belgianwaffle

Twins

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?

Pumpkin terror


Posted in: Reading etc., Youngest Child

For a child who is physically daring, Michael is a scaredy cat. He was terrified of our pumpkin for Halloween and it could only be deployed for about half an hour before we had to abandon the effort in the face of his terror*. He still points to the windowsill and says “Pumpkin, scared” even though it has now been taken away and incinerated by the bin men. It also extends to a fear of pumpkins on the street or the supermarket. He is scared of the wolf music for “Peter and the Wolf”. He is scared of me, if I pretend to tickle him. He quite likes being tickled, it’s when I wave my fingers about in the air that he gets nervous and has to bury his head in my shoulder and tremble.

NaBloPoMo – H is for Heyer, Hustvedt and Hornby.

H is a fruitful letter. Georgette Heyer is my favourite author. I am not exactly proud of this but I am proud to be at an age where I can admit it. I read my first Georgette Heyer on a camping holiday with my family when I was 12 or 13. My mother remembers me pumping up air mattresses with my nose deep in a book. I remember sneaking round to the back of the tent to be left in peace to finish off “The Reluctant Widow”. I can still remember my surprise and shock when the heroine married the hero. “But she hated him” I thought to myself. I had much to learn in the ways of romantic fiction.

I only like Georgette Heyer’s regency romances, not her historical novels or her detective fiction. I have read these books so many times that the plots are horribly familiar, alas. But still, I suspect I shall read them many, many more times, at least there are about 20 of them so I can alternate my pleasures. If you care, my favourite is “Cotillion”.

Siri Hustvedt is probably my next favourite author in an entirely different way. Whereas Georgette Heyer is a comfortable old pair of slippers, Siri Hustvedt is a slinky black dress. Her books are really, really interesting. I come away from them bubbling with excitement, full of new and interesting ways of thinking about things and desperate to talk about them. She writes beautifully. I took “What I Loved” to hospital with me when the Princess was born. I can’t imagine ever finding a Siri Hustvedt book disappointing.

Nick Hornby completes the H trio. I like Nick Hornby’s books. They’re entertaining and readable. I would always buy a new Nick Hornby but I probably wouldn’t be rushing to reread the old ones.

Any H suggestions? Tomorrow we will have, wait for it, i.

*On reading this post, my husband said that he thought only George Bush was allowed to use the word “terror” that often in one phrase.

Why, why, why?


Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc., Twins

Yesterday, I went out to dinner at a friend’s house. My father often remarks that my mother has no appreciation that time is finite – I am like her.

17.30 Run out of my office to go to my husband’s office to drive together to the creche to pick up the boys (please add driving rain to get a full picture).

18.00 Arrive at the creche, pick up the boys who are cranky.

18.10 Install boys in the car. Put on “Il etait un petit navire” on the stereo at Daniel’s request.

18.15 Pick up the Princess from the childminder. At the childminder’s request, agree to drop home a little friend who has been there for the afternoon and lives near us.

18.30 Realise that I have promised to bring birthday cake tonight. Why did I do this? Any of the other attendees would have had more time. Why am I always trying to do the impossible? Brilliant husband spots an open patisserie and I zoom through the rain to snap up their two last cakes.

18.45 Drop off little friend. All three of our children begin to wail, calling her name and demanding her return.

18.50 Emerge from car in garage.

18.55 Get to lift with children and gear. Daniel becomes hysterical because he wants to push the button in the lift. Lift him up to do so. His sister becomes hysterical because she wants to do it. Put him down. He pushes her, she bites him.

19.00 Emerge from the lift into the flat. The severely reprimanded Princess retires to the “coin colere” in floods of tears but not before attempting to whack me. Daniel shows everyone his sore finger. Michael begins to demand orange juice. Mr. Waffle goes into the kitchen to cook dinner.

19.05 I comfort the hysterical Princess who is gasping between sobs “HE started it”, Daniel goes off to play peacefully on his own, grateful, doubtless, that the bite marks don’t appear to have broken the skin. Michael comes back with orange juice.

19.10 Michael is keen to avenge the wrong done to his brother and comes to lord it over his hysterical sister. “Mechante!” he says pointing an accusing finger. Then he pushes her. She pushes him back causing him to douse himself and Daniel in juice. Both begin crying hysterically. “HE started it” says the Princess, crying herself for good measure.

19.15 I wipe up the orange juice and change clothes. Daniel calms down and trots off to the kitchen to see how dinner is coming along, the other two continue to howl. I take them both on my lap and each makes spirited efforts to knock off the other while crying hysterically. Daniel comes back with some smoked salmon and solemnly hands each of them a piece. They both stop crying and start eating. I give Daniel a round of applause.

19.20 Dinner is served. It is largely tossed on the floor. I give both boys fruit puree which they let fall on their bibs on the way to their mouths. They angrily demand it be wiped up before they take any more. Daniel is particularly concerned that the large gobs he lets fall between each mouthful be speedily cleaned.

