Travel

Are we there yet?

Monday, August 13

We went to the Museum of Science and Industry because Time Out recommended it and, by this stage we had realised that we were going to inspect all the museums in Chicago and it was next on the list. It was out past Soldier Field which, uniquely, in my experience, combines a monument to dead soldiers with a large sporting stadium. They’re nice those Americans, but different from us.

The science museum was, despite it’s unenticing name, fantastic. There was something for everyone. It was entertaining and fascinating. There was the Burlington Zephyr which was a beautifully restored train from the 1930s. Trains have lost out to cars in a big way in America and I found it somewhat distressing that this train had to be brought to the museum by a lorry instead of by rail. Ah, sic transit and all that (no pun intended but kind of funny, no?). All five of us spent about half an hour mesmerised by the “Swiss Jolly Ball” which was, essentially, a giant pinball machine used by the Swiss tourist board to promote Switzerland. It was made from random junk by an English man living in Switzerland. I suspect he was not married.

There was the “ideas factory” which allowed you to get wet and tossed balls in the wind (sounds dull but, you have to trust me here, it wasn’t). There was a walk through heart and an opportunity to take your own blood pressure. There was a room of miniature circuses (a tenuous link to science and industry, I would have thought, but frankly, who cares?)
And then, what with all the excitement, it was lunch time and time for the boys’ nap. Mr. Waffle nobly said “I’ll take them home and you two stay here and look at more things”. “No, no”, I said “you stay, after all, my sister is the one collecting us”. “OK” he said. I nearly cried. It was only a token offer and I wanted to stay there all day. In retrospect, I really regret that we didn’t go back there another day. It gets my vote for the best all round family attraction in Chicago.

We had a good afternoon in that the Princess helped us search Millenium Park and we found Daniel’s lost shoe but a bad afternoon in that she insisted on removing her clothes while doing so.

Tuesday, August 14

In our continuing round of Chicago museums, we dutifully tackled the Adler Planetarium. It was at this point that we realised that we could probably have saved quite a bit of money by buying combined entry to a number of museums. Never mind, onwards and upwards.

In deference to the younger members of the family we saw “Zula Patrol” in the Planetarium. Frankly, I felt Zula Patrol (a cartoon about the weather) didn’t really get full value from the planetarium but it was still pretty spectacular. A couple of times, the Princess grabbed on to me and asked “Mummy, are we moving?” We then spent a great deal of time in the children’s section which was magnificently tedious for the adults but the kids seemed to like it.

In the afternoon, my sister and the children and I went to Lincoln Park Zoo again and met a friend of my sister’s and her four year old daughter. This child was absolutely lovely and beautifully behaved. Where oh where were the badly behaved American children that I had been promised? My daughter was charmed by the polite little American and all was well until the Princess saw a fountain that other children were running through. She wanted to go too. I should have just folded early but I could see that the polite little American girl’s mother didn’t like the idea so I attempted to exert my feeble control over my daughter. I was defeated on all points and looked on as she soaked herself to the skin and then put on the polite little American girl’s spare clothes which her mama had prudently packed. I have never met a better behaved child and she and her mother were lovely but I had a moment of longing for a child who would not show mine up and despite her mother saying “we’ve all been there”, I couldn’t help feeling that she hadn’t been there quite as comprehensively as I had.

That night I swam alone in the swimming pool looking at the Chicago skyline which felt very decadent. In fact every night, before going to bed, I turned off the lights and looked out at the extraordinary and very foreign view.

Wednesday, August 15

We went to the Field Museum in the morning. My sister got us in free as she is a member and it was just as well. It didn’t really work for us and somewhere around plants of the world we despaired of ever finding the wretched dinosaurs and decided to go for a cup of tea.

The only cafe in the Field Museum is a McDonald’s and it is deeply depressing. I certainly went to McDonald’s when I was in school; I remember the excitement when one opened in Cork. It was the 1980s we took glamour where we could find it. But, I haven’t really been back since and it took me a long time to get the hang of the menu and I was a bit flustered and I couldn’t remember what American’s called chips (do they call them crisps?) and by way of further torture all their bills are the same colour and their 10 cent piece is smaller than 5 cents. It was all a bit fraught. I was not really aware of the happy meal concept and the woman after me got two happy meals and my daughter expressed vocal interest. The lovely, lovely Americans behind the till took it in their stride and gave me a free box and toy and I think maybe an extra packet of chips. The whole thing for the five of us cost 10 dollars and the kids ate it all up. “Chicken” my daughter informed me severely as she gulped down her deep fried nuggets “is very healthy”. I don’t think we’ll be going back all the same because the chief paying officers in this operation were distinctly less keen on the food and grim decor. We shook the dust of the Field Museum from our feet.

