It is lovely to be back. The children are all bigger and more beautiful than I remembered. Yes, I know, they probably haven’t grown that much since Tuesday. My saintly husband has taken the boys out for a walk and her imperial highness is napping. What should I do with myself? I suppose there is always laundry. I think the glamour is what I love most about my lifestyle.
Family
Sicily – Post Mortem
I know, I know, your bottoms are all numb from sitting on the edges of your seats out there. But things have been trying. Herself has been sick, the boys have been sick. It’s been a bank holiday weekend. This combination of events is calculated to reduce us to gibbering wrecks. Thanks to my employer, however, I have made good my escape. I am spending the rest of the week in the usual, er, glamourous location while my poor misfortunate husband wrestles in Brussels with illness (on the part of the boys) and sleeplessness (available for everybody). So, I’ve got the wifi thingy to work and I’ve got the evening to myself and I will tell you about Sicily; mentally prepare yourself for an entry of great, and possibly tedious, length.
Well, the bad news, from the blogging point of view, is that we had a fabulous time. As is well known, the best blogging entries are based on complete disasters (pace my father-in-law the captain of industry, retired, who argues strongly that this is not the case; let him start his own blog). For your reading pleasure, I will deal with the bad things first. We forgot the wipes. Yes, stop press, so-called experienced parents of three travel without wipes. We got to the airport and Daniel needed to be changed, so I lugged all three of them to the disabled toilet (home of the changing mat) and left Mr. Waffle to finish off the checking in. Daniel had produced what is known in crèche parlance as a “caca debordantâ€. I checked and re-checked for wipes. They were not there. I got to work with toilet paper soap and water sprinting between the sink and a very squirmy baby praying that he would not propel himself on to the floor or, less seriously, eat any of the poo – cleanliness is next to godliness and all that. Meanwhile Michael screamed in the buggy and the Princess hoisted herself precariously on to the handicapped toilet (“Mummy, I’m going to do a POO! Help, Mummy, help, I’m going to fall inâ€). By the time everyone was clean and ready to depart (actually, poor old Daniel was only cleanish, his bottom still had a distinctly yellow tinge), I was a shadow of my former self. I returned to my helpmeet to find that he was just a little tense as I had scooted off to the bathroom with all our passports in my bag and time was marching on and check-in had not been completed. We scooted to the plane (leaving 67kgs of luggage checked in) with our double buggy, herself on buggy board and Mr. Waffle with clenched jaw.
When we got to Italy, we went for lunch in Palermo airport. This was Mr. Waffle’s idea and provides proof, if proof were needed, that the man is a genius. Wandering through Palermo airport with our three children gave me an insight into what it must be like being Madonna’s minder. People kept ignoring me and formed a scrum to ooh and aah at the boys. This all made me feel a bit nostalgic because, dammit, they were oohing and aahing at me at one stage. Sigh. You know the way something that happens at the very beginning of a holiday can set the tone for it? Well, there we were in the self-service restaurant in Palermo airport wondering what to do about the wipes when two men wearing airport badges came to ooh at the boys. I seized the opportunity to ask them where we might find wipes at the airport (did you know that I speak Italian; truly there is no end to my genius) prompted by an anxious husband who was next in line on nappy changing duty. They considered and recommended the newsagent downstairs and went off. We continued to eat lunch and attract admiring crowds. About 10 minutes later the two men came back bearing a packet of wipes triumphantly aloft. They brushed aside our offers of payment with extravagant hand gestures and went off having chucked the children under their chins for a last time. And really, this set the tone for the holiday. People couldn’t be more helpful; we couldn’t be more willing to exploit them.
So, elated by the success of the whole wipes venture we went downstairs to pick up our hired car. Ah, yes, Avis, “we can’t be bothered to try harderâ€. We waited an HOUR in the queue. Fortunately our technique of refusing to let the Princess watch any telly paid ample dividends; for the duration, she was entranced by the promotional video which Messrs Sixt cars offered at the premises next door. Then, when Mr. Waffle went to rescue the car from a distant car park, the Princess, the boys and I watched as a Dutchman combusted at Hertz car hire across the way from Avis:
Him (shouting): What the fucking of hell is this? (And people think that the Dutch speak perfect English).
Princess (audibly): Mummy, he shouldn’t say “fuckingâ€.
Me: No, sweetheart, but I suppose he’s very cross.
Him: I have been waiting an hour for my fucking, hell car.
Princess (audibly): He said “fucking†again Mummy.
Me: Mmm..
Admiring crowd gathered around the boys’ buggy: Words to the effect of tsk, tsk.
