belgianwaffle

Middle Child

Frantic


Posted in: Middle Child, Reading etc., Work

You may have noticed the absence of posts last week, then again, possibly not. Well, I was frantic anyway.  I contributed to this by having two medical appointments during the week.  They were made months ago and I cursed my lack of foresight.  Last week was when I began to panic about having done no Christmas shopping; mind you this feeling rapidly abated when I actually went round the shops to buy things and found them quite empty and the Belgian shop assistants said to me things like “getting your shopping out of the way early? Very sensible”.  Sometimes it is a complete joy to live in Belgium.

Tuesday was possibly my worst day.  We had our office Christmas lunch.  It was prepared in the kitchen downstairs by two of my colleagues and it was superb.  I know because I watched them frying the foie gras while I patiently sous cheffed (sp?) and stuffed miniature pickled bell peppers with cream and goat’s cheese and did up the blinis.  Unfortunately, I had to leave at 3.45 which was exactly when the rest of my colleagues were preparing to sit down to their four course lunch (from which they rose at 11.00 and proceeded to dance in the kitchen, I understand).  I was off to the ophthalmologist who said that Daniel’s lazy eye isn’t much better and, if it isn’t better in March, he’ll have to have surgery.  She also said that she couldn’t examine the Princess properly because she needed to put in drops.  She could not put in drops because the Princess had a temperature and, as you know (how, how would I know, why do doctors at home assume that you are completely ignorant and doctors in Belgium assume you’re in third med?), the drops cause a spike in temperature.  I only found out she had a temperature when the school rang me at work to ask whether they could give her some paracetemol.  Her teacher said “I know she must be sick because she is a child who never complains normally”.  This runs directly counter to my own experience, but however.

Arrived home ravenous (having missed lunch) and ate a large plate of pasta with my family before Mr. Waffle and I packed the children off to bed. It was only then I remembered that I was actually scheduled to go out to dinner with the book club. Undaunted, I went.

I was sitting beside a new bookclub member at dinner.  This was unfortunate as it turned out that an old bookclub member, C, sitting opposite to me had spent 5 of her formative years in the little town where new member had grown up.  This led to much reminiscing which they would try to curtail from time to time but they got carried away, particularly new member who is new to Belgium also and was delighted to find an old companion.  I am a little tired of Newport. I did hear two rather lovely stories though.

C’s mother is Belgian.  A friend of  C’s took her to tea at her (the friend’s) house and announced proudly to C that there would be a foreign lady there.  C went, agog with excitement, only to find her own mother ensconced.  There was also the time that C’s mother was taken to meet the headmaster’s wife because “she was foreign too” and though C’s mother and the headmaster’s wife did become good friends, C is not sure that this was because all foreigners must have something in common, including Belgians and Russians.  I also quite enjoyed the new member asking C (who is always v. elegant) “were you the little girl with the stripy knickers?”.  “They were my petit bateau underpants” said C to me in some embarrassment – presumably imported from exotic Belgium to Newport.

Also, in non-Newport news, the conversation veered round to childbirth.  C says that this happens every time the bookclub (all female) meets.  I hadn’t been aware of it myself but C has an interesting theory that this is a major life event for women and one that is never really talked about much because men rule the world.  This theory was comprehensively rubbished by two men when she produced it in the presence of my husband and the Glam Potter’s but I am quite attracted by it.  Anyway, I digress.

Most of those around the table had given birth in great comfort in Belgium, the land where the epidural was invented and something like 97% of all births are assisted by this rather wonderful anaesthetic.  The new member has recently arrived from Britain where using pain relief is regarded as unholy.  We were complacently agreeing that giving birth in Belgium was an excellent experience and new member said brightly “why, is it all midwife led?” to uproarious laughter.  She then told us her giving birth story which is, I think, one of the best I have heard.  She was pregnant with her second child and travelling to hospital in the back of her husband’s car.  It had a very noisy engine (this is important).  She had her baby in the back of the car, checked that the baby was breathing, that the cord wasn’t round her neck etc. and picked her up and cradled her in her arms.  Then, she cleared her throat and said loudly to her husband, who was still driving “I’ve had the baby”.  To which he replied “WHAT? I didn’t hear a thing”.

Suggestions


Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Reading etc.