Later, the Princess and I went swimming and then we had cake. The Princess asked for chocolate cake and she got the largest slice I have ever seen. It was the size of those triangular battenburg cakes we used to have when we were little. I cut off a slice and the waitress put the rest in a box to take away (those polite Americans, that service industry, it’s a constant source of astonishment). Then we went to the “American Girl Place“; I had seen everyone with the bags and I was curious. It was terrifying. It sells the most expensive dolls and ludicrously expensive outfits and accessories for them. There was a queue for doll hairdressing. The place was full of little girls wearing the same outfits as their dolls. There was a doll theatre, doll DVDs, doll and owner afternoon tea. I swear that I am not making this up. Hilariously, every item in the all-American girl place seemed to have been made in China. Feeling very middle-class and superior, I approached an older shop assistant who seemed sensible and said laughingly “This little girl want something but her mean mother won’t pay more than 20 dollars for anything, can you recommend something?” Edna was not on my wavelength; “No,” she snapped, in the one and only example of poor service I encountered in America “the cheapest thing we have is 24 dollars for the basic outfit”. “OK”, I said “we’ll get one of those then.” “Have you got the doll?” Edna asked crossly. “No” I said. “Well, there’s no point in buying the clothes then because they won’t fit”. Dear Lord. I was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to persuade the Princess that we could probably get something cheaper and nicer in Baby Gap, when we came across Elizabeth. A lot of the dolls are done by period, so, for example, there’s plucky little Molly on the home front. Elizabeth is the side kick of main character Felicity. Let me give you a little background on Felicity:

“Felicity Merriman is a girl who’s as spirited and independent as the American colonies she lives in.

Felicity believes the colonies should be free, not ruled by a king who lives far away. But in 1774, just before the American Revolution, her belief isn’t shared by everyone. She knows that her grandfather and her best friend, Elizabeth, support the king’s rule.

Torn between what she believes and those she cares for, Felicity must find a way to hold both love and loyalty in her heart.”

Need I say more? Well, all of the dolls have little dolls dressed identically, so we were able to pick up an Elizabeth doll doll for 20 dollars and flee. I had to carry the Princess all the way back home, but it was worth it.

Really, it was probably time to leave the big city.  I would always have my memories of the skyline by night, the children’s shoes lighting up in a pile inside the door (all with flashing soles and chucked there by their careless owners) and the boys leaping into their buggy in delight every morning at the prospect of more wonderful things to do.  And, of course, Elizabeth.

Thursday August 9

What is the point of a contemporaneous blog when you can have a day by day adventure with me on holiday?

At 3.30 am, the Princess was up and about and by 4.00 am all three of them were romping about. At 4.30, I acted decisively and put the boys back to bed where, mercifully, they quickly fell fast asleep leaving us only one child awake. Between 4.30 and 6.30 we slept fitfully while she prodded us and whined “I want to get up”. At 6.30 I rose and we sampled “Aunt Jemima’s pancakes” saving the excitement of “Graham Crackers” for a later moment.

When the menfolk woke up, we went off to Navy Pier which Time Out and my sister’s trendy friends were a bit sniffy about but which our children enjoyed even, if it was a little bland. Michael particularly enjoyed rocking our little boat as we sailed up in the Ferris Wheel. They all liked the merry-go-round but the Princess liked it best of all and wept bitter and, very loud tears when forced to leave. I like to think that it was because she had been up since 3.30 and at the rate of one meltdown per day, I was beginning to feel that the jet lag really didn’t suit her and we headed for home in pursuit of a nap.

On the way back to the apartment, the taxi driver asked where we were from and we said that we were Irish whereupon the Princess piped up “I’m not Irish, I’m Belgian, I live in Belgium”. She’s wrong there, mind you, it requires more than being born and living there all your life to make you a Belgian. After wrestling the Princess out of the taxi and taking everyone upstairs, the Princess demanded to be allowed to put shampoo in the toilet. Permission was denied. I am sure that they could hear her indignation on all 56 floors of the building. Would she nap? No she would not, she remained awake by sheer force of iron will. Were we all getting a little tired of her imperial crankiness? Oh yes, indeed.

