belgianwaffle

Family

Weekend


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Mr. Waffle

On Sunday morning we went to Mr. Waffle’s god-daughter’s first communion.  She is half-Italian, half-Scottish but her first communion was all Italian.  It is very odd to be in Italy in Belgium.  We were all dressed up in our best clothes (suits ties, dresses, high heels, new shoes) but you always feel under-dressed beside well-dressed Italians.  The service was lovely and I did think it would be nice to go to mass in a church like this where there was a real sense of community.  I was also quite impressed by the robes the communicants wore (sort of like junior monks in white or as her mother put it, klu klux klan).  In Ireland, little girls dress up like miniature brides (as I did with great delight in my day) in expensive white dresses and I feel that it undermines the spirituality of the occasion and also leads to quite extraordinary expense (see how middle aged I am?).   We went back to the first communicant’s house for brunch after mass and I was most impressed to see that not only had her Italian grandparents come from Rome along with her aunt and uncle and three cousins aged 3,2 and 9 months but also her Scottish grandparents from Lewis which is a long way from Brussels and also pretty darn Protestant.  And it was the middle of the lambing season too (the communicant’s grandfather having spent a satisfactory career in Glasgow as a dentist retired with his wife to the island where he was brought up and bought a sheep farm – impressed?).  In our ex-pat Brussels world, we don’t often go to family celebrations as families are so scattered and there was something really lovely about this occasion.  Also, the sun shone.

In the afternoon we went to my friend A’s house.  He is a consultant by day and training to be a chef by night and was having a “mad hatter’s tea party”.  We arrived to a house filled with canapés and afternoon tea delights.  We had obeyed my friend’s instructions and turned up in costume: the king and queen of hearts, Alice and no prizes for guessing who got to be stereotyped as Tweedledum and Tweedledee.  It was all very pleasant having scones with jam and clotted cream in the sun while the children negotiated the dizzyingly dangerous excitements of a bachelor pad (spiral stairs with open banisters! kitchen appliances at just the right height for little fingers! building materials in a side passage! balcony with parapet at knee height!).

I feel our social life has reached new heights.

Whoosh!


Posted in: Family, Travel

Saturday, March 29

A lengthy, yet largely uneventful, train ride took us to the Alps. The children were a bit hyper but the nice Flemish man opposite said that they were lovely, normal children and I instantly recanted every bad thought I have ever had about the Flemish. The mother of a small baby looked at us viciously when Daniel pointed to a cow and said “moo” in a voice that woud raise the dead and woke her baby but otherwise all was well. The boys slept on the way up to Val Thorens on the bus and we arrived in time for the children to do some mild sledding in the afternoon sunshine.

Sunday, March 30

At 5.40 (summer time) I was lying awake in my bed trying to work out how we would get the children to creche/ski lessons at 9.00 and ourselves to our own lessons (uphill) at 9.15. This is what it is like to be my husband. I did not enjoy it. We left the house at 8.30 and made our way gingerly down the spiral staircase (why?) from the locker room clutching three sets of skis, two sets of poles, assorted material for the creche (change of clothes, outdoor gear, suncream, goggles etc. etc.) and two children. We left the Princess to walk down herself. This turned out to be a mistake as, wearing ski boots for the first time she fell down on her head. On the plus side, this gave her a chance to test the efficacy of her new helmet (very good but does not protect legs or cheeks).

We saw off our various offspring and took ourselves to our lesson in unpleasantly snowy conditions. Most of the lifts were closed. Pablo took us flying down a number of red slopes in poor visibility and I thought “I do not like this one little bit”. The Princess, when collected, reported that she had spent the morning skiing on one ski and that she had lost her group and started to cry. They all called out “We’re beside you”, so I guess she didn’t get separated very far. The boys, unfortunately, saw through the creche for what it was and were outraged at its appearance in the Alps. Nobody would nap. I went out with the boys to play. They were cold and cranky and had taken agin snow. I brought them home and took the Princess out. I fell over in the ice outside our building. This was the highlight of her day. She had never seen anything funnier. I had hurt my knee. She would have sympathised only she couldn’t stop laughing. Then she made me slide down the hill on her sled with her.

I spent the night in mild pain (my knee) and bitterness (the exhorbitant cost of it all, the fact that it was going to be miserable).

