Family

We travelled back to Ireland yesterday and the journey was utterly hideous.  Huge queues in Brussels airport meant that we were still edging through security at the moment our flight was due to take off.  The Princess was difficult, casting herself on the ground sobbing thus creating the very real risk that we would lose our place in the mob or queue.  Mr. Waffle was grinding his teeth and the boys were howling.  When we got to security, we had this liquid in plastic bags business and we had to fold the buggy and put it through the machine and I had to take off my boots (stupid footwear choice).  Ah yes, the war on tourism, continues.

Safely through security we legged it to our flight, me carrying herself, Mr. Waffle pushing the boys and our mountain of handluggage.  Once on the plane (yay!), the flight was full without a single empty seat.  We were sitting in 3A, 3B and accross the aisle 3D.  We can’t sit together as there are only 4 oxygen masks for every three seats.  I asked the matronly immaculately dressed woman in 3C whether she would like to sit by the window “No, I prefer the aisle and I’ve already had to move to accommodate you”.  Not entirely sure why this should be the case but it meant that we had this large cranky lady sitting in the middle of our family group.  At one level I sympathise, but would it have killed her to have smiled?  For the duration of the flight, I had to keep Michael and the Princess from disturbing her (near impossible) and Mr. Waffle and I had to keep passing supplies across her, which she clearly enjoyed immensely.  If it hadn’t been for a lovely woman in the row behind distracting Michael and the Princess with the odd game of peekaboo, I might have lost my life.

While I was balefully contemplating the large newspaper reading, perfectly coiffed, mohair clad, ray of sunshine at the end of the row, something caught my eye.  Dear God in heaven, oh yes, those were enormous lice wending their merry way up and down the Princess’s fringe.  My immediate comfort was the knowledge that they were very likely to be attracted to the large mohair lady.

The flight finally ended and the mohair lady turned to the Princess and said “you were such a good little girl on the flight, would you like this?” and gave her an enormous gingerbread heart and I felt so mean for judging her and also for probably giving her lice for Christmas.

We are now holed up with my marvellous in-laws for the Christmas season.  It is babysitting heaven here.  And following a full inspection of the Princess’s head which was teeming with life, we have bought anti-lice shampoo (“Lice n’ easy”) and a fine tooth comb.  I also regret to report that adults do get head lice.

I would like to wish you all a safe journey, if you are travelling, and a wonderful and louse free Christmas.  You know that they only like clean hair, don’t you?

Please put together the following elements and write a description of my day because I am too tired to do so: Michael is sick, the Princess has abandoned her afternoon napping for good (insert weeping and gnashing of teeth here please), it rained most of the day, November 11 is a bank holiday for armistice so absolutely everything was closed except the video shop which didn’t turn out to be as much of a mercy as you might think since I chose to take out Mary Poppins for which the Princess is a little too young and which is very, very long. Indirectly, however, this provided the only entertainment of the day. The Princess picked up a pink (think moth to a flame) flyer in the video shop. On closer inspection this is advertising “the greatest Belgian lesbian party ever”. Belgium is the home of the European Union and the English favoured by this august institution tends to flavour that of the locals so the party is further escribed as being “in the framework of the loveball”. Indeed.

Today also afforded me an opportunity to reflect anew on how children seek to diminish any romance or mystery you might previously have enjoyed in your marriage. For me, one of the great things about working is going to the toilet alone. At home, the Princess likes to keep me company; this morning, having warned me not to put too much paper down the toilet in case I blocked it, she ran out of the bathroom to her father shouting an information bulletin “Papa, Papa, Mama a fait pipi et caca”.

NaBlPoMo – More Mothers

Islay

Separating mother of one who is surprisingly upbeat given the heartache and logistical nightmare of being a single working mother trying to deal like a grown-up with an ex-husband when all she really wants to do is scream. Or I may be overinterpreting here about the screaming bit. I do admire people who can keep so many balls in the air and manage to start over. Amazing. I also like the way that her posts are true.

Beth Again

Yet different. Because you can’t have too much Beth. Welcome to the friendliest place on the internet. Really. Also, the best advice on the internet (if that’s not a compliment, it was meant to be but I appreciate that the competition is not exactly keen).