In the afternoon when the boys had woken up and the Princess had stopped screaming, my noble sister and I gave Mr. Waffle a break and went to Lincoln Park zoo which was absolutely lovely although it did have a slightly psychotic pacing tiger. Alas, Lincoln Park zoo had a merry-go-round which brought back to the Princess fond memories of the morning. It was closed. She stood by the gate screaming for them to open it. Her brothers joined in. The noise. The mortification. The boys were lured away by the prospect of further animals a lion, a cow, a seal, pigs, the excitement was endless and they ran in opposite directions keeping us on our toes. As a reward for her atrocious behaviour, we lured my daughter from the merry-go-round gate with a packet of opal fruits. I can only hope that this will encourage her to behave equally badly in the future. I am the definition of lax parenting.

As a reward for our afternoon of toil, once dinner was over and the boys were in bed, Mr. Waffle stayed in and persuaded the Princess that maybe, conceivably she could be just a smidgen tired and my sister and I hit the shops where, weak dollar or no, I seem to have run up a not inconsiderable bill. I was amazed again by the service. As I wandered around Ann Tyler laden with clothes, this nice woman came up and asked whether she would create a room for me or words to that effect. I was baffled; was she propositioning me, offering me interior decorating advice or did she think that I needed somewhere to stay? Nope, she took the clothes from my arm and put them in the changing room for me. Untold luxury. And then in the Gap, I needed another size and I emerged tentatively from the changing room, a nice man ran up to ask, if he could help. I said I could get what I needed from the rack but he was outraged and when I finished and went to put the stuff back on the rail, he hurried to take it from me. I was amazed, in Belgium, they’re often a bit cross with you, if you don’t put things back on the rack.

When I got home, after I had tried on all my lovely clothes, I tried to get the hang of Chicago again. Americans are stronger on North and South than I am and the different parts of town are bafflingly named things like South near inner loop.

Friday, August 10

On Friday, I noticed that Americans don’t use mobile phones much and don’t seem to text at all. Frankly it endeared them further to me. And, if you ask me, they’re not all that fat either. As Chicago is in the mid-West, I expected that there would be lots of fat people but while there were some large people about, I wasn’t shocked and appalled. This may, of course, say something about how tubby the Irish have got in recent years.

Friday morning took us to the Shedd Aquarium which was fantastic. I never went to an aquarium before I had kids but now I feel something of a veteran but this was the first time I saw dolphins dancing to “Walking on Sunshine” and leaping in the air in batches of four once Enya was finally turned off. Many of us could sympathise with that. While the boys and I watched the dolphins, the Princess and her father went to see Sponge Bob Squarepants in 4D which she deeply disliked as the seats moved and shot water at her. You have to sympathise. She was entranced by the next performance of the dolphins though and after that, to her father’s eternal relief, the cafe was opened by the authorities and he was able to get a cup of tea.

I have forgotten or suppressed the memory of what precisely started the Princess screaming in the cafe. I think someone may have touched her hummus. The boys went out in sympathy and, as their father quivered with rage and I sat there mortified and trying to dole out punishment and comfort in appropriate doses to restore silence, a very nice woman smiled at me and said “twins, I have two boys as well, it gets better, you know”. The Americans of the mid-West get a cold star for courtesy and patience, I can tell you.

After a restorative lunch with my sister while Mr. Waffle guarded the children, she and I again let Mr. Waffle off the leash and took the children to the Children’s Museum. For my money, this is not fantastic, it’s not bad but I didn’t think it was spectacular. I had a problem that many patrons do not have in that both of my sons like to drive pretend cars and two were not available together. I spent most of the afternoon with my heart in my mouth haring round the place looking for Michael who, unlike his saintly brother, would not stay where he was put while his sibling was being hoisted into the fire engine. It was only late in the day that I discovered that there were very safe closed off areas for smaller children upstairs, alas. The Princess, meanwhile spent a happy afternoon climbing up and down a netting thing supervised by her long suffering aunt.