Monday, March 31

I spent the morning limping around the resort. I went to inspect the Princess’s lesson. Her instructor, Jean Clement ,informed me that her goggles were useless “c’est pour la piscine ca!” and, after some vain discussion (never argue with a French ski instructor) I limped off to get her goggles (22 euros) and handed them over. I watched her bending over to eat snow and skiing on one leg for a while and limped on. After much anguish at the potential cost, I decided to go to see the doctor in the resort. This, you will be pleased to hear, represented excellent value. For 30 euros I got a cheery prognosis and a prescription for a knee support and pain relief (he was a bit dubious about the dafalgan I had in my bag – doubtless they use it in Belgium – yes, they do, will I ever forget my outrage when I discovered that what I had been given after delivering my baby was not super de duper prescription stuff but a mild analgesic delivered over the counter – I digress). He confidently predicted that I would be back skiing by Wednesday and pointed out that the weather that day was not nice for skiing. I pointed out that, unlike him, I was not spending a season in Val Thorens. I tried to convey this to the creche people also when they looked astounded and disapproving when I asked whether they had let the boys play in the snow, but they were more supercilious than the doctor so I left it.

That afternoon we took the children to an indoor bouncy castle extravaganza. They loved it. I limped off to get my knee support (which I am wearing even now). I intend to wear it every skiing holiday for the rest of my life as it cost me 96 euros. Ouch. It’s great though.

There were hardly any other Irish people at the resort, oddly, though the Princess did have some one from Miami in her class (why?) and she is keen to visit. We said we’ll see. The place was, however, teeming with young Dutch and English people. True to form, the Dutch had all brought their own food from the Netherlands which they were cheerfully loading in to the lift in crates. When I went to the supermarket later, I saw their point.

In the supermarket, I saw that the English young man in front of me with the slipping down trousers and visible underwear had a basket containing only a bottle of bacardi, a packet of pringles and a frozen pizza, I uttered a silent but, alas, as it later transpired, unanswered, prayer that he might not be in our building. Our building was full of young people going at the apres ski hammer and tongs. Mr. Waffle particularly enjoyed being serenaded by English rugby songs at 4 in the morning. Personally, my favourite was the young man banging on the door two floors below at 3 am screaming “Robbie, wake up, I can’t believe he can’t hear me, wake up!”. After about 20 minutes of this, while Robbie slept on unaffected, my whole family was awake. I ventured outside to explain to Robbie’s friend that Robbie had either passed out or was, incredible as this might seem at this ungodly hour, still out. Fortunately, Robbie’s friend had left by then so I was not forced to take him on in my pyjamas.

Tuesday, April 1

Mr. Waffle and I had a delightful morning skiing gently together in glorious sunshine having abandoned any hope of ever getting to our lessons in time. Perked up by this, I met the Princess for lunch while Mr. Waffle took the boys home to nap. This was moderately successful except for the part where she sat under the table and, from this vantage point, threw snow balls at select other punters (all handsome and indulgent young men, I see trouble ahead).

When, eventually, we had finished lunch, I took her up to see her do her thing on the beginners’ slope but she refused to go down alone and I had to carry her between my knees which, mercifully, turned out to be a lot easier than you might expect. However, the skiing held no real attraction for her as there was a giant inflatable chicken nearby. We had to take off our skis and trudge up to inspect it. We then stayed there for some considerable time and the Princess circled the chicken while eating snow. I wouldn’t call it a phenomenally successful session.
Later, we got our her sled and went down to the supermarket. Her iron will supported her while travelling her approved route which involved toiling up a blue slope in the hot sun. Unfortunately, it let her down as we went around the supermarket and she was a disgrace and her post-shopping present was not therefore forthcoming and she sat down and refused to budge and I waited and read my book and still she wouldn’t budge. I found myself using my mother’s old phrases “what kind of mother would I be, if I let you behave badly and didn’t tell you what was right?” and “who is going to tell you how to behave unless your mother does?”. To the latter she said crossly, and unanswerably, “our childminder”. Mr. Waffle and the boys had to come and rescue us, I was very glad that we were going out later and, if you find yourself looking for somewhere to eat in Val Thorens, may I heartily recommend L’epicurien? I was glad dinner was nice as babysitting weighed in at a hefty 20 euros an hour.

Wednesday, April 2

Mornings continue fraught. Daniel wept convulsively as we dropped the boys at the creche; Michael was cheery. The weather was miserable and we skied round blinking in the snow. Not our best moment. Mr. Waffle took the Princess off for lunch and I put the boys to bed and read my book. Inadvertently, Mr. Waffle took the Princess to ski down her first blue run; I don’t think either of them enjoyed it much. On the plus side, they spent a happy hour going up and down the cable car. More bouncy castles later in the afternoon. Sigh.
Thursday, April 3

Another beautiful day for Mr. Waffle and me above the clouds. The Princess was cranky and the boys howled at the creche, so I think that the rest of the family may not have had quite such a wonderful morning. The Princess announced that Jean Clement had made her continue to do an exercise until she did not fall over. She did not like that. French kiddie ski instructors are ruthless, not soft and cuddly. To compensate, we went to visit the bouncy castles in the afternoon, the girl behind the desk observed sagely that we should have bought a pass.