Lady at Hertz desk: Sir, please stop shouting or I will call the police.
Dutch man (slightly less audibly): Is this fucking hell Hertz or not, next time I go Avis.
Me (mentally): I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.
Mr. Waffle came and rescued us in a large Renault Scenic which accommodated us, our luggage (yes all 67 kgs worth) and our children. The only difficulty was that it had no handbrake. Let me ask you this, if you rented cars to people for a living, would you send innocent foreigners off to visit Sicilian hilltop towns in cars with no handbrakes? Avis, they love to set you a challenge. The French like gimmicky cars. The Renault Scenic has a thing beside the steering wheel that you pull out to put on the handbrake and then it’s supposed to go off automatically when you start. But you know what? When you’re reversing backwards up a steep hill on a road just wide enough to accommodate your massive people mover with a lot of Sicilians waiting for you to get out of their way and a baby throwing up in the back (it transpires that Michael is a poor traveller on winding hilltop roads*), you’d rather have a real handbrake than one that is a little bit slow and lets you slip back, even a tiny bit or, just as good, cuts out. I do not have fond memories of the Renault Scenic, though I will say that the space where the handbrake ought to be is an excellent place to put your handbag.
So, to our hilltop town. We were stars there. You will recall that we were there for the Princess’s cousin’s christening or the ‘piccolo cugino†as he will be known henceforth, this is my blog, I can be as pretentious as I like. Half the town was related to the piccolo cugino’s mother and therefore to us, really, and the rest knew precisely who we were. When I went down town one day with the Princess leaving the boys to bond with their father a number of people whom I had never, to my knowledge, seen before asked me where the “piccoli gemelli†were. This gave us the smug (though unmerited feeling) of being a cut above the other tourists. We took every opportunity to inform our fellow hotel guests from South Africa, from the Netherlands (around the corner from the Dutch mama’s place, fancy that – little chat about the parks in Voorburg) and from England (walking tours at ₤3,000 a week – dear God – when I heard backpackers, I thought they would be young but I knew when I heard the cost that they would be old – I chatted to their Italian guide and we both agreed happily that they were ‘mad, mad’ and she said, somewhat regretfully, that she too had been under the misapprehension that they would be young when she took the job) that we had special connections. The Princess was delighted with our special connections and surprisingly taken with her piccolo cugino who is very like Michael (therefore, gorgeous, you understand) though three months younger, tanned and, of course, has been sleeping through the night since he was eight weeks old. You know, I read that 40% of babies don’t sleep through the night until they turn two. What I want to know is why don’t I know any of their parents? Incidentally, the down side of being related to everyone in the hilltop town was that it was no holds barred on the advice front. I was buying shoes (well, I was in Italy, what would you do?) and the lady behind the counter said that she was related to the piccolo cugino’s granddad. She continued “my daughter met you in the piazza del popolo yesterday and she tells me that your twin boys don’t sleep through the night; she thinks that you’re not giving them enough to eat but I’d say the problem is that it’s not dark enough in their bedroomâ€. Sigh. However, she redeemed herself by giving the Princess a Barbie badge.
The hotel was fabulous. The staff were fantastically obliging (which I suspect they would have been even had the owners not been on kissing terms with the piccolo cugino’s granddad), cooking things for the Princess at odd times; letting us leave our clip on high chairs in place for the week; feeding the Princess with biscuits (“biscuits for breakfast, Mummy!â€) and putting on cartoons on the telly for her (little did they know that thanks to our careful work, she would have been equally happy watching the returns from the local elections in Sicily); holding babies while we went off about our business; and generally making us keen to come back. We also had, as predicted, babysitters galore. The royal grandparents played a blinder. The publishing exec is now, officially the Princess’s favourite person, having spent hours and hours dressing up with her, reading stories to her and helping her sweep bugs out of the pool. The Princess has no fear of insects and spent much of her time at the pool operating as a spider rescue service, tenderly placing gasping spiders on the paving stones around the pool.
And then we left. 30 degrees in Palermo, 10 degrees in Brussels and not much oohing either. And all the children were sick and Mr. Waffle and I couldn’t go to work because it was a bank holiday weekend. If you were home with three sick children, you’d want bank holidays cancelled too. What’s that you say about curmudgeonly?