Despite all this, her highness was not happy to leave. The battle grounds shifted until somehow I found myself with a howling Princess outside the building screaming “water, water” and I kept replying with, I thought, admirable calm “not until you say please”. Due, however, to her iron will, I shortly found myself in the ludicrous position of standing on the street holding a bottle of water over the drain out of the reach of my hot, thirsty child who was panting “water, water” between sobs in the blazing Chicago heat. Not “water please”, you note. Not a good look for me either though, you must concede. Eventually when I started actually pouring the water down the drain she said bitterly “water plea” and that had to do.

As a reward for my labours in the afternoon I went to the cinema in the evening which was freezing. Why? Harry Potter, not bad either, rather embarrassingly.

Saturday, August 11

Daniel woke up with a slight temperature and rather than cart him out, he and Mr. Waffle stayed at home while the Princess, Michael and I went to the art institute. Given her less than stellar behaviour since our arrival, I was a little nervous. I needn’t have been. They were both as good as gold. They were interested in the pictures and dutifully did not touch. The Princess looked after her little brother, entertained him and held his hand keeping him safe from hazards (the arms room held a peculiar and slightly alarming fascination for him). She was wonderful and so was he. A security guard asked what was our favourite part and said that her’s was the dolls’ houses. I knew nothing of the dolls’ houses and would never have found them. I was so charmed by the woman’s kindness. The Americans, I think I’m in love. And the houses were absolutely the best bit. The Princess and I adored them and could have stayed for hours. Michael, unfortunately, was only interested in the ones with horses visible through the windows, so that limited our capacity to linger. Rarely have I found myself in such perfect harmony with my daughter – we could have stayed there all day but, at Michael’s insistence, we left, with a good grace. It was a perfect morning.

In the afternoon, as penance, Mr. Waffle took the Princess back to the fountain and my sister and I pushed the buggy through crowded shops while I vainly sought shoes. We were both hot and crabby when we reached Oak Street and the part of town where the rich people live. I thought it might be nice to see the beach but it was tantalisingly out of reach. You might think that the lakefront would be a park devoted to pedestrians. You would have completely forgotten the American love affair with the car then. Between us and the glittering lake there was a big fat impassable road, presenting to drivers a lovely view across the lake but making these pedestrians hot dusty and disgruntled. We reached a playground and stopped to let the boys play before exhaustedly hailing a taxi for home.

That evening, no sooner were the children in bed than a voice boomed into the apartment “this is the Chicago City Fire Department, this is not a drill, we have found a suspected fire in the building, go to a safe place and we will update you shortly”. Where might a safe place be? We were only moderately comforted by my sister telling us that when there is a fire in a tall building they only evacuate the floor that it’s on. I was considering whether we should wake the children and flee when my sister found lobby tv. One of the stations on our television was trained on the lobby and we were able to watch the firefighters running in and out. Well we would have been, if they hadn’t been standing around having cups of coffee. We decided it probably wasn’t a crisis, even though they did close State Street. I only really relaxed when they announced that firefighters had the blaze under control. I was mildly surprised that they didn’t describe themselves as Mayor Richard M. Daley firefighters as his name certainly seemed to be appended to pretty much any good news or even neutral news in Chicago.

We then left my sister and children in the burning building and went for lunch in the Cafe Grand Lux where we met some more nice mid-Westerners who told us about the building over the Jewel Osco being evacuated because of a fire; we were able to update them. This, and the fact that they gave us a pager to let us know when our table would be ready made it all very thrilling.
Sunday, August 12

This was the first day that the Princess slept later than 5 in the morning. Good day then. Hmm. We went to the beach. The Princess loves the beach. I love the beach. Mr Waffle hates the beach and, as far as the boys are concerned, the jury is out. It was a perfect day for it. The Princess waded out into the clear shallow water. And waded, and waded. It is shallow for miles. Would she come back when we called her? Go on, what do you think? So, boys up on hips and into the water we went. Under protest, she returned to land. We had a lot of that. Daniel did not like the sea and Michael was also a little in awe of the gentle lapping waves. The Princess and her father went to investigate food options but everything was closed except a sweet shop and there were words. We packed up but the Princess went running on her own to the sweet shop where she prostrated herself at the altar of sugar. There were further words. A kindly mother advised us that Nookies on Wells was a nice diner. After some difficulty flagging down a taxi, during which time everyone got increasingly rattier, we got there. Nookies on Wells did look nice and that may have been the reason why a long queue snaked out the door and around the side of the building. We took ourselves to Wells on Wells instead. Wells on Wells will not be getting repeat custom from us or, I suspect, anyone else but it was outdoors and water could be spilt with impunity and that, after all, was something.