This evening, I described our weekday mornings thus to my husband and daughter.

At 6.15 Michael rouses his parents from sleep with sounds of indignation. Mr. Waffle says to me “You stay in bed, I’ll get him”. Somewhat to his surprise and mild resentment, I invariably accept this invitation. My will power is nil and I am not a morning person. I find that this always gets the day off to a good start.

Michael howls in continuing indignation that his Mummy has not come to fetch him and I put my head under the pillow and snuggle up to the duvet. Mr. Waffle puts Michael in the playpen and showers and shaves in precisely 30 seconds. Daniel wakes up and by this time the guilt is too great to bear and I usually stagger out of bed about 6.45. The second he sees me, Michael starts to scream. I pick him up and he stops. Daniel and Mr. Waffle continue about their business (sucking on a toy and eating breakfast respectively) ignoring this touching scene. Mr. Waffle then prepares porridge for the boys and straps them into their high chairs. They squeal and reject the porridge with contumely. I feed the boys some Rice Krispies. Michael sits on my lap and Daniel stands holding on to my chair looking up at me hopefully. The Rice Krispies are always a disappointment to him and he spits them out on the floor.

The Princess gets up. I say, “I think I’ll have my shower”. Mr. Waffle says to the Princess “Que-ce que tu veux manger, ma puce?” The Princess ignores him.

“Princesse, Papa t’a posé une question.”

No response.

Me: She’ll have Rice Krispies.

Mr. Waffle pours out Rice Krispies and adds milk.

Her: Mummy is today a school day?

Me: Yes, honey.

Her: I don’t want to go to school and then (transferring her attention to her breakfast), no, don’t want, I want Corn Flakes.

Mr. Waffle’s face acquires the set look that characterises his morning appearance and he puts Corn Flakes in a bowl.

Her: Encore.

Him (severely): T’auras encore quand tu as fini ce qu’est dans ton bol.

Her (collapsing into loud sobs): No, je veux MAINTENANT.

Me: Look, just give her some more cornflakes. I’m going to have my shower.

Princess looks at Mr. Waffle in triumph and I hot foot it to the bathroom pursued by a weeping Michael crawling at speed. Daniel continues phlegmatically chewing on a plastic toy. I spend three hours in the bathroom showering and flood the floor while Michael sits outside wailing and head butting the door. From the distance I hear the sound of the Princess bawling hysterically about some fundamental right which has been breached “non, je ne veux PAS du lait dans mes corn flakes”.

I emerge from the bathroom swathed in towels and rescue Michael (sodden of course from the flooded floor and his ocean of tears) and comb my hair and put on make-up with him in my arms (“Michael, let go of the comb, ok so, you have it and I’ll put on some mascara, Jesus where are all the teeth, have you eaten them, open your mouth, open your mouth, ow, don’t bite, stop it”). Daniel is now sucking peaceably on a wooden toy. “Daniel, honey, you’re the best boy”. I am rewarded by a beaming smile and an invitation to suck on his toy.

Meanwhile, a dressing drama is unfolding in the Princess’s bedroom.

Mr. Waffle: Tu mets tes vêtements!

Her: Non, je ne veux pas.

Mr. Waffle: Tes chaussettes vont sur tes oreilles.

Me: That’s right, your socks go on your ears.

Princess puts socks on her ears.

Her: J’ai une idée, peut-être ils vont sur mes pieds.

She puts on her socks and runs around the house clad only in socks until forcibly brought back to base.

Mr. Waffle (face becoming increasingly set): Princesse, mets tes vêtements.

Me (putting down Michael): Come here sweetheart.

Her (eluding my grasp and giggling hysterically): No, I don’t want.

Michael: Somebody put me down waah, waah.

Daniel: Would anybody like to suck on this excellent book?

Me: Don’t be cross with her.

Mr. Waffle: I have been up since 6.15, would it be too much to ask that I might get to work on time? (sets off in hot pursuit).

Mr. Waffle: Si tu mets pas tes vêtements, c’est le coin colère.