19.30 The bath! Michael comes in first saying “Pipi, pipi” and, when we have removed all his clothes, sits down on the potty which we have just installed in the bathroom in delight. He does not wee in it. After some time, Daniel arrives in and says “Pipi, pipi”. I remove Michael from the pot and put him in the bath where he stands, red in the face, bawling and gasping “Pipi, pipi”. Daniel lowers himself on to the pot with a contented smile. Michael tries to climb out of the bath and fails. The Princess is unwilling to undress and I have to pull off her clothes and put them into the laundry basket.

19.30 Michael finally sits down in the bath and wees in it. We put Daniel in with him (we have NO standards). The Princess gets into the shower. It is too hot and then too cold and we fiddle with the sensitive dial while she abuses us for our ineptitude.

19.35 Michael stands up in the bath and starts saying “Pipi, pipi”, I take him out and wash his teeth despite considerable opposition. I take him to his room while he moans “Pipi, pipi”. While putting on Michael’s pyjamas, I hear a crash from the bathroom and a wail. There was a time I might have run straight away but I am older and wiser now and I put Michael safely into his cot before running to investigate thereby denying him his chance to explore further the charms of the potty.

19.40 The Princess is howling, her father is grim faced and Daniel is gurgling happily and washing his teeth. She slipped in the shower. “Daddy was cross (waaah) with me, even though I slipped (waaaaah) and he said a bad word”. Her father points out, through clenched teeth that, if she would stop dancing in the shower this would never have happened.

19.45 The Princess is wrapped in a towel, Daniel is put to bed. Lights out for the boys.

19.50 The Princess is put into her pyjamas and comes to sit on the couch to discuss today’s smiley face. “I don’t want a smiley face”. Just as well.

19.55 Mr. Waffle puts the Princess to bed, I run to the computer to put up a post for NaBloPoMo. While it is cranking up, I clear the table and sweep the floor (yes, I have a PC, why do you ask?)

20.05 I write my post interrupted only by a trip to the boys’ room to hand a bottle to Daniel.

20.15 Mr. Waffle emerges from the Princess’s room, I go to make myself beautiful. I ruefully contemplate my filthy top and decide (after dabbing at it with a facecloth) that I will have to change it before I go out. Spend some time considering options.

20.25 I emerge and kiss goodbye to my poor husband who is doing dishes. “I’ll put out the bins later” he says sadly while I rummage in the cupboard looking for birthday candles.

20.30 I scoot along to my friend’s house which is mercifully close rehearsing my excuses for my late arrival.

20.35 I arrive. I am first.

NaBloPoMo – Welcome to G

But first, I forgot Joshua Ferris under F. “Then we came to the end” was a great first novel. It was funny and (I would love to say zeitgeisty here but I am worried that my father would hear of it and disinherit me) very contemporary evoking the rhythms of modern office life in a hyper real way (goodness, that could go straight into the LRB, I am so proud).

I also forgot John Connolly. I bought “The Book of Lost Things” as a present for my husband thinking that it was about a boy’s youthful reading experience. He didn’t like it. I picked it up and discovered it was a fantasy story – not Mr. Waffle’s cup of tea – about the interpretation of fairy tales (it reminded me a bit of Angela Carter and also “Pan’s Labyrinth”). I really loved it and I will be getting to the rest of Mr. Connolly’s work on the strength of it.

Sorry, let me reiterate – welcome to G.

G is for Gaskell. Mrs. Gaskell, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways – for you are Victorian and believe in long books, for your plots are interesting and your characters engaging, for “Cranford”, in particular. I think I almost forgive you for not finishing “North and South”.

G is for Graham Greene. There are a lot of converts to catholicism among the authors I favour. I read Graham Greene in my late teens and early 20s because my parents had a lot of them about the house. “Brighton Rock” is genuinely creepy and though I know that Graham Greene is regarded as a bit passé, I think that one really stands the test of time. I also have a weakness for “Travels with my Aunt”, so sue me.

G is also for Greer. I have never read “The Female Eunuch” but I will, really. In the interim, I enjoyed “Daddy, we hardly knew you” but no one else did, as far as I can see.

Stephen Jay Gould is an entertaining and accessible science writer and is responsible for almost everything I know about science. I rate his efforts as superior to the not inconsiderable labours of my teachers, parents and siblings. “Eight Little Piggies” is probably my favourite – it’s clever.

Last but not least is Stella Gibbons. I have only read “Cold Comfort Farm” but how I have read it. This book is anything but cold comfort, I have read it when I was sick, when I was sad, when I was desperate, when I was bored, when I was restless. I love it and it still makes me laugh. In fact, I think I might just pick it up now and head off to bed with it.

Can I say how much I appreciate your suggestions? I’m hoping to have a reading list at the end of this, you know.

Bereft


Posted in: Family, Princess, Reading etc., Twins

The grandparents put in a week of hard graft in Brussels and went home this morning. There were tears (on the Brussels side, the Dublin side remained strangely stoic) as they hopped out of boot camp. It was mid-term and my noble parents-in-law put in a lot of hours with the children while we trooped off to our offices. They also seem to have done all of the cooking.