The afternoon saw us exploring the swimming pool in our building which, alas was too deep for the Princess to stand in but she clung to her aunt and made progress with her noodle. Michael refused to come in and Daniel loved it, kicking his little legs out behind him like a pro. I did feel sorry for the students with their beer who had to suffer for an hour while Michael vocalised his objections to getting into the pool and howled in indignation when any of the grown-ups walked away which at any one time, two would do to save his siblings from drowning (I should explain that my sister was there too, we didn’t leave him howling alone at the edge of a deep pool).

Have you read “Cold Comfort Farm“? You will recall that Aunt Ada Doom does not like any of her family about she needs them all about her “Seth, Ezra, Harkaway..”, well that’s what our holiday was like. Michael, in particular, clung to me but didn’t like when any of us went out of sight. The Princess’s catch phrase became “How dare you go out without me?” and Daniel mistook an ethnic Chinese friend of my sister’s for our Filippina childminder and ran to her in delight only to collapse in tears on closer inspection. I suppose it was all a bit disorienting for them.

Later in the afternoon, I wanted to get the Princess out with the boys and my sister but she would not budge. “I’m buying ice cream” I said. “Off you go” she said. “If you don’t come, you won’t get any ice cream”, “OK” “What flavour ice cream will I buy your brothers?” Long meditative pause. Hah. Then she said thoughtfully “strawberry, I suggest”. Defeated I retired and in my absence she dressed herself in a nappy and the boys’ clothes, anyone attempting to psychoanalyse my daughter will be spoken to severely.

Braving my children’s disapproval I went out again to the Hancock centre which is very high indeed even by tall Chicago standards and from it our tall building looked alarmingly dumpy. Great view but, alas, the food was somewhat mediocre.

If I keep going like this we’ll never get to Vermont, will we?

Millenium Park – Wednesday August 8

The next day the Princess got everyone up at 5.30 which, frankly, could have been a lot worse. It did mean that when we got to the supermarket dowstairs (the bizarrely named Jewel Osco) at 8.30 she was ready for a nap and we had to leave her screaming for cake in the frozen food section while we went about the remainder of our business.

Once we’d stocked up with a couple of gallons of milk, we took ourselves to millenium park which in what can only be called an embarrassing overrun was opened in 2004 (explain that mayor Daley). There was free kiddie entertainment. A woman in a jumper (!) with a guitar sang popular favourites which our pale, sweaty, jet lagged kiddies lapped up. A new favourite is a number called lemondrops and gumdrops which, like Hershey bars, is unknown in our part of the world. It involves singing while sticking out your tongue. Oh fabulous. Then we went to the Crown Fountain where the children ran about getting absolutely sopping. How they loved it. I think it may have been the highlight of the Princess’s life to date.

For lunch, we went to the Park Bar Grill where I had my first taste of the American service industry. We were escorted with our dripping children to a table pre-equipped with two high-chairs, six glasses of ice water (did I mention my long suffering sister was there too, somebody had to chase the children around the fountain) three packets of colouring pencils and placemats to colour in. It occurred to me that everyone in Chicago had been really pleasant to us which helped us to survive the exhaustion. Honestly, the poor Americans when they arrive in Europe with their families, my heart goes out to them. Funnily enough though, many of the service industry people were not from the US but somehow the values seemed to be omnipresent. Our doorman was from Bihac and I was tempted to tell him about the time I spent in Banja Luka but somehow, all things considered, I decided best not. The lady running the kiddie train on Navy Pier was from Nepal. One of our taxi drivers was from Cameroon another was from Nigeria and told us that he had a brother who was a nurse in Ghent.  In fact, the only place to find locals was in the shops. I digress. So there we were trying to work out what a PBJ sandwich was in the restaurant and a polite French waitress (ha, ha) came up and explained that it was peanut butter and jelly. I wish she had also reminded us that chips are crisps and we would probably not have gone for quite so many side orders of chips. The Princess had her second meltdown of the day when she dropped her hot dog and would not accept half of Daniel’s instead. “I only want a whole hot dog” she wailed “get me another hot dog”. If only we had had a strategy to deal with jet lag.

