I always feel that there is no point in being disappointed that people do not remember your birthday, if you do not remind them.
Internet, today is my 40th birthday. How would you feel about putting a happy birthday in the comment box?
Go on, make my day.
I have been neglecting my blog. I know, you haven’t noticed but it is all about me.
I am recovering from a week of mid-term with herself. I kept bleating feebly that I was supposed to be on holidays too but we both knew that this wasn’t true. I spent one long and tiring day fielding questions on God, dinosaurs and perjury, none of which is really my long suit; three long and tiring days in Cork and a day cleaning up the house after our latest round of handymen. I think she enjoyed some of it.
One afternoon, in Cork, the boys and I visited the Glucksman gallery while the Princess bonded with her grandparents. I find modern art can be a bit challenging but there was a very good exhibition on conflict in 20th century Ireland which the boys and I enjoyed on different levels (“Meaners with guns!”/”Oh Lavery, Paul Henry, how nice”).
Downstairs there was some more classic modern fare, if I may so term it (yes, you may permit yourself a titter here at my inelegant expression, should you so wish).  I think I can best convey the type of exhibit by quoting from the website:
The exhibition also explores strategies of participation, inviting visitors to discover and create conflicting relationships of their own by engaging with the works directly. In Stephen Willats’ Organic Exercise No.1 Series 2 , visitors are invited to re-configure a set of plaster bricks on a grid, without prior rules or instructions. The work therefore becomes everchanging and subject to the alteration of each participant. Visitors are also invited to participate in Mark Clare’s Ping-Pong Diplomacy – a functioning table-tennis table made of pallet-wood; a work that references the famous contest between American and Chinese players in 1971 which acted as a breakthrough in diplomatic relations between the two countries.
In fairness to Mr. Clare, in particular, I must say that the boys got great value out of Ping-Pong diplomacy and played there until closing time when we were chucked back out into the rain. Maybe the exhibition wasn’t really for us because we are perfectly capable of creating “conflicting relationships of [our].. own” without any help from modern art.
[Is this next paragraph a non-sequitur or is it art? Only you can decide.] Daniel’s toilet training appears to be complete. This means that we are now finally in a position to fully appreciate the joys of a house with one toilet and five inhabitants. The other day, Daniel and Michael had the following chat:
Michael: I want to do a WEE.
Daniel [ensconced] : I’m doing a wee and a poo.
Michael [Jumping from side to side] : I want to do a WEE.
Daniel: Tough luck.
The Princess has learnt to read. Just like that over the past couple of weeks. I am astounded and constantly keen to hear her reading things. She is considerably less entranced. She finds it a chore though she does like reading signs when we are out. I was appalled to discover that she had seen part of “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe” on television at school. At this rate, she will have seen all the children’s classics on television before she reads them herself. The first book I clearly remember reading was “The Magician’s Nephew” and it has a special place in my heart. I do hope that there will be some book like that in her life.
Daniel had his first visit to an Irish ophthalmologist. He has confirmed that our son is quite longsighted (+6). I was, however, delighted to hear that the doctor does not think that surgery will be necessary for his lazy eye. I am not quite sure whether this is because Belgium is more interventionist than Ireland or because it has got better with the patch. We can also stop patching his eye in a couple of months which will be fantastic. Daniel is generally very good about wearing his patch (two hours a day) but it is uncomfortable for the poor mite and removing it from our morning routine will save us precious minutes trying to get out the door on time. When I asked Daniel how the trip went, he said fine but added glumly that he had had “gouttes”. “Did you tell him what they were in French?” I asked Mr. Waffle. He hadn’t. Poor Daniel had remembered the term since last July when he had his parting visit with his Belgian ophthalmologist. I suspect that the eye-drops are not very nice. I know this is all very tedious for you but, you know, how will I remember when all this happened if not for the trusty blog?
Michael continues very manly. He asks me to stop kissing him and when I rub his back he informs me coldly that he is not a cat or a dog. Inspired by their uncle, he and Daniel have begun to throw themselves into impromptu rucks on the floor which, when rebuked for fighting, they describe in injured tones as playing rugby like Uncle Dan. So, now only Michael’s large collection of stuffed toys stands between him and his quest for absolute masculinity. He goes to bed with doudou, nounours, wabbit (the English R is still proving elusive, he can do the French one though), Ingeborg, big Ingeborg and cheetah. Three of these had to accompany us to Cork during the week taking up appreciable space in the small case. This must end.
3 x children (screaming loudly):Â Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!
Princess (sotto voce): Mummy, you’re going to have to call Wesley.
Me (confused): Who’s Wesley?
Her (rolling eyes): The plumber.
Me (nervously): Why?
Her: Because Michael stuffed the toilet with toilet paper.
Me (anxious glance at French childminder): Did he?