* He doubtless gets this from my sister Helen who is the poor traveller in our family which is unfortunate since she seems to spend most of her time travelling around the world having worked in England, Germany, China, the US and now in India. She tells me that strong drugs are the answer. Strong drugs were not, however, available when we were children and I well remember my mother driving hell for leather from Cork to Rosslare to get the ferry (a number of unfortunate bunnies met their deaths on that early morning trip) and Helen bleating pathetically that she was sick while my brother and I argued about who would have to sit beside her. My mother said firmly, eyes on the road (if I remember correctly, my father’s eyes were closed in anguish) “Well, we can’t stop, you’ll have to get sick out the window†which she duly did leaving a long vomit streak on the side of the car and also liberally dousing her hair in vomit. Michael clearly has a great future ahead of him.
We’re Back
Yes, ok, you thought that we’d been sold into the white slave trade by the Sicilian mafia but, as it happens, no.  I felt that I ought to update here because I rang a friend today to make arrangements for the weekend and she said “but you’re in Sicilyâ€.  I explained that I was back and she said “but I read your blog every day and you’re not backâ€.  While I am, of course, touched by her enthusiasm for this website, I feel that she should know that you can’t believe everything you read on the internet.  Pressure of work and a sick child [leading to the utterly laughable experiment which my loving spouse and I attempted yesterday and today respectively, of trying to work from home with an, again respectively, sick and recovering three year old on our hands] have kept me from telling you hair raising tales from the Sicilian hinterland but just you wait, this weekend, all will be revealed.  I know, I know, you’re on the edges of your seats out there. Look, Mum, if you’re really keen you can start with the hundreds of photos on Flickr.
Sicily
Tomorrow morning we leave for a week’s holiday in Sicily.  I am looking forward to this trip with a mixture of fear and anguish tinged with a slight hint of enthusiasm.  Before we go, we have to pack. In other words, now, tonight, we should be packing.
We will need:
A buggy, two parasols and buggy board;
Two car seats;
Two travel cots;
Two strap on to table high chairs (having established on a previous visit that the island of Sicily is entirely unequipped with same – the Italians love their children and hold them in their laps, we are heartless);
Two separate baby monitor thingies (one for the boys’ room, one for the Princess’s room);
Bottles and bottle sterilising kit;
A small plastic sheet for fear the the Princess may have an accident in the hotel bed;
Enough milk, babyfood and nappies to keep us going until we can hit the shops;
Two guidebooks and three maps (speak to my husband please); and
Sun cream, mosquito spray, hats, swimming togs, clothes for the boys, clothes for the Princess, clothes for us, good clothes for all five of us (we are travelling to attend the christening of the royal cousin who, being a quarter Sicilian is claiming his birthright by being christened somewhere warm and sunny).
I fear that the plane may just not have room for us and our stuff. And I am actively, genuinely concerned that the car we have hired will not be big enough for us and all our gear.  And to add insult to injury, there are local elections coming up in Brussels.  What is the relevance of this you ask? I will tell you, it means that all the pavements are being redone to encourage us to vote for the incumbents.  We are therefore unable to use our garage and will have to trek miles to our car with our mammoth supplies and all our children at an ungodly hour of the morning.  And the forecast tomorrow is for hail.Â
And now for the enthusiasm:
The royal grandparents will be there;
The publishing exec (or babysitter number 3 as we have taken to calling her) will be there;
We will all get to see the royal cousin for the first time and see his parents doing the parenting thing (depending on their availability – they do, after all have a three month old baby of their own – they have been pencilled in as babysitters 4 and 5);
The royal cousin has a Sicilian grandfather (or babysitter 6 again, subject to availability, see previous) who has said we can use his washing machine;
The hotel is fabulous with an outdoor pool and lovely food and run by charming people with a daughter who entertained the Princess for hours last time we were there (provisionally known as babysitter number 7);
The Princess may finally be able to wear her Summer dresses outside the house because, please God, it will be sunny – mind you, this brings to mind a serious concern which is that I have no clothes and, more especially, no clothes for sunny weather (entirely unnecessary in Belgium to date this year) and no time to buy them either and I will be holidaying with my sisters-in-law (babysitters nos 3 and 4, try to keep up) who are, quite possibly, the best dressed women in Ireland and though, I don’t aspire to keep up with them, I would like to be able to appear in public with them without having Italians pointing at me and laughing;
The Italians entirely live up to their reputation as the most child friendly people on the planet (I remember being surprised when the airport security man with the gun at Palermo airport dandled the Princess and gooed enthusiastically at her) so who knows what other random and additional babysitters we may be able to identify;
Sicily is beautiful and we will be staying near the seaside town of Cefalu which is gorgeous and also, very importantly, has a beach.
Update on our return next week, please hold your breath.
