should collect. Enjoy your freedom. Collect them and go home.
Evening as per Friday but you may wish to vary the diet. Almost certainly they will eat nothing due to a surfeit of junk in the pm. Do not be downcast if they ignore your offering.
Sunday 20
Strongly suggest that you go to the esteemed parents-in-law.
Will try to be back by lunch time. Will call you when we’re on the road. Feel free to call us any time. I probably won’t notice the phone ringing but B is usually reliable.
Good luck.
We went to a wedding in Donegal with our time off. The sun shone. The bride was beautiful, the groom handsome and the guests interesting. What more could you ask?
Really, it will be hard to be grateful enough to my loving sister…
Random Tales from the Front
As Mr. Waffle’s family are keen orienteers, we have taken the children out a couple of times, almost invariably to groans of protest. Yesterday, for the first time, we went without the cousins or other supportive Waffle family members. As Mr. Waffle signed up, I could hear the nice people saying, “Now, it’s very important to hand in your card, even if you don’t finish” and other basic bits of advice. Mr. Waffle nodded politely but as this showed signs of running on, I said, “Tell them your secret, tell them you’re G’s brother.” The effect on the organisers was almost comical. They instantly began to apologise for providing such basic information to one nearly related to G and asked anxiously where he and his esteemed father were. My brother-in-law is very popular in certain circles. Perhaps inspired by this close interest in our progress, for the very first time we put in results which did not feature in the ignominious DNF category. We also got burnt to a cinder because I did not believe we could get sunburnt in Ireland in September.
While supervising the children in the nearby playground, I was approached by a trendy young man with a beard who turned out to be a former colleague from Brussels who has just moved to Ireland to do his PhD. Just as I had been complaining to Mr. Waffle that we only knew Irish people here is my Latvian ex-colleague and his partner to add cosmopolitan student glamour to our lives.
This playground was also the site of the usual embarrassing moment that is part of any day spent with small children. I was queuing with Daniel for a particularly popular attraction when he turned to me and said in aggrieved and carrying tones, “That girl said I was a little boy.” “You’re not a little boy, you’re a BIG boy,” I said and then my evil genius prompted me to add, “Who said such a thing to you?” He pointed to a very large teenager and said clearly (he articulates wonderfully) and loudly, “That fat girl over there.” Covered in mortification, I whispered to him, “Darling, don’t say loudly that she’s fat, it’s rude.” To which he replied with disastrous clarity “But why can’t I say she’s fat, she IS.”
Guilty day off
I took Friday off work and Mr. Waffle and I went walking in the Wicklow hills. The weather was beautiful and the views were beautiful. All we could hear, high in the hills was birdsong, bees and a particularly loud boy racer whizzing around the twisting road visible in the distance. I would post a picture but we left the camera behind. Oh yes, take only memories, leave only footprints. In my case quite deep, squelchy footprints. The bog hasn’t dried up much despite the extraordinarily fine weather. Regretfully, on returning home, I decided it was time to consign my Nike runners, purchased in Bosnia in 1995, to the bin.
We had tea in the Glencree Centre for Peace and Reconciliation. I cannot really say how they are at peace and reconciliation but I wouldn’t really recommend it as a tea stop. Inappropriately, it was there that we decided to dispose of our principles and buy the boys toy guns for their birthday. I thought that you should be the first to know.
We had a lovely day in the warm sunshine as our children toiled at school and, as punishment, when we got home, we found this note from the school in their bags:
If only we hadn’t sneaked off on our own, none of this would have happened.
Holiday Week 2 – Kerry
Saturday, August 15
So, you left us in Cork, now we are pressing on to the west. Very far west, Caherdaniel in fact, off the South West of the Ring of Kerry. Before we got to the distant outpost we has to endure a car journey. We played that game where one person starts a story and the next continued, it went like this:
Me: Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess AND
Mr. Waffle: She was going on her holidays AND
Princess: She met a handsome Prince AND
Michael: Some baddies came out of the wood and attacked them AND
Daniel: Cut off their heads.
There is a reason for stereotypes, I suppose. We also played the Minister’s cat (at which Michael showed surprising facility for a boy who isn’t very sure about the order of the alphabet) and that game where one person hums a song and the others guess what it might be. Is it a sign of parenting failure that the only songs the boys could hum were the theme tunes of Bob the Builder, Fireman Sam (not v. hummable) and Postman Pat?