Domestic disaster

That evening after a trip to the lego shop to equip the children with small sharp objects with which to strike each other, we went to my sister’s apartment which is lovely but small when you add five of us to it, particularly when three of us are hell bent on destruction. I think my sister was slightly shell shocked by the level of damage three small children could inflict though she bore it stoically only wincing slightly as they spurned the dinner she had prepared in favour of determined efforts to ingest the small glass balls strewn attractively round her fireplace. To be fair, their attempt to dismantle the apartment was somewhat assisted by a kind colleague of my sister’s who had given her a number of things for the children to play with including a cart (enormous yoke for pushing kids around in, never seen the like before, think covered wagon from cowboy films of your youth) which, to everyone’s alarm, they pushed around with great gusto and refused to yield up to the authorities.

By this point, the children had moved to West Coast time and were all refusing to go to bed though it was nearly nine.

Getting there

The most trying part of the journey was almost certainly in Dublin airport where I struggled to contain the children while Mr. Waffle struggled with the American immigration forms. In my ongoing and (I know at some level) surely mistaken belief that the boys shouldn’t be cooped up just because they are small I released them from their buggy. They hurtled round the airport uttering excited shrieks of glee and I hurtled after them. The Princess sat shrieking that somebody had better read her the “Frog Princess” or there would be trouble. Every time I ran past her she became more insistent and people began to look at us nervously wondering who would actually get the thrill of sitting near us. When the Princess’s indignation reached glass shattering pitch, I decided to restrain the boys. While the Princess screamed “Frog Princess, Frog Princess” and glasses shattered all over the airport, I wrestled a howling Daniel into the buggy. He was somewhat manhandled in my anxiety to stop the Princess’s screaming and my concern that Michael would be gone from sight before Daniel was secure. Mr. Waffle ended up abandoning the forms and haring after Michael while poor Daniel got sick from the shock of being treated so peremptorily and the words “Frog Princess” were chanted in the background by the increasingly ratty Greek chorus and I collapsed in tears. “Right, I’ll read the ‘Frog Princess’, give it to me. Sniff. Are you happy now?” “Yes.”

With such a beginning, you might have thought that the 8 hour flight would be absolutely dreadful. In fact, the Princess was reasonably well behaved and the boys slept a bit though we did spend a couple of hours chasing them round the bulkhead. Also the fact that the battery was flat on our 160 euro mini DVD player purchased specifically for the trip was, let us say, unfortunate.

Arrival and Orientation

We arrived at lunch time which was evening for us, if you see what I mean. My saintly sister met us at the airport with the car seats which she had begged to ensure our children’s safety; unfortunately, their installation had defeated her and we got to sweat over them in the car park and experience the legendary Chicago humidity for ourselves. On the way in, I was struck by how run down the city looked. When you arrive into one of the richest countries in the world, you expect it to look affluent. But it didn’t. My sister said that Chicago is the most blue collar of the big American cities. Something for Mayor Richard M. Daley to look into. We’ll be coming back to him later.

The apartment was located in a convenient downtown location but designed more for corporate workers than families. This was evident from the fact that they didn’t offer baby cots, the rooms were done in tasteful shades of beige and it was really a very pleasant place to be. My sister had sourced child cots and bought food and milk, presents for the children and a mobile phone so our needs were met. There was also a supermarket downstairs which was open 18 hours a day selling milk in gallon bottles (a gallon is 3.78 litres, way, hay, hay). We spent the afternoon unpacking and extolling the virtues of air conditioning. We put the children to bed, made my sister cook us dinner and sat back and admired the impressive view of the Chicago skyline from our 29th floor fastness.

And on a completely separate note, netnanny will not allow me to access my comments from this computer as they are clearly awash with what I see other people call p**n on their blogs. Sigh.

We’re back. Did you miss me? No, well, we’re back all the same. Much as I love all my relatives, it is fabulous to be back in our own house. Also, Belgium is not damp. It is, I hasten to add, raining, but my clothes are not all damp in the way that they tend to be in Ireland where damp is endemic and the hot press a way of life.

