belgianwaffle

Middle Child

Not three today


Posted in: Middle Child, Twins, Youngest Child

The boys were three on Saturday. Incredible as it seems, BT (perfidious Albion again) has still not given us the internet in the privacy of our own home so, here I am frantically tapping in a smart hotel where I have been “thinking in”. Insert sigh here.

However, despite the personal cost, I could not let this major landmark pass without a post.

Daniel (the elder)

Daniel has settled into his new Irish environment particularly well. He likes the structure of Montessori school and I think that he is happier than he was in the crèche in Belgium. He likes having his family around him and is fond of all his relations, particularly his baby cousin as he loves babies.

He is good at speaking and my mother-in-law says he sounds like a foreign child who has been taught English. In three weeks at school this has more or less disappeared and the other evening he asked for a “spoo-en plee-as” (the unfortunate Dublin habit of inserting extra vowels in words)

He likes to wear socks on his arms, like long dancing gloves. This is endearing until the moment when you try to take them off and put them on his feet and he screams like a banshee.

He is very affectionate and sympathetic. He is always the first to sympathise with his siblings and parents on their various bruises and ills (“show me, show me! – very sore”). In the evenings when I say good night to him, he always wants to give me a big kiss and a rub on the arm.

When we are cross with him (often for throwing things – an activity of which he never tires – it will be a project for the next year to teach him about John Vavassour de Quentin Jones who, as you will know, lost a fortune by throwing stones) his mouth turns down and he says as he squeezes out bitter tears “You made me cry.”

He still does not sleep through the night (you offer advice on this at your peril). Usually once but sometimes twice, he wakes up and cries for a bottle. A parent struggles to his bedside and matters play out as follows:

Me: Yes, sweetheart.

Him: NOOO, I want Daddy. [Note, he invariably wants the parent who is still in bed]

Me (knowing I should challenge him but feeling the lure of my nice warm bed and worrying he might wake Michael): OK

Mr. Waffle goes downstairs and gets him a bottle.

Daniel: NOOO, it’s too cold.

Mr. Waffle renukes.

Daniel: NOOO, it’s too hot.

Mr. Waffle pours half down the sink and tops up with cold water.

Daniel: NOOO, I want a little bottle.

Mr. Waffle pours half of it down the sink.

Daniel consents to take the bottle.

We are hoping that this will stop sometime before he turns 18. Only 15 years to go.

The other day he told me “Me not sweetheart.” 

Me: Oh dear.

Him: OK, a little bit.

Me (confused): A little bit what?

Him (helpfully): A small bit of something.

How little does he think I know?

Michael (the younger)-

Michael’s father took him to get his hair cut.  While Daniel looks like Boris Johnson with his floppy blonde hair, Michael has a shaved head and looks like a thug.  Mr. Waffle points out that his appearance now matches his temperment.  This did not placate his cranky wife.

Michael is adamant that the only people in the world he likes are his mother, his father, his sister and his brother.  Everyone else is greeted with the words “I attack you”.

He has endless enthusiasm.  Any activity that is presented to him in the appropriate tone will be welcomed with the words “that be fun!”.  On Saturday, for their birthday we all went on the Viking Splash tour of Dublin which involves wearing a viking helmet and roaring at innocent tourists.  He loved it.

He has recently expanded his diet to add cheddar cheese.  We are delighted.  We were all tiring of pasta and pesto.

He is a bossy little person and never tires of telling me, in imperious tones, to read him a story.  He loves stories and will sit spellbound by anything pretty much regardless of how difficult it is.  I am hoping to be able to start reading the paper aloud to him shortly.

Despite his very tough exterior, he is quite a nervous boy and will rush to me in fear at the sight of all kinds of things.  The other night, he confided to me that there was a monster in the bedroom and I had to stay and hold his hand until he fell asleep.

He does like to sleep.  He is his mother’s son (he is also the child who looks most like me – I once shaved my head too, I was in my 20s, it seemed like a good idea, it wasn’t.  I remember I arrived into the pub where my then boyfriend was waiting for me: “it’s rotten, isn’t it?” I sniffed – I also had a cold.  “It’s cool,” he said.  “Really?” “Yes, especially with the sniff, it makes you seem like a drug dealer.”)  He sleeps through the night and from about six in the evening he is begging to be allowed go to bed.  Have you any idea how hard it is to have this conversation with a small child:

Him: Mama, please can I go to bed?

Me: No, sweetheart, it’s too early.

Him:  Please, Mama, when can I go to bed?

Me: After dinner.

Him: No, Mama, please now, please, please.

So, there it is, landmark noted.  A very happy birthday to my gorgeous boys and on the very day they were born, my parents got married (well, obviously, not actually the same day but the same date) so a very happy 41st wedding anniversary to my wonderful parents too.  Rejoicing all round (insert trumpets here).

Tears at bedtime


Posted in: Middle Child, Princess, Twins

Daniel (urgently): My nose is running.  Tissue, tissue.

I wipe his nose.

Daniel (crying): No, no, don’t take away the snot.

Me: Eh?