So here are your suggestions for authors, I haven’t tried:

Martin Cruz Smith

Robertson Davies

Anita Desai

William Faulkner

Richard Ford

Tove Jansson

Thomas Kenneally

Clive King (“Stig of the Dump” – assume that is name of work rather than author’s pseudonym)

Robert Le Carre

Beryl Markham (keeping up with comments)

Alexandr Solzhenitsyn

Colm Toibin (actually I have read “The Blackwater Lightship and wouldn’t mind trying another, so I’m not sure he counts).

Alan Warner

Emile Zola – My husband says I would like “Au Bonheur des Dames” it’s all about shopping and women.

Anyone else you want to suggest adding? I’ll give all of the above a go. I will add them to the list of well-reviewed, interesting sounding books which I have typed on a piece of paper and folded up in the back of my diary. You don’t believe me? Do.
So that’s it for another NaBloPoMo. Hats off to the fair Mrs. Kennedy for co-ordinating. I am not only saying that in the hope of getting a random prize.
Thank you also to my regular commenters during the month. I am hopeless at replying to comments but I love and treasure every one; without you I would have given it all up as a bad job.

The man going down to the basement to put out the laundry has just looked over my shoulder and said “NaBloPoGo”. Maybe I should stop now.

One final item of news; Daniel broke his glasses yesterday. Sigh.

Probably bad


Posted in: Middle Child, Reading etc.

I can remember the Dutch Mama saying to me proudly that all her children had finished with bottles before they could ask for them. This came back to me vividly yesterday when Daniel wandered into the kitchen with his bottle in his hand and said “cold” and pointed at the microwave hopefully. I appear not to be meeting my target of having them weaned off bottles before they can ask for them to be heated up.

In completely unrelated news, I quite liked this.

NaBloPoMo – Y is not a good letter. But, Ms. Kennedy, if you’re watching, I’m still posting.

Glasses


Posted in: Middle Child, Reading etc.

Daniel got his glasses today. The poor little mite is +5 and he must have been blind as a bat. I’ve looked through the lenses and it’s pretty blurry. He finds patterns alarming with his glasses and, if there is a change of pattern underfoot, he is reluctant to walk on it. This is unfortunate given that Brussels is heavy on cobblestones.

He has been very, very good about wearing them all day long and not taking them off. I am not sure whether this is because he is a good child or because he likes being able to see. Tonight when we took them off, his ears were all pink. Does anyone know, is this normal? It didn’t seem to bother him. But again, he may feel that it is the price he pays to see.

NaBloPoMo – J is not a good letter.

J is for Henry James whom I am never going to read because I gather he is all about inner agonising and “The Line of Beauty” by Alan Hollinghurst is Jamesian. And, with all due respect to C (who recommends) and the Booker jury, I found it tortuous. Go on, convince me on Henry James.J is also for Joyce; “Dubliners” is fine but everything else is too hard. J is also for Erica Jong who, I would submit, has not aged gracefully. In fact, the only J which inspires even mild enthusiasm is Jerome K. Jerome and I wouldn’t exactly put “Three Men in a Boat” in my top ten. Slim pickings, people. Any suggestions?

Notes on progress


Posted in: Middle Child, Twins

Celebrations

Daniel was two on 27 September and though he had to share a birthday with his brother, he will get a belated blog entry all to himself. The effects of the birthday party still linger. Every time he sees balloons he begins to sing “Happ Birthday Daniel and Michael” and I’m pretty sure that it’s a bit unclear to him why the celebrations have ended. The birthday party itself was attended by two sets of twins in addition to the birthday boys. That’s a lot of small people and I haven’t even touched on the other children. He loved it.

Relations with parents

Daniel is a Daddy’s boy. I try to worm my way into his affections and he is quite fond of me but I come a very poor second to his beloved Papa. While he will willingly embrace his father, the only times I can regularly get a kiss from him are the mornings his father takes him to the creche.  On those mornings he will stand in the hall with his chubby little arms outstretched and say kindly “big kiss, Mummy”.

Physical Aspect

Daniel is a very solid child. I find this odd as he eats almost nothing. He does, however, enjoy a number of bottles every night so this keeps him going. My advice to dieters would be to stay away from the full fat milk. He has enormous dimply knees that I can never look at without smiling. He has the softest blondest hair and pale, pale skin. He has a very endearing way of running. He sticks out his elbows and wiggles them about while trotting along solidly saying in great excitement “I run, je cours”. He also has a squint, poor mite. We are taking him to the doctor on Monday and I see a patch and glasses in his future.