Her: Yes, good bye, have a pleasant evening.
I then went upstairs with a plastic bag and removed an entire roll of toilet paper (carefully shredded) from the toilet.
Did you miss me? I have been spending the Christmas season with my family. Christmas Day passed off peacefully; everyone was good, everyone liked the presents offered by kind benevolent Santa Claus and generous relatives.
We drove down to Cork on the 27th. I haven’t driven that road in nearly 10 years. It’s improved a lot. True, the boom may be gone but they can’t take our roads away from us. Cork was peaceful and presentful. The children did not disgrace us in the presence of my relatives.
My father told a story of the joys of living in a small city. When my father was a little boy, a barber used to come to the house to trim his grandfather’s beard (a man who was born during the famine, fancy that). My father emigrated to Britain and when he came back to Cork several years later, he went to the barber on the Western Road who had trimmed his grandfather’s beard. As he walked in the door, the barber instantly said, “Master Dan!”
As is traditional when we visit Cork at Christmas, we took the children to Fota wildlife park.  As is equally traditional the parents enjoyed it and the children did not.  Matters began inauspiciously with the Princess announcing that she hated animals. We ignored this unhelpful intervention and tried to jolly her along. Once we got there, Michael and Daniel joined in the revolt. About half way around, Daniel stopped moving and stood in the path with his arms folded.  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?†“I am displeased,†he said without further explanation.  Anxious to avoid one of his spectacular temper tantrums (one night before Christmas he rampaged around the house naked – he did not wish to put on his pyjamas – and screaming for a significant length of time; he is the most empathic of my children but when he loses his temper the consequences are terrifying) we carried him the rest of the way.  Michael was far more articulate about his concerns. He started to cry in a nasty petulant kind of way.  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?â€Â He ticked his grievances off on his tiny fingers, “one, I am frozen, two I am tired, three I am sick, four I want to do a wee.† We carried him the rest of the way too. The Princess trailed along behind whining that nobody was carrying her and NO she did not want to see the cheetahs.  At one point she leaned her head on a fence and a monkey ran over it.  This piqued her interest for a moment and she asked me belligerently whether I had got a photo.  Needless to say, I had not. Not 43 euros worth of unalloyed pleasure then.
We drove back to Dublin on New Year’s Eve, blithely informing the aghast Cork relatives that we would be back shortly.  I went to the supermarket and bought some food and a half bottle of Tesco’s special champagne to see in the new year.  Oh yes, it’s all glamour here.
We took the children to see Fossett’s circus (founded 1888 apparently and certainly around when I was a little girl) which I enjoyed very much putting my hands over my eyes for the cage of death which Mr. Waffle and the children were very blasé about.
Tomorrow is the last day of Christmas, alas. We have our memories and a picture of the children with Santa which we stuck on our calendar.
Me (indulgently): Look it’s you and the boys with Santa.
Her: No, it’s us with a random stranger.
Sometimes that child is too smart for her own good.
Happy new year.
I decided to take the children to Cork for the weekend. Thanks to the portable DVD player, the train journey passed off peacefully. We took a taxi to my parents’ house. The taxi man was horrible. This is the first time I have ever had a horrible taxi man with the children. Normally, I find they are very patient and tolerant and at this time of year, they tend to make polite enquiries about Santa Claus and are, generally, sweetness and light. As I piled the children into the back seat, this man began revving the engine. As any parent of young children will know, strapping them into their seats is a lengthy operation involving kicking and swearing. Once they were in, I tried to get my bags in the boot but it was locked. With a theatrical sigh, the man turned off the engine and came round to open the boot.
I sat in the front which, in retrospect, was a mistake. After three hours in the train, the children were a little, um,  boisterous. Daniel kicked the window handle. “He’ll break it,” said the taxi man. “Stop,” I said firmly to Daniel. “He’s kicked it again,” the Princess announced primly. I gave her my force ten glare to which she protested, all too audibly, “Don’t you want me to tell the man Daniel’s kicking the door?” The taxi man then said grimly, “I’m not cranky [manifestly untrue] but, if you can’t control your children, I’m going to have to pull in and put you in the back with them.” “Fine, pull in please,” I said while hissing at Daniel to, for God’s sake, stop kicking. “I am cranky!” said Daniel loudly [manifestly true]. We pulled in and I got into the back. Daniel started screaming blue murder and lashing out all round him. “He hit me,” whined the Princess. “He hit me too, now hush,” I muttered to her. Daniel continued screaming as I tried to get him on my lap and get a belt round both of us. The taxi driver drove on. I arrived at my parents’ house a shadow of my former self. While I was not tipping the cranky taxi driver, the wretched mobile phone rang too.
I called round to my aunt that evening.
Aunt: What a lovely surprise to see you.
Me: Suitable reply.