Friday, April 4

I asked Jean Clement how the Princess was getting on. “Impeccable” pause “mais elle fait ce qu’elle veut, eh?” I can only imagine what the clash of the Titans was like. Nevertheless, at the end of the morning she was awarded her Ourson badge (only a Flocon and 3 etoiles to go before she can do anything). Notwithstanding this when I took her up on a chair lift (probably the highlight of her week) and encouraged her to ski down a very gentle slope she refused to budge and I had to carry her the whole way down. I think we need a little more work here.
In the morning, however, her father and I enjoyed a lovely morning’s skiing which, in my experience, always happens on the last day. The weather was beautiful, we went down a number of red slopes (but no blacks at all) with cavalier ease – please let me be smug, I have spent my fair share of time on my bottom waving my skis in the air. The only thing that happened to mar our enjoyment was sharing a cable car with a remarkably irritating English teenager who spoke as follows:

Annoying Girl: No offence but they’re holding us up.

Inarticulate side kick: Mmm.

AG: No offence but we haven’t fallen at all, except that one time getting off the lift when we fell on that man and that was his fault really.

ISK: Silence.

AG: No offence but we need to be skiing harder and faster.

ISK (admiringly): You only skied the hardest black in the whole resort yesterday.

AG: I know and, no offence but that woman in the group really annoyed me.

ISK: Silence.

AG: I mean, she was annoyed when I knocked her over yesterday, she said I could have broken her leg and, no offence but, she was skiing again today, so I couldn’t have, could I?

What was particularly galling was that somehow or other our friend had managed to get her skis wedged in the door of the lift when getting in which did not give us a very good impression of her prowess, this poor impression was reinforced when we actually saw her on them.

“I think,” said Mr. Waffle “that that was a Sloane Ranger.”

“Really, but she didn’t sound at all like our English friends in Brussels and I thought they were all middle class”

“No, but, I think you really need to have more money than anyone we know to have children who mangle their vowels in that very peculiar manner”.

That afternoon, partly to avoid the girl on the bouncy castle desk, we went to the pool which was surprisingly pleasant, despite our children’s insistence on donning every flotation device in the pool.

Saturday, April 5

Up at 7.30, out at 10.30 after cleaning up, bus at 11. Both boys sick on the bus and bottle of milk spilt. We arrived in Moutiers at 12.00 and wandered around the quaint streets of the old town until 16.23. Actually, it was quite nice but we were in no mood to appreciate it with three tired cranky children and two cranky parents (including one with a spanking new migraine, yay) all finding it a little toasty in their ski gear on a sunny April day in the valley. Furthermore we spent most of our time combing the town for nappies as we had reprehensibly and entirely inexplicably run out and so had Val Thorens. We found some, you will be pleased to hear.

The train journey was long. We shared a carriage with some nice Belgians but none of our six children slept which was a source of some regret to the four adults. The train was delayed and got in at 11. By then Michael was asleep but herself and Daniel were still gamely awake. We queued for taxis in the biting cold and finally got home about 11.30 and bundled our protesting children into bed and collapsed ourselves.

Would I do it again? Yes. Would I make any changes? Many. Was it fun? Much more so than you might think from the description above.

Easter Weekend


Posted in: Belgium, Family

The positively American shortness of the Easter break (two holiday days only) was something of a relief as we had nothing planned and our inner resources are very limited.

On Saturday, we went to the town hall where there was a children’s festival. What a wonderful way to spend our taxes, arguably, less wonderful if you have no children but the beauty of it is that, if you have no children, you won’t even have noticed it was on. There were local functionaries dressed up as wizards and witches trying to explain in an amusing way to young children what the commune does. There were real magicians. There were three bouncy castles (not quite clear what services these represented), there was a storyteller (library services), a place to draw and paint where you were asked very easy questions (creche services), witches testing your five senses using phials and boxes (unnervingly, services for foreigners), a quiz on the rules in relation to hygiene – apparently there is a rule that dogs can’t poo on the street, personally, I’m amazed (environmental services), a free photograph of your kiddy sitting in front of the gates of a castle dungeon (some wit had set this up outside the mayor’s office), face painting (social services, I think, I’m a little confused), free candy floss, sweets and the like (in the salle des marriages) and a magic show to round it all off (in the salle du conseil). Aside from being a very pleasant way to spend a cold, wet Saturday with the children, it did strike me as a very good introduction to local government and its management for little citizens.

