Me (while writing letter): What are you up to?
Mr. Waffle (typing on computer): Hmm, what’s that?
Me (patiently): What are you doing on the computer?
Him (vaguely): Computer, what?
Me: Are you booking something, buying something?
Him (stopping typing and waving hands in front of face): I’m afraid Y chromosone has caused a general protection fault causing this programme to terminate. Would you like to send an error report to the creator?
The holiday sub-committee formally reconvened tonight having reached no decision at its last meeting. Time is pressing and, if resolution is not speedily achieved, it is likely that the issue will have to go to plenary. This will present its own unique difficulties as two of the plenary members can only say “ball†and “mama†and interpreting their votes will be a fraught process.
While the fundamental issues before the sub-committee remain unchanged, new information is regularly becoming available which feeds into the decision making process going forward. In the matter of summer holidays, it was originally proposed that Mr. Waffle would take six weeks of leave: one month of parental leave and two weeks of holidays. Unfortunately, work commitments in July mean that he may no longer be able to do this. The Princess finishes school for two months at the end of June and the boys’ creche is closed for August. The sub-committee has formally agreed that the Princess can be accommodated in a series of courses for the four weeks of July though no such courses have as yet been identified and agreed by all parties. Pending resolution of the over-arching holiday arrangement package, this issue has been parked. It is, however, likely that the task of organising this will be delegated to Mr. Waffle who has shown particular expertise in this area on previous occasions.
The information on the July holiday period has presented particular difficulties for the sub-committee and it is a matter of considerable regret to the sub-committee that the business of Mr. Waffle’s employer cannot be subjugated to the Waffles’ needs in relation to their extensive summer holidays. The sub-committee actively considered a motion of censure but, under pressure from Mr. Waffle, the motion was ultimately withdrawn. Nevertheless, the sub-committee asked that it be minuted that this is a particularly vexed issue as the original proposal was satisfactory to all parties: namely that Mr. Waffle and the three junior Waffles would travel to Kerry to meet formally with the babysitting team (or team grandparents as they are known in committee jargon), one of the current Ambassadors to the Holy See and the latter’s spouse, children and grandchildren. The Holy See team are close friends of team grandparents and their children the youthful companions of Mr. Waffle. They will not be the Holy See team forever and when they go back to the distant land from whence they came, joint holidays in Kerry will be more challenging. The sub-committee, therefore, spent some time discussing this issue. All parties were extremely disappointed that no solution could be reached and this led to what were arguably circular and certainly futile discussions. A suggested compromise of travelling to West Cork for a fortnight in late July/early August to at least stay with team grandparents is under active consideration. At this point the chair deeming that the sub-committee had progressed as far as was possible on this issue and called for a break for a cup of tea.
Subsequently, the sub-committee reconvened and moved straight to item 3 on the agenda “American Holidayâ€. The arguments for and against were again rehearsed by members of the sub-committee. They might be summarised as follows:
The climate of Chicago is one of extremes – members of the plenary are likely to deal poorly with extreme temperatures;
The Chicago welcoming committee is primed and its premises are in order. Members of the sub-committee are enthusiastic at the prospect of inspecting the Chicago branch’s newly acquired premises and the surrounding area;
A nine hour flight may stretch the participants to breaking point;
More particularly as it will be followed by jet lag and, eventually, a nine hour flight back and further jet lag; members of the sub-committee expressed particular concern as to whether members of the plenary would be amenable to this kind of activity;
The issue of cost and convenience also arose: should the group choose to fly from Ireland, then they will fly free to Chicago courtesy of the branch office which is willing to put its airmiles at the disposal of head office. The sub-committee has two reservations in relation to this – should the group take such a generous gift from the branch when these costs should, more properly, be borne by head office and would it not be more convenient to fly from Brussels in view of the particular needs of members of the plenary. As against this the sub-committee noted that the 3,000 euro which would be saved by availing of the Chicago branch’s offer is not a negligible consideration in these times of increased budgetary constraints and predicted economic slowdown.
At this point barracking from the bedroom caused the meeting to break up in disorder.
Executive Summary
Internet, please tell me, are we mad to think of taking three small children to Chicago in August? What will we do when we get there? Does anyone have any advice?
Today is my loving husband’s birthday. I think that this is the first birthday he has had with quite so much vomit. As a special birthday surprise, I let him go to work while I stayed home with the childminder to help out with the sick children. The older you get the less fun your presents become.
I wanted to write about how wonderful my spouse is but I seem to have writer’s block. The knowledge that, any second now, someone will start to scream may be putting me off. Also, having a perfect husband isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know. When other people complain about their husbands, I can’t join in, well, not unless I want to be really annoying. Ok, he probably isn’t perfect but I don’t think I know of anyone else whose husband is so much of a partner. When we’re drowning in baby vomit, we’re splashing in it together. When we’re up 14 times in the night we’re up 7 times each. When we have to take a day off work to mind a sick child, we take in turns. He washes, I sweep, he cooks, I clean, he folds, I put away, he sews, I hoover. I have never felt we were anything other than completely equal partners in the work of parenting and running a home. Even when I am annoyed with him, for gentle reader, difficult as it is to believe, this happens, and I mutter under my breath, I never mutter, “it’s not fair, I do everything” for at no level is that true. And it’s such an unexpected bonus because before I married him, I hadn’t tested his baby friendliness or his housekeeping skills in any depth. I knew that he was kind and good and loving and funny and clever and that he had an over-developed sense of duty and what was right. Little did I know that that last which could be so tiresome (oh trust me here) would be one of the best things in the long run.