Daniel (crying more loudly): Give me back snot.

Princess (sotto voce):  For God’s sake, it’s only snot.

Me: Danny, sweetheart, it’s gone, er, why did you want the snot?

Daniel: I want it go to bed in my nose.

Advice on twins, please


Posted in: Middle Child, Twins, Youngest Child

When I thought about school for the boys initially, I had assumed that I would put them in the same class.  Then the school told me that, normally (or normalement as we say in Belgium, how I will miss that expression), they put twins in separate classes.  I decided that this was cruel and heartless.  I consulted and both twins I knew said that they had been in the same class as their twin siblings and they seem like pleasant, well-adjusted people.

Then, I was talking to the women who work in the creche whom I find very helpful and reliable.   They said that Daniel wants to play with Michael all the time.  Some days, Michael does not want to play with Daniel (fair enough) and then Daniel gets cranky (who could blame him?).  Apparently, there are never times when Michael wants to play with Daniel and Daniel does not want to play with Michael.  Their advice would be to separate them at school.

I had noticed that Daniel says that Alice is his friend but when I enquired at the creche, they said that Alice and Michael tend to play together and Daniel waits until they have finished and grabs Michael. My poor little mite.

They are both, of course, great fantasists, like their sister.  Whenever they hurt themselves, they both say “It’s not funny.”  When I ask them why, they say that Manon laughs when they hurt themselves at the creche.  On enquiry, creche staff confirmed that Manon, who seems like a very sweet little girl, is in fact a sweet little girl and very gentle. However, on hearing the context, they explained that some time ago Manon had fallen over and hurt herself and Daniel and Michael had both pointed and laughed at her whereupon they were both severely reprimanded.  On the plus side, it does look like they’ve learnt their lesson. On the minus side, I don’t think that they are ever going to forgive Manon for her imaginary offence, she remains a hate figure who mocks the injured, chez nous.  I digress.

At home, it is clear that Michael is the ringleader and Daniel dutifully falls into line.  We call Michael “dangermouse”.  He is the only one of our children who likes risk.  Daniel is by far the most obliging of our three children.  If we want to quell a fight over a precious object, it is most frequently Daniel who is called upon to give up his claim; because we know he will.  I know this isn’t fair but we’re tired.

On closer questioning, both of my grown-up twin advisers (one of whom is, handily enough, the dominant twin and the other the passive), agreed that on balance, it probably would have been better had they been in different classes from their twins at school though, at the time, they certainly didn’t think so.

So, what do you think?  Were the twins you know in the same class in school or different classes?  From what age?  What worked best?   I await any comments with bated breath (well, I always await comments with bated breath but in this case particularly bated breath).

Things I want to remember


Posted in: Middle Child, Twins, Youngest Child

“Daniel, come to dinner.” “I finish my book”.

“How!” – Daniel as an Indian with arms folded stiffly and a solemn expression.

Daniel using the wooden spoons as skis.

Daniel using the wooden spoons as violins.

Daniel using the wooden spoons as lethal weapons.

The boys running down the corridor with their towels on their heads flapping out behind them.

Sounds from the bedroom.

Daniel: Scream.

Michael: Giggle.

Michael: Scream.

Daniel and Michael: Giggle.

Dialogue

Daniel (in bed): Ehhh, mmh, waah (general whimpering noise).

Me (tiptoeing to his bedside in the dark): Daniel, what’s wrong?

Him (delighted): Moi, je fais “Ehhh, mmh, waah”.

Today, I explained to the creche that when the boys leave in July, we are moving back to Ireland. Since they would be finishing in July anyway, if they were going to school in Belgium, we hadn’t explained that we were actually leaving the country. It was funny because the women who worked there all said “ah, that explains a lot”. To be honest, I hadn’t really thought that the boys were aware of the proposed move at any level, but it seems that I was wrong.

Daniel insisting on silence before speaking and saying to each of us in turn “Can I talk?” or “Je peux parler?” before imparting an item of information such as “The house is big.”

Busy Day


Posted in: Belgium, Middle Child, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

The Princess completed her education in Belgium today and I felt quite sad as I walked her to and from school.  She was unmoved.

I took the three children as well as the childminder and her two children (it seemed like a good idea at the time) to the ophthalmologist this afternoon.  We spent an hour and a half there.  Truly, these are times that try men’s souls.  The Princess was excruciatingly badly behaved.   The only crumb of comfort was that both she and her brothers were very well behaved during their longish examinations and didn’t whine about the eye drops which appeared unpleasant.

I noted, by the simple expedient of nosily peering over the doctor’s shoulder as she typed up my children’s results, that the beautifully dressed and charmingly behaved boy who was waiting patiently for his appointment, shared a surname with the woman who will one day be queen of Belgium.  I later pointed this out to the Princess and followed up with the rider that this was, effectively, her first chance to impress a Prince and it had been an abject failure.  I further told her that I did not think that a real Princess would insist on lying (with her brothers) on the waiting room floor with her feet in the air showing off her stripy underpants.  I know what you are thinking; sarky comments of this nature are unwelcome.