Interacting with others

He is a quite a good talker and really tries to communicate. He gets cross when we don’t understand him and says the offending word repeatedly. He has learnt from his sister that, if your parents don’t understand, it is best to shout at them. He and the Princess both rejoice in penetrating voices and they often scream in high pitched harmony for the hell of it. Their parents do not enjoy this.

He isn’t bad with strangers though, over the Summer, I took him to see an old friend of my mother’s and although she was very taken with the way he would peep out at her from my shoulder and say “I shy”, I was a little surprised.

He is an empathic little fellow and more than either of the other two worries when anyone is sad. His face will take on a look of concern and he will waddle over to the weeping sibling (or whoever it is) and offer a big kiss (unless, it’s me, of course, then he just offers a stiff upper lip) . On the other hand, when he is cross, he is furious. Carrying him somewhere he doesn’t want to go is like wrestling with a kangaroo. He has this trick of arching his back and flailing his limbs so that his (considerable) weight puts you off balance. I don’t think he realises that this will make him land on the floor one day – he just knows that it makes him harder to transport, and that’s the main thing.

His sister has two Doggies (Home Doggy and Travel Doggy – regular readers will know the latter is a – very expensive – spare because the thought of losing Home Doggy is frankly too terrifying, even now that she’s four and half). Until very recently, Daniel and Michael were never so dependent on a toy/blanket/whatever you want to call it. In bed, they will cuddle up to an old T-shirt, but any T-shirt will do. However, in the last few weeks Michael has become very attached to a teddy bear which he also takes to bed (with a T-shirt and a bottle). Sometimes he won’t let of of any of these treasures, so getting him into his pyjamas can be tricky. And Daniel ? Just a T-shirt, thanks. He’ll even give this to Michael, if Michael is upset.

Daniel is very good at sharing, which is just as well. When you ask him to share, even a favourite toy, he will. He may say no a couple of times but eventually he will hand over whatever it is with a small sigh.

Quirks

Daniel is the only one of my children who has inherited what my parents and siblings describe as my mania for tidiness. I would say that everything is relative. My father always says that my grandmother was very tidy and always throwing things out. My parents live their lives in reaction and nothing has been thrown out of their home. Ever. “We are not part of the throwaway generation” my mother informs me severely. My brother went to a science museum in Manchester and he saw our electric fire. Whenever I go home my parents tease me by doing this deeply irritating thing, whenever they can’t find something, they ask me whether I have thrown it out. The most unlikely things “there was a cheque there for 500 euros, did you throw it out?”. I digress. Poor Daniel is obsessively tidy. He cannot sit down to eat unless everything has been put away. This is an instinct I have every sympathy with but sometimes I wish he would just sit down and eat his dinner. When he has put things away, he straightens up the boxes and beams with pleasure and pride.

Up to now Daniel and his brother have shared a wardrobe. I notice though that there are now a number of items that Daniel regards as Michael’s. “Michael’s pyjamas” he says firmly, if I try to put on the ones with the frog pattern. “Bear” he says pointing to his tummy, indicating that his pyjamas are the ones with the bear.

The arts

Ever since he was very small, he has loved books. He is still very happy to sit turning the pages of a book he likes. He is fond of T’choupi, the world’s dullest mole and thanks to the efforts of his sister over the years we must have about 20 different tales of the home life of the mole. Paradise.

Ideally, I think Daniel would like to watch more “Postman Pat” on the television but we are cruel and heartless and don’t let him. Sometimes he sits in front of the television hopefully just praying that someone will turn it on.

He loves songs; two songs to be precise. All summer long we had to listen to “Gugusse” and attempts to try other songs were not welcomed. Now, everywhere we travel we are accompanied to the cheerful strains of “Il était un petit navire”. My sister gave him a phone that you can record on and I have sung a couple of lines from the boat song. He wanders around the house beaming with it pressed against his ear until his brother, suspecting it may be more entertaining than his own identical phone whips it from him.

Conclusion

Even though he was born on a Tuesday, my elder son is really Friday’s child – loving and giving.

Happy birthday, my fabulous little boy.  And here, to celebrate is a slide show demonstrating how big you’ve got since last September.

Late, late, late


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Middle Child, Princess

I am one of life’s tardy people. My father always says that my mother has no appreciation that time is finite and I have inherited that flaw. I always think things will take less time than they do.

Yesterday I had to take leave to mind sick Daniel (poor Daniel, he’s fine today, thank you for asking) because, alas, my husband is off in foreign parts and I am holding the fort. In between being sick Daniel slept, so it could have been worse. At 5.30 our student babysitter came to mind him (he had been made safe by a motillium suppository and, if you don’t know what that is, you’re better off) and I drove off to pick up Michael from the creche and the Princess from the childminder. The traffic was dreadful and I didn’t get back until (eek) 6.30.