When we got to the tiny village of Caherdaniel in one of the most remote parts of the country, the children were delighted to see their Dublin grandparents in situ. Michael celebrated by breaking Daniel’s glasses. Inquiries in the local shop elicited the information that there was an optician’s in Caherciveen open every day and all hours. Correctly interpreting this to mean that the optician was open 9-5 (even during lunch time) Monday to Friday, we resigned ourselves to poor Danny bumbling around blindly for a day and a half.
The rest of us settled down and admired the view which the grandparents had kindly provided for us along with the house.
The Princess tried and failed to work up the courage to feed the horses and compromised by laying carrots, grass and other titbits on the wall for them to eat.
Sunday, August 16
The weather was fine. An exceptional circumstance. We went out blackberry picking which the children had never done before. The novelty wore off quickly for the boys (Daniel’s problem may well have been that he couldn’t actually see the blackberries) but herself could have gone on all day and delightedly filled half a bucket.
After lunch we rushed to the beach. A friend once described a holiday in Donegal where the family spent the whole time huddled in the hall with their beach gear and then when the sun came out they picked everything up and ran to the beach. Kerry is like that.
When I say that the weather was fine, you have to interpret that by local standards.
Look, it’s not actually raining.
At 4.00 we took ourselves off to a local GAA match. Michael instantly made friends with a little Kerry boy who had a ball. Young Mr. Kerry instantly began ordering around all of the little boys on the sideline and they were shortly playing away. As I commented to his mother, it is this spirit which explains Kerry’s continued success in Gaelic football (though, please note, Cork v. successful too and at hurling). She mentioned a bouncy castle and a raft race on a nearby beach so we took ourselves off there.
The children had a fantastic time wading into the water in their clothes. I was less enthused.
The rafts were constructed by the teams and there was some entertainment in trying to guess which would capsize first.
Esteemed grandfather ran into the landlord of his local pub in Dublin, because Ireland is like that. On the way home, I ran into my mother’s gardener, because Ireland is like that. Local gossip gleaned from Mr. Waffle revealed that he (the gardener) had bought land which was sold off when there was a dispute over Bono’s uncle’s will (not involving Bono because, I suppose, he has enough money already). What, you didn’t know that there are fewer than two degrees of separation beteween Bono and everyone in Ireland?
Monday, August 17
The Princess and I were up before 8 making blackberry jam because I promised her I would. There were no weighing scales and I was relying solely on my skill and judgement and this text message from my sister: “Other random jam making advice. Don’t use overripe fruit or jam will not set. Fruit and sugar should not occupy more than half of pan. Don’t use iron or zinc pans or jam will taste horrible. Setting points tests 1. cold plate. Put jam on cold plate and check if it wrinkles. 2. heat to a temperature of 220F to 222F 3. Flake test. Place spoon in jam let cool it should set and form small flakes (not recommended as not conclusive and tricky). 4. Volume test. Not even going to go there. Only for frequent jam makers in my opinion.”
You will be pleased to hear that the jam set. Though a bit too sweet. Everyone had homemade jam for breakfast. The Princess and I were very proud.
Mr. Waffle prepared to take Daniel to Caherciveen to look for the optician. His father had been snoozing gently in the porch. Ah, I thought, age is catching up with the man who runs up mountains. He woke up and asked Mr. Waffle to drop him off in Waterville so that he could run cross country back to the house (10kms). My parents-in-law like to confound me. I took the other pair off to the beach as the sun was shining.
In the afternoon we went to Staigue Fort, a pre-historic ring fort, where I had never been before.
All very interesting and the boys liked it but I was terrified that they would somehow manage to toss themselves over the edge.
Tuesday, August 18
It rained on and off all day. We used up our one indoor trip (for a wet place, the Iveragh penninsula boasts very few indoor excitements) and visited the home of Daniel O’Connell. Michael swooned with happiness when he saw O’Connell’s duelling pistols. I’m not sure how much the boys took in; their sister on the other hand is now an O’Connell expert. Afterwards when asked by his grandmother what the Liberator had done, Daniel said, “He died.” True, I suppose.