On Easter Monday, I decided we would go an outing. Given that it was absolutely freezing, we felt an indoor attraction would be best. We took ourselves to the Sea Life Aquarium in Blankenberg, most famous, in my mind for providing a sandy beach for English people to duel after it became illegal in England (thank you Georgette Heyer). We thought that it would be deserted like its sister aquarium outside Dublin. As we queued in the snow and the children bleated we had cause to rethink that assumption. When we got in, it was fine, if a little crowded. When we emerged, the driving snow had not abated and we scurried to the car where we ate our cold roast lamb sandwiches. (I cooked lamb for Easter Sunday  – aren’t you impressed ? The children refused to touch it on Easter Sunday on the grounds that this might be the tool they needed to drive their mother over the edge). The Princess said that the beef sandwiches were very nice. I was forced to point out to her that they were lamb. A real lamb? Yes, but it’s dead now. “Oh” she said and continued eating.

Since we were at the coast, we decided we would have a look at the beach. We went to a café first and, if you and your offspring are ever stuck in Blankenberg and looking for somewhere for a cup of tea near the seafront, you could do worse than take yourself to the Kiwi café. Despite the name, it’s done in traditional Flemish style with heavy beams and big dark furniture. Ideal for a cold, cold day. I wouldn’t recommend it for lunch as the apple tart I ordered, though inordinately large, was quite, quite vile, but definitely a good tea and pancake location. Fortified by our experience in the Kiwi we went to the beach which was absolutely perishing. The children were unaffected by the weather but we were frozen and miserable. The children wanted to stay and stay but we eventually managed to tug them back to the car with Daniel squirming and yelling (and that boy can yell) that he wanted to go SWIMMING.

Yesterday, we woke up to 5cms of snow, so Mr. Waffle took the children out to play on the road before we all went to our various places of detention. They were all wearing their moon boots and Mr. Waffle was wearing his hiking boots. The zip broke on my faithful black boots and as the ideal pumps to wear in the snow, I chose a pair that I had bought last Summer in America. I had never worn them before because I just never found anything to match them properly (don’t look at me like that, I’m not that kind of person at all) but I decided that they were the most likely to be waterproof. I was wrong. The soles are made of tweed. No, really, tweed. Why? By the time I found out, it was too late but I was not a happy bunny yesterday, I can tell you. The snow has melted today but my boots are still broken and my tweed soled shoes are still damp.

There are times when I hate this job


Posted in: Family, Princess

My mother and brother came to visit for the weekend (my father steadfastly refusing to fly since he retired and doesn’t have to any more). There were many presents and there was much delight. All this love-in stuff is very tiresome for the blog reader so I will get straight to the only blog worthy incident of the weekend.

Due to my sister’s enormous carbon footprint and many years spent in hotels (insert here bitter mumbling from my brother about expense accounts – he is a lab rat and has never had one and absolutely refuses to believe that eating out can be torture as well as pleasure), she was able to book my brother and mother into a swish hotel in Brussels on her various points. This was, frankly, welcome as our flat is too small to accommodate two visitors who do not want to sleep together. This is relevant, bear with me.

So, on Friday afternoon, the Princess and I took my mother and brother to their hotel. My mother and I sat and chatted in her room while my brother unpacked in his and entertained her highness.

As I sat there with my mother, I heard a mournful little voice saying, “I want my mummy”, so I flew to her side. My brother was standing in his room looking sheepish. “I did a poo Mummy,” she said “and it won’t go away”. I went in to the bathroom and discovered that she had done a poo in the bidet; look, it’s the size of a kiddie toilet. So while my brother stood cowering outside and my daughter put her hands over her eyes saying, “that’s disgusting”, I took some toilet paper and transferred the poo bit by bit to the toilet.

This was not included in my original job description.

I smell a rat


Posted in: Belgium, Family

Over the weekend in our ongoing quest to entertain our children, we went to a farm. I picked up a flyer at some event and stored it carefully for a day when we were at our wits’ end.

We piled them into the car and took ourselves off having taken the initial precaution of ringing the farmer to check that the farm was open. When we arrived, there was a deer family grouped in front of the farm house, an ostrich and some ducks. So far, so delightfully inauthentic.