So, we spent a week in Cork. As always, we went to Fota where Mr. Waffle and I were entranced by the llamas, kangaroos, monkeys and (I think) prairie dogs lolloping about and the children fell in love with the ducks all over again. Just because it’s a cliché, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. The weather was pretty good all in all, we had a paddling pool in the garden which the children loved and on the most rain sodden day we went to the Glucksman gallery which they also loved. Video installations are the way of the future.

For a couple of days they had their Uncle Dan in Cork as well which they loved because they are as feckless as he is and they recognised a kindred spirit. I was touched to see how sweet and patient my brother was with them: tossing them in the air, reading to them, playing football with them, outlining to a restive audience the rudiments of rugby, waving at them gamely when they went in to his room at 6.00 in the morning to tell him that daylight had broken and it was time to rise and shine. Not actually rising though. However, the star of the show was their Nana who spent hours playing with them, cooking for them and chatting to them. Their Granddad also contributed his mite by waving at them from behind his paper from time to time as appropriate and announcing when they seemed likely to do anything particularly dangerous. My parents house is great for this and Michael, in particular, got great entertainment from the hacksaw on the landing.

On Sunday we set off from Cork to Kerry with tearful farewells on our part (Nana, Nana, NANA) to the loving Cork grandparents and, I suspect, mild sighs of relief from them, though they looked suitably downcast. I imagine that the minute we left, they rushed in to have a quiet cup of tea and savour the silence. We left on a high as we had all gone to mass that morning and the children were as good as gold. Especially welcome since my aunt had done a reading and I wouldn’t have liked her to be shouted down. My aunt lives next door to my parents and is the least materialistic person I have ever met as well as an early riser. This was a phenomenal combination for a mother of three small children and most mornings saw us going through the back garden and tapping anxiously on her window so that we could go in, play her piano, test the durability of her china and wooden ornaments and demand that we too get porridge for breakfast.

The journey to Kerry was distressingly eventful. We were diverted from Macroom to Millstreet due to roadworks. We were stopped for about half an hour by an accident just before Sneem (isn’t that the most delightful name for a town?) and once we got to the other side, we promptly rolled over a stone and got a puncture. Subsequently we discovered that Sneem was the subject of much bad feeling among the holiday group as one of their number, a Canadian too, a visitor to this country, had been kicked out of a café there for breastfeeding her 5 month old daughter. I must say I have never ever had such an experience and nor has anyone I know. I suppose it must happen but not surely with a very discreet mother and a small baby and in modern Ireland to boot? Well, apparently, yes, poor J who was on her own with baby A was tossed on to a street with the words “this is Ireland, you can’t do that kind of thing here”. You will be happy to know that, even as I type, a number of irate letters are winging their way to the Irish Times headed “smirched in Sneem”. But honestly, who’d have thought?

I digress. We got to Caherdaniel in the end where we were greeted by another set of loving and excited grandparents, fresh to the fray. The parents-in-law described life in Caherdaniel as resembling a Feydeau farce with a vast rotating cast (though, to my knowledge, no infidelity). They had rented a large house as had their friends, the Canadians and the cousins. The previous week, the cast had featured, the Canadians’ son-in-law the theatre director and his daughter from an earlier relationship who had left for Las Vegas (fancy) to talk about a show, the Canadians’ daughter’s school friend from Ireland (I should perhaps mention that Mr. Canada is a diplomat who has spent time everywhere and is now finishing off his career as ambassador in a glamorous posting which comes with a house with eight bathrooms which we have been invited to sample and we may yet) and her husband (who was the year behind Mr. Waffle in college and remembered him but of whom Mr. Waffle does not have even the faintest recollection, and yet he can describe to you in detail the flags of 189 different countries, mysterious) and three children. More or less simultaneously with us arrived the Princess’s only first cousin and attendant parents, Mr. Waffle’s cousin J’s new girlfriend and Mr. Waffle’s cousin S who is working in Australia for a year and who is quite possibly a saint having travelled for 24 hours and after a brief respite in Dublin, driven to Kerry and spent many more hours entertaining a crowd of adoring four year olds. In situ for the duration were Mr. Waffle’s parents, the Canadians (friends of the parents from their Dublin posting), their daughter, her four year old and 5 month old daughters, Mr. Waffle’s uncle and aunt, their three children and their daughter’s 4 year old son. Are you still with me?