We went out to Derrynane beach where the children took the opportunity to wade into the water and get their clothers wet.
That evening, friends of the grandparents called round. They are ultra runners. Mad. Off their heads. They once ran from Malin to Mizen head (length of Ireland) in 8 days. They make my f-in-law (has only run up over 200 mountains) seem positively sedentary.
Wednesday, August 19
“It rained and it rained, it bucketed down, teeming in torrents on mountain and town,” as Lynley Dodd would say. And nothing to do. We had booked the children in for riding and they were grimly determined to do it. They were led down the road by three, understandably, gloomy pre-teens. We splashed after and the horses hung their heads. The children, though, were ecstatic. So delighted that we booked them in again for Friday despite the enormous cost.
Thursday, August 20
More rain. Mr. Waffle and I at our wits’ ends. Grandparents considering, very cravenly, bowing out early and driving off to Dublin. As Mr. Waffle put it, “Kerry has 24 hours to prove itself to my parents.” He was reminded of a girl who was at college with him and used to do bus tours around the Ring of Kerry. Obviously, half the time it was a breathtaking, spectacular view and the other half it was impenetrable mist and rain. They used to keep postcards of the views on the bus and pass them around to the poor tourists showing them what they were missing. I suppose that they have DVDs now. Poor Americans.
We spent a good portion of the day driving round looking for the Skelligs chocolate factory. I’m not sure that you could say vaut le voyage – two rooms and a DVD on how chocolate is made. Nice chocolate though. The Princess, who had been reading “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” in the car was profoundly unimpressed. We investigated the Cill Rialaigh artists’ colony where we had lunch. Big city food and accompanying prices – €8 for a small bowl of kiddie pasta. At least the food was good and it made a welcome break from my staple diet in rural Ireland: toasted sandwich with salad and chips.
And it was still raining.
We went to Cahersiveen to look at the old RIC barracks, now a museum. This was my first visit to Cahersiveen and I had not previously been aware that its barracks was modelled on Neuschwanstein or as the brochure put it, it was designed in “the highly distinctive ‘Schloss’ style of architecture”. The usual story is told, Empire got the maps mixed up and the Kerry barracks went up in India somewhere and we got their Neuschwanstein. I find this a little unconvincing as this thing would be as odd there as it is here.
The literature on the barracks points out that “the major deficiency of the South Kerry tourism product lies in the lack of things for visitors to do when travelling around the west end of the Iveragh penisnsula.” They’re not kidding. I’m not sure that the barracks fits the bill though it does have a mildly interesting collection of old press cuttings, agricultural implements, Daniel O’Connell paraphernalia etc. However, we were very glad it was there and we didn’t have to stay outside in the hailstones (yes, really).
That evening we went out to dinner and left the children with saintly grandparents. Alas, another disappointment. Strike Parknasilla from the list. I was astonished at the numbers of families with small children staying in the extremely expensive hotel. Has nobody told them that the boom is over?
Friday, August 21
Bright, beautiful sunshine. The children went riding again. Everyone was much more cheerful this time. The Princess was led round by a French teenager with whom she chatted cheerily in French. I heard one of the Irish teenagers whisper to her friend, “Did you hear that little girl, she speaks Spanish and English?” To appreciate this fully, you should know that French is more or less compulsory in school from 13-15.
We then went to what my daughter declared “the best market ever”. It had the usual offerings plus some bric-a-brac and cheap second-hand children’s toys and books.
We spent the whole afternoon on the beach in glorious sunshine, made even better by the knowledge that the rest of the country was enjoying pouring rain. The sea was full of waves and children in wetsuits. My children are, officially, the only children in Ireland whose mean Mummy makes them go blue when they want to swim. I’m trying to toughen them up.
Saturday, August 22
Miserable, grim and very lengthy drive back to our nation’s capital. Sustained only by false memories of a full week of delightful sunshine in Kerry – blinded by Friday’s sunshine. This is why people like my sister-in-law believe that it never rained in Kerry in all the years she went there as a child (hollow laugh). Children ecstatic to be home and, more particularly, reunited with the television. Car has peculiar and unpleasant smell.
No more holidays until next year.