Princess howling hysterically and, with a great show of reluctance, puts on her clothes.

Mr. Waffle: Bravo, mets ton manteau.

Her: NON, je ne veux pas.

Me: Sweetheart, please put on your coat.

Her: NO. It’s not cold.

Me: Well, it is very mild for late October…

Mr. Waffle (eyeing me menacingly addresses the Princess): Tu mets ton manteau.

Grumbling the while, she does.

Mr. Waffle: Où est ton cartable?

Her: Je veux l’autre cartable.

Me: Sweetheart, what’s wrong with the green bag?

Her: I want the red one.

Me: But why?

Her: Because I don’t like the green one anymore.

While Mr. Waffle, snorting with indignation, takes Daniel to be changed, I put down Michael and move her school things from the green bag to the red bag.

Michael: Waah, waah, waah, I don’t know whether anyone has noticed but I’m sitting on the floor here.

Kisses all round and the Princess heads out the door all smiles accompanied by Mr. Waffle looking like thunder. I shut the door and sigh with relief.

During this recital to the pair of them over dinner they both laughed and Mr. Waffle said “will we try to be nicer to Mama in the morning?” and the Princess said with shining eyes “tell me it again, Mama”.

I sometimes thinkof what I thought having children would be like before I actually had any. I saw myself sipping tea with a friend while our children played peacefully together. This, despite the fact that I remember distinctly the irritation I felt as a child when I saw my poor mother trying to read a book. But often, even now, I ask myself, why it is so hard. What exactly is the problem with having three small people in the house? Well, take the other night.

The boys were getting cranky. Mr. Waffle had run the bath and was wrestling Daniel (who is very strong) to the ground to remove his clothes. Daniel was keen to get into the bath. He loves it, in fact, the other night he appeared to say “the bath!” when taken into the bathroom. I was very excited but Mr. Waffle discounts this and the time where he looked at a bottle and said “bottle”. I am convinced my son is a genius although he hasn’t been able to reproduce these sounds under laboratory conditions. I digress. Having disrobed him, Mr. Waffle, alas, failed to perceive that Daniel had a dirty nappy (easier to do than you might imagine, I assure you) and plonked him into the bath diluting the water with poo and making all the toys that bit more appetising to suck; cue cursing, bath emptying and disinfectant spraying. Meanwhile, I was distracted by Michael who was howling because he had finally succeeded in catching his hand in the door – something he has been trying to do for some time. The Princess was indignant because nobody was paying any attention to her. She was standing behind the bathroom door with her head under a towel shouting “I’m hiding, look for me, I’m hiding” in increasingly hysterical and irate tones. Our efforts to talk her down were unavailing since she seems to be a bit deaf after having a sore ear earlier in the week (cue general nebulous concern).

We finally packed the boys off to bed. They are beginning to go to bed more easily either because we’ve worn them down or, because their standing up and (in Michael’s case) moving round the room using handy chairs like zimmer frames, has worn them out. This moving around is new and to celebrate we spent 120 euros on shoes for them. They will beggar us.

After dinner, the Princess went to bed and 20 minutes later she got up and announced “I’ve wet the bed”. This is becoming something of a pattern. She will often wet the bed 20 minutes after going to bed and then again during the night. This from a child who stopped wearing nappies at night before the Summer, was generally dry and is, after all, 3 and a half. My mother suggests that it might be a problem at school and it is true that her teachers said that she has been a bit difficult recently. She says she doesn’t want to go to school but when we ask her what’s wrong she just says “there are too many people at school”. On the days I collect her from school, she does seem to be playing alone, but quite happily and she always rushes up to me to press into my hand offerings which she has gathered in the yard (my pockets are full of conkers, fallen leaves and pigeon feathers).  If the internet has any suggestions about the whole bed wetting thing, I would welcome them.  The books seem to feel that it’s all within the range of normal, but I don’t know.
I hope it’s not a school problem. I remember that I loved nursery school and primary school. Secondary school was vile but those under 12 days were halcyon. I think I must have been unbearable, though. I remember telling my teacher, when I was ten, that our cat was called Hodge. “Why?” she asked “Is he very fat?”. “Not Podge, Hodge” I said indignantly “after Samuel Johnson’s cat” (I would like to clarify that my parents are to blame for this). When another child in the class asked who he was, my teacher said “a writer from a long time ago” and I cut her off saying, quite crossly “he’s the famous lexicographer!”. Quite. And I remember on a sunshiny Friday afternoon walking out of school and saying to a friend “I hope that there isn’t a nuclear holocaust at the weekend because I think that I got 100% in that maths test”. It’s the smugness combined with the warped priorities that appeals. We did live a bit in the shadow of a potential nuclear holocaust; we were all fascinated by it. We frequently had conversations along the lines of “If you knew that there was going to be a nuclear war tomorrow, what would you do?”.