I fed the children and the babysitter (well, otherwise when was she going to get dinner?) and then we bathed the boys and put them to bed and then while K got the Princess cleaned up and ready for bed, I got ready for my dinner with a delegation visiting Brussels for work. I felt mildly self-conscious applying my make-up in front of a beautiful 21 year old but, never mind.

At 7.30, I drove to the school in pouring rain and finally found parking at 7.45 and ran in, late, for the parent-teacher meeting that started at 7.30. This was a mildly depressing experience. Mostly from pragmatism but partly from principle we put the Princess into the school nearest to our house. It is a school with pupils who are overwhelmingly the children of poor immigrants and the remainder are the children of poor Belgians. On the whole we have been very happy with the school and very smug about our choice. However, it is undoubtedly true that we were also aware that a lot of the children in the Princess’s class didn’t speak French but, to be honest, I would have thought that in their third year in the school system (Belgian school starts at two and a half – it keeps them tough) with significant extra language tuition, that problem would have disappeared. Apparently not. Madame Christine tells us that she is still gesturing to get her meaning across. There are children who do not understand “folder” (OK), there are children who do not understand “school bag” (less OK) and there are children who do not understand “put” (not OK at all). Lots of the children don’t know their colours. This is daft, they’re FOUR. I was telling the Princess an edited version of last night’s encounter this morning and asked her did she know her colours and she said “oh yes and when Madame Christine does the exercises on colours, she keeps saying to me ‘stop, you’re going too fast, give the others a chance.'” I don’t think this illustrates that my child is vastly gifted but my smug four year old clearly does.

At the end of last year, the teachers found that the children didn’t know what things were made of. Sample dialogue:

What’s this made of?

A fork.

Yes, I know it’s a fork, but what’s it made of?

Pointy?

Sample dialogue with the Princess at breakfast:

What’s my spoon made of?

Metal.

What’s your spoon made of?

Plastic.

What’s your bowl made of?

China.

What’s the cornflake box made of?

Cardboard.

I’m hoping that this business of what things are made of is not the key learning for the year. I know that she needs to learn lots from school other than ‘academic’ things, how to socialise, how to work out her place in the world, how to become autonomous but I know that the problems her classmates are having are almost certainly not experienced in the posh communal school down the road (which had no places by the time her feckless mother called them).

Funnily enough, the Princess’s school is private (as it’s Catholic) and the posh school is public. The fact that it was catholic was one of the selling points of our school for me until the head ‘reassured’ me that it was Catholic in name only. I see where he’s coming from, although there are lots of statues of ‘dead Jesus’, if the Princess is to be believed, there doesn’t seem to be any religion in the classroom. This is also funny when you consider the situation with faith schools in the UK as outlined recently by the GPmama. In fact there is a (Catholic) friend of Mr. Waffle’s in London who is still doing the flowers in her local Protestant church because she cosied up to them in the hopes of getting her daughter in. Unfortunately, the daughter didn’t get in despite all that creative use of oasis.

So, 8.15, I really had to go though I would have liked to stay until the end because, you know, when you get worried about things like this, you like to have a complete picture so that you can drive yourself insane. Bucketing down and I was supposed to be at the restaurant near the office and was striding womanfully across the school yard. I rang and said, quite mendaciously, that I was circling looking for parking and they should go ahead without me. Oh no, they would wait. Alas. Mercifully parking very easy on arrival so no one was forced to eat the table.

My delegation being on a bit of a break from their day jobs were very relaxed. I meanwhile had my mobile phone on the table waiting for a call from the babysitter to tell me to come home because Daniel had been sick. She didn’t which was just as well because we were paying for dinner and it would have been difficult to do before people had finished eating which they didn’t until gone midnight; you will recall that they were relaxed. I dropped a couple of my Brussels based colleagues home (because I am kind) and pitched up about 12.30 all apologies to saintly babysitter who had an 8.00 am lecture next morning. Called her a taxi, put out the bins and went to bed at 1.00. Up with the boys at 3 and 5 and the Princess prodded me out of bed at 6 so that we could have breakfast alone together before the boys woke up.

Arrived into work this morning to hear young colleague complaining that she is exhausted; jet lag from her trip to LA. Firmly buttoned my lip.