Daniel: What’s the rudest food to cook?
Me (with some foreboding): What?
Him: Sausages.
Me (with even greater foreboding): Why is that?
Him: Because they spit at you.
Middle Child
Heart of a Lion
Mr. Waffle normally takes on the slightly thankless task of standing at the edge of a muddy field somewhere in the greater Dublin area early on a Saturday morning watching Dan playing football or hurling.
I went for the first time in a while recently and I must say that the team have really improved and it was quite exciting to watch. Dan is very keen and throws himself into the action. He is very persistent and never gives up and he really cares about the game. This can be a bit of a problem when his team loses (or as a father on the sideline put it to me glumly once “the inevitability of another crushing defeat” – this was an earlier season, they are, mercifully, doing much better this year.)
I was chatting to one of the other parents on the sidelines briefly but it transpired that he was the deputy-coach (oh yes, several coaches) and couldn’t really talk as he had to shout at the boys. At the end of the match when I collected Dan, he said to me, “Are you Daniel’s mother?” OK, I really don’t go very often. When I confirmed that I was, the coach said to me, “He has the heart of a lion!” And he wasn’t being sarcastic or funny, I knew he really meant it, and I know it’s true. Daniel may not be the best player (he’s certainly not the worst either) but he plays his heart out. He cares more and tries harder than anyone else on the pitch and it was lovely to see it recognised.
Anxious to Polish his Halo
Daniel: Daddy said something very mean to me.
Me: What was that, sweetheart?
Him: He said you have to wait your whole lifetime again before you can play Halo.
Daniel: How old do I need to be to vote?
Me: 18 but they’re talking about lowering it to 16.
Daniel: Now I have two things to look forward to when I’m 16; I’ll be able to play Halo and I’ll be able to vote.
An Insult to New Yorkers Everywhere or Impressive Branding Work
Daniel: why is New York called the Big Apple?
Me: I don’t know.
Him: Maybe it’s called after Apple the computer company.
This Week’s Forced March
The children and I were in Cork this weekend. We went from Kinsale out to Summercove. We visited Charles Fort. This was greeted with reasonable levels of enthusiasm. The nice man at the entrance gave the children a cannon ball to lift and explained in some detail how to load and light a cannon which they enjoyed.
And then we went to the Bulman for lunch. All very satisfactory. Note soulful expression while herself waits for mussels.
The only fly in the ointment was the driving rain that accompanied our walk back to the car. We were passed by a couple of tourists who were readily identifiable by their all enveloping rain gear. Locals like ourselves looked damp and unprepared. [What? Rain? Here? In Cork? Who would ever bring an umbrella on a walk?]
Today was the day the clocks went forward. I wish I had realised this earlier. This morning at 10.15, the Princess and I went to visit my mother in the hospital. I breezily assured my father that we would be back for 11.40 to accompany him and the boys to mass. He looked dubious, as well he might, I realised, in retrospect, as it was 11.15 when I left. No one in my family went to mass today and it was all my fault. Alas.
I was going to bring my mother’s sewing table back to Dublin with me but lost my nerve at the prospect of bringing it and children and luggage. I had a quick look through the contents which included my brother’s report for second year in school, lots of thread, a 70s large capital letter still in its packet that had clearly been destined to be appliquéd to something and this school photo of me when I was about the same age as herself. I am always struck by how alike we look though I think I look considerably less sophisticated than she does.
Michael made me a card for Mother’s Day, herself gave me a paper rose (complex to make, I understand) and Daniel wrote me a poem which he sang aloud despite his embarrassment. Herself said bitterly, “The poem won.” Mr. Waffle said to her, “It’s not a competition; I know you and your mother think everything is a competition but it’s not.” Did you know that Mr. Waffle was brought up by hippies?
Here is the poem*:
I think you are nice even it you have head lice,**
I think you are kind, there’s not a nicer mother I can find,
I think you are calm, I won’t find a calmer person in my whole life span,
I think you’re swell, every time I hear your name it rings a bell,
I think you’re funnier than a magic racing bunny,
I think you’re superb, you’re better than Phinneas and Ferb.
That’s my song done, I hope you have fun.
Goodbye.
*Slightly idiosyncratic spelling and grammar amended.
** Not as far as I am aware but I am feeling slightly paranoid after our recent encounter with lice.
The poem was lovely but so were the rose and the card and the flowers and chocolates Mr. Waffle bought. It turns out that not everything is a competition. I hope that you had a lovely mother’s day.
Lenten Sacrifices
It is Lent. The children have brought their Trócaire boxes home from school. Michael instantly deposited his entire savings of €15 in the box. I suggested that he might like to give a percentage of his savings but no, with tears in his eyes he told me that “these children really need it”. As Mr. Waffle said, there is a reason why they distribute Trócaire boxes in schools, not workplaces.
Michael has given up the computer for Lent it may kill him. Daniel has given up Fifa 14 but this is not the sacrifice it might be as we also have Fifa 13.