It was when I saw the duckpond that I began to suspect that this might be a real proper farm and not just a petting zoo. It was made of polythene with old tyres holding it in place. A trip into the farm yard confirmed my worst suspicions, it was a working farm.

It was slightly dilapidated and there were a lot of cows. There were also a number of dogs running about, in my experience, the mark of a real farm. The children did not like the dogs though they were unusually quiet for farm dogs and very well trained.

The farmer told us to stroll around (the grounds until we felt at home) and didn’t charge us. This was definitely a real farm. There were an extraordinary number of bunnies in cages which, I suppose, is not a standard farm feature but the rest was quite authentic, just that bit too authentic for our two boys who clambered into our arms and refused to get down. I was astounded to see the Princess patting a horse on the nose but the boys were too terrified even to approach it. She also inspected the pigs and boars (yes, really) with interest. There seemed to be a lot of bulls in reasonably enclosed spaces only separated from us by a number of troughs and I was a little concerned by this, especially since they seemed a bit annoyed.

At one point a rat sauntered across the yard. Unlike its city cousins which, in my experience, are always decent enough to scurry, this rat seemed to be in no particular hurry although there were two terriers on its tail. It may have been that its enormous bulk stopped it from moving at any speed. This may also have inhibited the terriers from trying a little harder. They sniffed lackadaisically at the shed it had strolled into but I didn’t feel that they were trying hard enough.

We decided to go to farm shop. This was a proper outhouse (no tasteful wooden decorations here) with a large vat of milk presided over by a Polish woman who spoke limited French. I was hoping for some local cheese or a loaf of rustic artisanal bread, ideally untouched by ratty, but the price list she handed us was heavy on butter and buttermilk. We bought two litres of milk from the vat, happy in the knowledge that we had met the cows that produced it and their friend the rat.

You know, I can’t help feeling that getting too close to the production processes takes from the romance of food. Also, those farmers, they deserve everything they get from the CAP.

39 today


Posted in: Family, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Twins, Work

Do you think you can get a card with a badge on it that says that?

I think I will launch myself into a prolonged period of mid-life crisis which I might wind-up next year when I turn 40. How enjoyable for everyone. Let us do a tally of my achievements:

Marriage

Seems sound, husband is lovely. Tick.

Children

Three is a good number, they are nice little things but tiring. Why would I want more? Why? I am 39. That appears to be a full answer. Half tick.

Career

Job is fine. I am very fond of my colleagues who are a joy to work with. Yet the actual work is only moderately interesting. I feel that out there somewhere is the perfect job for me, if only I could find it. I also think that it has nothing to do with my experience to date so it’s probably quite poorly paid, at least initially, before they realise that I am a genius at it. I am a round peg in an oval hole. Imagine what I could achieve, if I could find a round hole. I think this metaphor is becoming unfeasibly stretched. A friend of mine says that there is no perfect job which is why she has focussed on her social life. There may be something to be said for that. Half tick
Family and friends

I have lots of both. I like them, they like me. Tick. At least, I hope they do. Half tick for manifest lack of self confidence at 39.

Car

I have no desire to buy a sports car. Tick.

Hobbies

You’re reading it. I also like reading. I wish I had some form of hobby that did not involve sitting on my bottom. All through my teens and twenties, I played hockey but it’s a bit demanding for a parent. Half tick.

Feeling my age

Unlike many people of my age, I do not feel like I am 20. But yet, I am very surprised to be 39. My oldest friend the Ambassador (clang) will be 40 next month, though, mind you, she is an Ambassador so I think that’s pretty good going for a 40 year old. Almost.

My mother says that having children keeps you young. Maybe this is true when they are teenagers but at the moment, I’m not so sure. I am sometimes so tired and stretched I feel like I am 60. I also find myself criticising young people’s grammar and marvelling at their odd musical taste. Oh yes, indeedy, I am cruising towards middle age. Half tick.

In other birthday news, if you were to take a day off work and leave your children with the childminder and decamp to Ghent to celebrate your birthday, you should a) remember, if it is Monday, the museums will be closed and b) bear in mind that cities built around canals are not so pleasant in stormy weather. Furthermore, when you return home and your three children rush into your arms and sing happy birthday to you, you should try not to be overwhelmed by love and guilt.

The day has also brought a birthday poem from my sister, a birthday missive from my parents, several nice emails, a present from husband and children – pretty good all round. You could make it even better by delurking. Go on, I know you’re out there. I think you’re out there. I hope you’re out there. Half tick.