Le “fancy fair†and le “rugbyâ€
On Saturday, the Princess’s school held its annual “fancy fairâ€.  I understand that this is an event that takes place in all Belgian schools towards the end of the school year.  There’s a concert, games in the yard, a bouncy castle, food and organised fun.  I was at pains to explain to anyone who would listen that although the words “fancy†and “fair†do exist in English, the combination conveys nothing to the native speaker but, alas, I was ignored except for by the Princess who said to me crossly “it’s le fonzy fayereh Mummy, you’re pronouncing it all wrongâ€.Â
All of last month, we have been importuned by the school to assemble stalls, bring food, disassemble stalls and bring more food. The Princess made a costume for a medieval maiden and had dress rehearsals in the concert hall.  Yesterday was the day of the “fonzy fayereh†and we were awoken by the sound of a thunderstorm breaking over the house.  It poured all day. The bouncy castle was more of a bouncy swimming pool.  Although the food was excellent (thereby pleasantly confirming my prejudices about the Belgians), food eaten while huddled in the bike shed of the school yard and staring at the pouring rain is just that bit less appetising than food partaken of in bright sunshine. Also, the boys’ buggy has broken. In particular, the rain cover can no longer be attached. The new buggy has been ordered but will not be available for at least two weeks (welcome to the consumer Mecca that is Belgium) so, to get tickets to purchase the food, I had to run across the yard in a gale pushing the buggy and holding the rain cover between my teeth.
Also the concert was not the success that I had hoped it might be. I went with the Princess to her dressing room to find a number of harassed staff trying to dress a number of wailing children. Â When I left her, as instructed by the harassed staff, she joined in lustily with the wailing majority. Â For her turn on stage, she was, for reasons unknown, right at the back and, therefore scarcely visible. Â I blame jealousy among the other students.
The day ended with a communal dinner which was scheduled for 6 but started at 7.30 by which time a lot of the younger participants were hyper or tetchy or, particularly appealingly, both. We managed to rock our saintly sons to sleep in their (somewhat damp) buggy but unfortunately, they were awoken almost immediately by the loud music that must obligatorily accompany organised fun of any kind (yes, I am old and bitter, is that a problem?).  On the plus side the music was that of my youth.  Princess watched in horror as her parents sang along to Simple Minds (Don’t, don’t, DON’T, don’t you forget about me.. and so on). A taster for her of what her teenage years will be like.
What with the excitement of the fonzy fayereh, Mr. Waffle missed the rugby.  He had, however, recorded it from the French telly for later viewing. We had heard the result (Munster beat Biarritz, hurrah) so I asked him whether he wanted to watch it, now that he knew the results.  “Yes†he said “it’s much better than waiting for an hour and a half for Munster to loseâ€. From my point of view, the highlight of the match was seeing an interview with Ronan O’Gara where, fresh from the fray, he speaks in French to the interviewer.  His French is strongly accented, with a Cork accent, that is, but, frankly, let those of us without sin cast the first stone etc.. Mr. Waffle and I were very impressed with his vocabulary (we love to patronise) and I pointed out to Mr. Waffle that, since he had attended the same school as my brother, his French teacher was almost certainly my brother’s best friend’s mother (try to keep up here, I am giving you an excellent insight into what it is like being from Cork) and that she would be proud. Or at least, presumably, she would have been until the interviewer asked Ronan how the Munster men were feeling and he replied “Nous sommes très, très jolis.â€
How we brought the bad weather from Ghent to Brussels
We went to Ghent this morning. It was a bright sunny morning at 8.00 and it is the last day of April, we dressed accordingly. Need I tell you that it bucketed down? Or that the Princess and I took a ride in an uncovered boat while Mr. Waffle strode the damp cobblestones with two chilled little boys? It was 7 degrees in Ghent this morning. Tomorrow is the first day of May. Global warming indeed.
In fact, it wasn’t as bad as that makes it sound. The Princess loved the boat trip. We heard about the 55 illegitimate children that Charles V left in Ghent. We saw a lot of ducks (always thrilling). The only difficulty was the woman in the front of the boat with the microphone “When will she stop TALKING, Mummy?” Mr. Waffle, as befits a man who took 3 small children to the doctor for injections while his wife was off on a “work trip”, was unfazed by the difficulty of trying to entertain seven month old twin boys in an unexpectedly cold and damp environment.
After the boat trip, we ran to the car in the pouring rain pushing our buggy cavalcade at speed over the cobblestones. Possibly in consequence, the double buggy appears to have expired. I’m trying to work in the phrase “I gallop’d, Mr. Waffle gallop’d, we gallop’d all three†into the text here, but it’s more difficult than you might imagine.
Oh and yes, it was fine in Brussels in the morning but the rain followed us back from Ghent and we spent the afternoon gazing dolefully out the rain battered windows.