I remember when I was about 14, going to the Gaeltacht and being chatted up by some Dublin boy who insisted on giving me a full description of the SALT talks. He kept filling me in on more details every time we ran into each other. In English, I hasten to add as, notoriously, Dublin people could never speak any Irish and kept getting expelled from Gaeltacht summer schools for speaking in English. So I could only lend half an ear to his descriptions of the arms limitation treaties as I was on constant look out for a supervisor who might find us speaking English and send us back to our respective homes in disgrace. Though I was impressed by his knowledge of nuclear weapons reduction treaties, in the end it was never going to go anywhere as he was 12 and was only as high as my shoulder. This is a long way from where I started. Let me reiterate: any tips on the bedwetting, people?

When we were in Kerry during the summer, my mother-in-law asked me whether I was particularly fond of 1960s songs as I seemed to know a lot of them.  I found myself mulling on this and reflected that I knew far more songs from the 1960s than from the last 10 years.  I asked Mr. Waffle to hum one hit song from the last year and he couldn’t do it.  I knew precisely one song, something about God by pink and I couldn’t hum it either.  We are without it.

Furthermore, I am getting quite testy about this business of complete strangers addressing each other and, more particularly, me by their or my first names.  In a hotel I stayed in for work, the 60 year old man on reception had a label with “John” on his chest.  Not “John Bloggs” just “John”.  Am I really supposed to call this older gentleman “John”?

I have had some exposure to hospitals recently through my parents whom the doctors and nurses treating my father felt completely free to address by their first names whether they knew them or not.  In a context when you or your spouse is ill, poked, pulled and cut open, I can’t help feeling that it would be nice to have some vestiges of dignity retained.  Neither of my parents complained, but my mother did mention it and I wondered who decreed that all patients should be addressed by their first names.  In Belgium, I was “Madame Gaufre” to everyone when I was in hospital.  Maybe it’s because they have “tu” and “vous” in French and this encourages formality.  Whatever the reason, I like it.  You can always tell people to be a little less formal but it’s much harder to ask people to be more formal.  I remember when a friend of my parents’ was very ill (possibly dying) in hospital, he was addressed by his first name.  As it happened, he was always known by his middle name, so that wasn’t even his name, really, if you see what I mean, and I, who had known him all my life, only every addressed him as Professor C.  A little courtesy might be welcome.

I was pleasantly surprised the other day when I got an email from an academic beginning “Dear Anne (if I may)”.  Yes, you may, how nice to be asked.  When I started my working life, which is not that long ago, 1990, in fact (if this was before you were born, please don’t comment), it was quite standard to address the senior partners in the office as Mr. (there were no senior women, so the question of Ms, Mrs or Miss did not arise – ah, progress, not all bad then), though my own boss did get his secretary to tell me to stop calling him Mr. because it made him feel very old. 

As a child, I addressed grown-ups as Mr. or Mrs. or, good friends of my parents as aunty or uncle.  This latter, I concede, carried its own difficulties. As a sullen adolescent, I wasn’t going to call unrelated people “uncle” or “aunty”, so I ended up having to address them as “you” or point.  I don’t, however, like to see the Princess imperiously addressing my friends by their first names and telling them to do things.  Imperious is her usual mode of interaction and, it might, I suppose be softened, if she were using some form of title.  I am not entirely sure how to deal with this, but perhaps inspiration will come.

Oh, and also, the policemen appear to be getting younger.