Her: You’re looking..ok.
Me: Fit of giggles.
Her: Well, I used to say to people that they were looking great but they always say they have just recovered from flu or something so I have downgraded my compliments.
Later.
Aunt: I was at mass the other evening and I saw people filing up to communion and the thought slipped into my head “all bloody middle class”.
Me: But you’re middle class.
Her: I’m not.
Me: But you have a degree.
Her: Mmm.
Me: And you’re rich.
Her: But I feel working class.
Me: I’m not sure it works that way.
I come from a long line of eccentrics.
I note that the powers that be have demolished the “Western Star“, watering hole of generations of students. My father used to drink there when he was in college. He knew Starrie who inherited it from his parents, so it must have been there since, at least, the 1930s. God, is nothing sacred?
My father was in unusually reminiscent form at the weekend. When he was a small boy, in the late 1920s, he lived in South Pasadena for a number of years. He remembers passing a valley that was all lit up at night because they were making a film; the ice man coming with his enormous block of ice that was put in the bottom of the ice box with a fork; coming home to Ireland on the boat and going outside in Halifax and seeing the rigging all frozen. Truly, the past is another country. I would love to hear more of these stories but my father is not one to talk very much about his past. Usually, when you ask him, he says “I forget and goes back to his paper in a marked manner.”
We went to the Lough to feed the ducks, as is our custom when in Cork. They were hungry.  Every bird in the place came hurtling towards us. Michael got bitten on the hand by a swan who was unhappy with the speed of bread delivery.  The seagulls flapped their wings aggressively in my face. Daniel got chased by some greedy pigeons. Only the Princess came through unscathed. I told her that when my great uncle Dan, her grandad’s uncle was a boy, the Lough used to freeze and people used to go skating there. We still have his skating boots in the attic. My prudent daughter observed that this must have been very dangerous as the ice might have frozen unevenly. That girl is her father’s daughter.
Michael, despite absence of any sign of a temperature, spent the day lying down at inopportune moments moaning that he was sick. After I had put them to bed, I began to worry and decided to lay in Calpol.  Driving around Cork the Saturday before Christmas looking for a late night pharmacist to sell me Calpol, I felt vaguely envious of the scantily clad young girls laughing outside pubs in the drizzle.  I eventually tracked down Calpol at the 24 hour Tesco in Bishopstown (something I immensely disapprove of but needs must) and stood glumly in a queue at 11 at night with huge numbers of unfestive shoppers.  All this for a boy who subsequently asked me to “stop kissing me all the time.â€Â Kind Daniel explained that “it’s bold for Michael but nice for me.† At least I am still permitted to kiss one of my sons.
Train ride home was too hideous to describe in detail but we had to wait an hour and a bit in the station which more or less entirely exhausted the children’s goodwill towards travelling. By the time we arrived in Dublin Daniel and the Princess were roaring and hitting each other, Michael was lying in the aisle muttering that he was sick, I was hissing, cajoling and apologising and the occupants of the crowded train were ignoring us as best they could, God help them.
On Saturday we got the Christmas tree.
When I was a child we had an artificial Christmas tree which my parents had bought for their first Christmas together. Forty one years later they still have that tree though it has had to be repaired with tin foil a number of times.  Nobody can say that they haven’t had value for it. I hated that tree and I vowed that, once I had a house of my own, I would always have a real tree.
The trip up to the shop to choose the tree was marred by herself insisting that she wanted to cycle up. The boys piled into the car and I walked up beside her muttering moodily that if she got tired of cycling uphill, I wasn’t going to carry the bike.
There was one Christmas tree left when we got to the shop. We took it. When we got it home and unwrapped it from its net, it turned out to boast particularly dense and luxuriant foliage around its midriff and none at all at its legs. We manhandled it into the appropriate space and it stuck out its fingers into all of the surrounding area, dislodging papers and poking books and small children, even as I write, it is hanging menacingly over my left shoulder.
The children were very excited and instantly began decorating without allowing time to stand the tree up straight, remove the overhanging branches or take off their coats. Mr. Waffle and I became a little tense and started barking at them to stand back. They got cross back.
I put on a CD of Christmas music but Daniel insisted that we took it off and put on “Peter and the Wolf” instead. Fine, fine, fine.
We chopped at the tree. The Princess screamed. Her father ordered her out to sit on the stairs and think about her sins. Her brothers, ever her loyal defenders, hurled themselves at the door yelling “my sister, my sister, let my sister in”. Mr. Waffle and the Princess departed to do the grocery shopping, the boys entertained themselves with a book and I finished off decorating the misshapen tree. I asked the boys to turn off the lights which they did with great glee and the three of us spent 2.5 seconds looking at the lights before the boys whizzed back round the room and turned all the lights on again.
Sigh.