On the eye front, the Princess and Michael have identical optic nerves (who knew you could tell); the Princess very deftly manoeuvered letters to reflect those on the screen; Michael mortified me by not knowing what an apple was or any of his colours (“I dunno”) but Daniel redeemed my reputation.  The Princess and Michael, as well as their identical optic nerves, share perfect eyesight.   This was the good news.  Unfortunately, poor Daniel’s eyesight is not improving.  We have been given a prescription for stronger glasses and he may yet have to have an operation.  We will have a long note to take to someone in Dublin.  I imagine we will have to translate it first.

Meeting of the logistics planning committee deferred


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Middle Child

Last night we had an emergency meeting of the crime and security committee instead as we were, alas, burgled.

I got a phone call at work in the late afternoon.  Our childminder said and I quote “something has happened at the house.”  Of course, I instantly thought that something had happened to one of the children and had gone from imagining them in hospital to seeing their lifeless bodies stretched out before me by the time she explained that there had been a burglary.  In this context, the news came as something of a relief.

Mr. Waffle and I went home and found the childminder nervously waiting outside the door with the three children.  We went in.  The house was in disarray.  All the clothes had been thrown out of drawers in the, futile, hope of finding some valuables.  My brother and sister have frequently mocked me for my lack of investment in modern technology (no i-pod, ancient stereo, 9 year old television, cheap DVD player, PC purchased second hand in 2001) but it came into its own yesterday as nothing was taken.  The thieves did, however, take some of my jewellery.  They were discerning thieves.  They took the only items of any significant value in the jewellery box: a ring that my parents had given me for my thirtieth birthday and my grandmother’s engagement ring.  I was particularly upset about my grandmother’s ring.  She always wore it and I clearly remember her wearing it.  It always reminds me of her and I adored my Nana and, in due course, I wanted to pass it on to my daughter.  I lost it once before.  I wore it to mass when I was about 17 (outside my gloves – some kind of bizarre fashion statement) and it fell off (inevitably).  But I found it walking all the way between my parents’ house and the church with my head down.  This time, I think it’s gone forever.

Mr. Waffle wouldn’t let me touch anything until the police came so that they could dust for fingerprints.  I was keen to pick up my underwear (some of which, frankly, had seen better days) off the floor, the bed and the radiator but nothing could be touched until the police came.  To be fair they came quite speedily.  To be unfair, they were deeply uninterested in our run of the mill burglary.  They almost laughed when Mr. Waffle asked about fingerprints.  “If we had to send fingerprints for all burglaries to the lab, they’d never get anything done.”  They gave no indication that they were going to search for the culprits or that there was the remotest chance that they might be found.  They gave us an incident number and told them to fax in details of what we had lost and they would send us a statement for the insurance.  I was unimpressed.  The children, however, were delighted to have the police in the house and Daniel insisted on kissing them before they went on their way.

When our neighbours came home, it turned out that they had been burgled as well.  All the women’s jewellery was gone but nothing else.  Our lovely Italian neighbour lost a gold necklace that her grandmother had left her.  The Belgians downstairs, who seemed to know the form, asked us for the incident number so that they could fax the police with their details.  We had a locksmith in to look at all of our doors (whom Daniel also kissed) and that was it really.  Though, startlingly our electricity also went leaving us dealing with neighbours, locksmiths, excited children and the fuse box in one slightly cranky package.

Of course, if the thieves could only have waited 6 weeks we would have been gone or, if the weather had been less fine, the children would have been at home instead of in the park.  No use crying over spilt milk, I suppose.

I remember when I was the same age as the Princess, my parents were burgled while we were all asleep in our beds. The burglars took most of my mother’s jewellery including her engagement ring which she had on her beside table, my great-uncle’s gold watch and, bizarrely, my father’s alarm clock (which meant we all overslept).  Very excitingly, there was a thumbprint over my bed which the guards dutifully dusted (or whatever it is they do).  They never did find the culprits or our stuff.  For years afterwards, my mother used to look in the window of a suspect jewellery shop in town where, the guards told her, stolen jewellery often turned up.

My sister, who wasn’t even born at the time of the robbery, remembers my mother staring intently in the window whenever we went to town.  I think, aside from her engagement ring, what my mother resented most was the intrusion.  The thieves had even had the temerity to make themselves a snack in the kitchen (it was a big house, but still you might have imagined that they would be a bit nervous).

I asked Mr. Waffle whether he thought the thieves might feel bad seeing all our plastic toys and our children’s pictures but he thought not.  In my head when I imagined them going through our drawers, I imagined young north Africans which shows that I am a useless liberal as prejudices I didn’t even know I had float to the surface at the slightest provocation.   Mr. Waffle comforted me by pointing out that it was probably a young man and, further, all the young men around here were north African.  However, a colleague tells me that there is a gang of Romanian women who are notorious for jewellery thefts where they take all the best stuff.  Do you think somebody should tell the police what the dogs in the street* appear to know?

*Just to clarify, no insult to my colleague intended here but you know what I mean.