Happy birthday, sweetheart.
Me: So Chinese then.
Him: Yup. Do you want to get it or will I? Against going is the fact that it’s cold outside, in favour, if you go out, you definitely won’t have to wipe up baby sick while you’re out.
Me: I’ll go, I’ll take the car.
Him: The car?? The Chinese is only round the corner.
Me: Yes, but I read that fossil fuels may be exhausted in 20 to 30 years so we’d better use the car while we still can.
Today was a trying day. Getting everyone out the door this morning was horrendous. Michael did not make matters easier by pouring water all over himself and then, once snug and dry again, getting sick. We decided, callously, because that’s the kind of parents we are, that it was only a little vomit and his cough made him do it. So Mr. Waffle whisked him and his brother to the creche while the Princess and I made our excuses for lateness to Madame Valerie.
I worked from home this morning and finished up at lunch time contemplating two hours of freedom until I had to collect the Princess. That was when Mr. Waffle rang saying that the creche had rung him saying poor Michael was sick. Mr. Waffle was going to collect Michael and bring him home. In the reduced time available, I cast aside all other tasks to write an amazingly witty and entertaining post on the comic relief apprentice show. Please don’t ask, I can’t bear it. Just as I was putting the final touches to my magnum opus my husband and sick son came in the door. The former had to hot foot it back to the office so he left me holding the latter, a wan sad little boy who promptly threw up on his mother and continued to do so at 10 minute intervals for the next hour and a half. During this period, Mr. Gates had been biding his time and, seeing that I was otherwise occupied, he automatically shut down my computer and restarted it with updates uploaded. Something he had wanted me to do all morning but which, to my subsequent regret, I had resisted. Oh, and also, the lovely German Gin tells me that she cannot read this site or comment on it. Anyone else having difficulty? Gah.
I found some old motilium (note for the childless with strong stomachs – anti nausea medicine) in the medicine cupboard. Its expiry date was April 2007 and it said keep refrigerated. I rang my parents for guidance and my father said crossly that they were at a funeral (Irish people almost always are*) but he relented when he heard why I’d called and said that they should be fine and the only reason it said “keep cool” was that suppositories (oh yes) can lose their shape otherwise.
So deftly, I changed Michael and inserted a suppository before he even had time to complain. He is my third child you know, I ooze competence. He wasn’t sick for two hours which allowed me to collect the Princess with relative ease though poor little fellow, he was slumped in the buggy looking green and he was clearly thinking “this would never have happened, if I were her first child”.
At 6.30 Mr. Waffle and Daniel came home and poor Michael was very down. It was, alas, abundantly clear that Mr. Waffle and I were going to have to abandon our planned dinner together. Poor Mr. Waffle, his birthday is on Monday and this was by way of advance celebration. Also poor Mr. Waffle because he always buys me wonderful presents for my birthday on March 10 and then, a week or so later, he gets another pair of socks, some cufflinks and a tie. So, here I am facing into a night of frantic sheet stripping instead of dining in one of Belgium’s many Michelin starred restaurants. It’s enough to make anyone want to be a parent, I’m sure.
*Irish people go to all sorts of funerals other people wouldn’t bother with, friends’ parents and grandparents, distant relatives, you name it. My husband always says that this was one of the problems the Guildford four, or maybe the Birmingham six, had. Apparently, they were all going to the funeral of an old school friend they hadn’t seen in years and the English jury just couldn’t believe that this was true. Why would you go to the funeral of a person you hadn’t seen in years? Irish people are odd this way. I read an interview with the Irish state pathologist (who is Scottish) and she said in amazement “Irish people don’t think it’s a good week unless they’ve been to a funeral”. My father is still bitter about the holiday in West Cork when it rained every day for three weeks except one and on that one day we were all at the funeral of a second cousin of my maternal grandmother’s.
Whispering male voice with peculiarly patronising tone: Mr. Waffle is home alone until Thursday while his wife is off for a work trip (or an illicit break of the working mother as it is better known). He has faithfully promised her that he will not be cross with the children while she is away even if they cry all the time and conspire to make him late for work.
Whispering male voice continues: Mr. Waffle returns from work and is left alone with his three small children. [Camera pans around scenes of chaos; the boys cry and the Princess is bold]. We see Mr. Waffle remaining calm and firmly putting her in the “coin colereâ€. The annoying whisperer observes: The boys continue to cry; will Mr. Waffle remain true to his promise or will he snap? Daniel gets sick. Michael crawls away while Mr. Waffle mops up. The Princess wees in the confines of the “coin colere†because, as she explains, she couldn’t go to the toilet because she was in the “coin colereâ€. Michael calls merrily from the bathroom “I’ve climbed on to the cistern and I’m trying to get my head into the toilet bowl from hereâ€.
In fact, my loving husband, tells me it wasn’t as bad as I might have imagined when I left first thing on Monday morning but he said that Wednesday was a particularly low point. In the morning, he dropped her highness to school with the boys in the buggy. Then he walked home and loaded them into the car and took them to the creche and climbed up to the third floor with the boys crawling ahead. At lunchtime he picked her highness up from school and deposited her at the glam potter’s house and went back to work. In the evening he collected her and then the boys. A fatal error. He should have collected the boys first. The boys were cranky, the Princess was cranky. He had to get shoes on all of them and carry/chivvy them down three flights of stairs and get them into the car. Hideous. But now I’m back from no internet land and I will mind my loving family and post all the material I wrote while I was away.
Finally, I see that I belong to the most discriminated against group in the British workplace. And who will be paying the pensions, eh?