The Princess had great fun with the other children. In particular the Canadian four year old who was a quite extraordinarily entertaining and charming child (not obviously as extraordinarily entertaining etc. as my child but close and, on the plus side, she seemed to be quite happy to keep her clothes on much of the time unlike my hardy nudist daughter). I did think as I watched them gathering shells on the beach together with enormous concentration, how lovely it must be for the parents-in-law to have their granddaughter and their old friends’ granddaughter playing together. I am a sucker for this kind of thing. Her second cousin is a boy and he was better for jumping on beds but not as good at the shell gathering which he scorned in favour of shrimping with his mother and nana.

And the sun shone. This was nothing short of miraculous as there were floods everywhere else in the country. Obviously, the sun didn’t shine all day every day but we went swimming a number of times and, given half a chance, the boys would have launched themselves across the bay to Cork. How they loved the water. The Princess and her father went down to the pub one night with various cousins and aunts and uncles and while he sat and talked in a manly way she had crisps and bonded with her cousins which is a quintessentially Irish holiday experience and one that reminded me nostalgically of my own youth spent in similar hostelries in West Cork. On the Wednesday night, the ambassador brought his guitar round and there was a big dinner which necessarily involved cross-questioning the misfortunate new girlfriend (please see dramatis personae above) and her boyfriend, Mr. Waffle’s cousin. As I extracted much information from both by my use of the direct question (I am the only Irish person alive capable of asking a direct question and I find it hugely effective in getting information from my shocked compatriots), my mother-in-law kept saying “please forgive her, she’s from Cork”, she once tried this on a wheel clamper in Dublin and it didn’t cut the mustard there either. Nevertheless, the wider clan was captivated and the girlfriend bore up spectacularly well though I did think she quailed slightly when Mrs. Canada senior asked what they got up to after dinner on their first date.

The Ambassador is a really good guitar player. Normally when I see a guitar in the hall, my heart sinks, but “The Boxer” was not played once. There were some lovely Canadian folk songs including one which the Princess wants me to find about a boy who sinks another ship for the captain of his ship in exchange for gold silver and the captain’s daughter but, alas, drowns before he can claim his bounty. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the tune or the words which is a little problematic but I do think that it shows how attracted she is to cheerful tales. Incidentally, have I mentioned that my daughter can recognise sarcasm at 20 paces; I feel that this is one useful skill for life with which I have equipped her.

On Saturday we went to Limerick where we stayed in the grandly named Clarion Suites but I have to give it a plug because it was so nifty and I found it. Two bedrooms, a kitchenette and a sitting room. I am a genius. Having tried and failed to arrange to meet our only friends in Limerick we ran into them on the street and went out to dinner with their one very well behaved child and our three hyper ones. We exchanged fragments of conversation over dinner – Oh I see, you were in Washington when we called, five in the morning eh, fancy that? – No, no bugs except, of course, Daniel was sick in the car, I think I’ve got most of the large pieces of sausage he regurgitated out of the car seat – not sleeping through the night, no, oh you neither, great, um, no, sorry about that – your family have moved back to CAVAN? And so on. Slightly more satisfactory than it sounds but tiring. Limerick was as depressing as I remembered and not at all celtic tigery unlike Cork which is absolutely booming and looks fantastic but not overcrowded and overdeveloped like Dublin. Apparently the celtic tiger never crossed the Shannon; Limerick sits squarely on the Shannon and, frankly, it looks like it’s doing a good job barring the entrance. Maybe if I hadn’t seen it in driving rain, I would have felt more warmly towards it.

On Sunday we began the marathon journey home stopping at Bunratty Castle, no, stop your sniggering, we did not go to the medieval banquet, we had lunch. We got to the airport, unloaded our two bags, three car seats, buggy, assorted miscellaneous junk and three children from the car in driving rain and went to stand in the enormous queue for an hour to check in our luggage, then queued for security (fold up the buggy, take off all shoes, taste the milk in the bottles), then queued to get on the plane, in due course queued to get into Belgium, queued for our luggage, carried into arrivals two bags, three car seats etc. etc. as Charleroi airport continues to be trolley free by choice. Discovered we had just missed the bus for Brussels and would have to wait an hour. Spent the time stopping our hyper boys from pushing each other under a bus. Queued to get on the bus, got to Brussels, waited for two taxis, got home at 8.45. Will never travel from Charleroi again.

We’re flying to Dublin on Saturday and then on to Chicago a couple of days later. Reassure me. Please.