The grandparents pointed out that Michael and Daniel spent much of their time hitting each other, something we hadn’t noticed so much ourselves. They often do so more in a spirit of enquiry than anger (will this dinky hurt, if I bang my brother’s head with it?) and kiss and make up quite readily before setting off again entirely unabashed. I am not entirely sure to what extent they realise that they are two different people. Michael invariably identifies himself as Daniel in the mirror. The other night when we asked them to say goodnight to each other, they thought it was the most hilarious suggestion they had ever heard.

Back to the grandparents: the Princess’s grandmother spent much of her time here teaching her granddaughter the words to an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical number (not all of the words but she told the Princess the remaining verses could be found on the internet). The wisdom of this I leave for her to decide, but you may inspect the results for yourself here and here. I am the backing singer (I am a less apt pupil than my daughter, you will note).
NaBloPoMo – It turns out that most authors’ surnames begin with C. Below is a selection of my favourites.

C is for Chesterton, Cheek, Christie, Colfer, Coupland and Coe

Chesterton, Gilbert Keith to his friends. Author of the Father Brown short stories, all of which are bound in a large, faded, red volume in my parents’ house and which I have read more times than I can remember. I love Father Brown and even though I know the twist in every single story, I don’t care. Chesterton does suffer a little from the zeal of the convert but as a poor catholic I like that, I always feel a little holier after reading Father Brown. The stories remind me of home and I love them for that too. Funnily enough, I haven’t been tempted to branch out and try further Chesterton. I once read a book of essays called “Tremendous Trifles” and I didn’t enjoy it much even though there was an excellent essay on the joys of lying in bed in the morning. Perhaps I will reconsider when I am feeling strong.

Mavis Cheek writes good feminist fiction. A bit like Fay Weldon only funnier and, I would say, better written. I think I have them all.

Agatha Christie was one of the first “grown-up” authors I read and I have a great affection for her. Sometimes it wavers when I reread. When I had a cold recently, I went to bed early with “The Labours of Hercules” and it was quite shocking. Mind you, it did yield this description of herself by Mrs. Christie on the back cover: “As for my tastes, I enjoy my food, hate the taste of any kind of alcohol, have tried and tried to like smoking, but can’t manage it. I adore flowers, am crazy about the sea, love the theatre but am bored to death by the talkies (and am very stupid at following them), loathe wireless and all loud noises, dislike living in cities. I do a lot of travelling, mostly in the Near East, and have a great love of the desert.” So there.

I have been reading children’s fiction for a long time. I read the first Harry Potter at a time when it was neither profitable nor popular. Eoin Colfer is a hugely successful Irish children’s author. His hero is Artemis Fowl an adolescent genius who discovers that there is a fairyland. It sounds dreadful but it’s hilarious action packed stuff and, if you can’t quite face it yourself, I highly recommend it for your children.

Douglas Coupland has been writing about my generation for a long time. I bought my copy of “Generation X” in 1992 and I have bought almost everything he has written since. He is a bit hit and miss. “Shampoo planet” was awful; “Microserfs” left me cold; “Girlfriend in a Coma” and “Eleanor Rigby” were interesting; “All Families are Psychotic” was probably my favourite but it was very odd indeed. “J-pod” awaits my attention.

Jonathan Coe is the author of the truly excellent “House of Sleep”, “What a Carve-up” and “The Rotters’ Club”. Less successful, if you ask me, is “The Closed Circle”. I have just finished “The Rain Before it Falls” and I am not entirely convinced. Hmm.

Any suggestions?

At the ophthalmologist


Posted in: Reading etc., Twins

Hard to spell and even harder to say. Hardest of all to spend two hours there on a rainy evening with two tired parents and two tired boys. The boys, understandably, disapproved of the people putting drops in their eyes and shining bright lights into their pupils to examine the backs of their retinas.

Predictably, Daniel was stoic and Michael was furious. He pointed at the assistant who dispensed the drops and yelled “mechante lady”. During the actual examination with the bright light he yelled, shut his eyes and cried. Daniel just squeezed my hand as he lay down on the large leather couch. Poor Daniel, he is getting glasses and a patch for two hours a day. And a check-up in 6 weeks, doubtless involving more drops. Michael is to come back in 6 months to have a pale optic nerve inspected further. I really hope that the meek inherit the earth because other advantages seem to be pretty much non-existent.

When we got home, someone had parked in front of the garage so we had to ferry the boys in, across the road in the rain. On arrival, however, things improved. The Princess was in great form having had a day of indulgence from the royal grandparents who are nobly pitching in to help us out over mid-term. They also had dinner ready for us…and it was still hot.

Also, this is funny:

Russian president Vladimir Putin has suggested setting up a Russian-funded institute in Brussels or another European capital to keep an eye on human rights issues in Europe. 

Further notes on progress


Posted in: Twins, Youngest Child

Introduction

Like his big brother, Michael was two on the 27th of September (he was born 25 minutes after Daniel). He is a Mummy’s boy. He loves his Mama. He will always give a (generally snotty) kiss when asked. He also loves his doudous and now will only go to bed if he has his doudou (t-shirt belonging to his father), his nounours (a teddy bear wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the Brussels police service – it is difficult to imagine a less cuddly body of men and women though my husband points out that some of them are round and others are furry) and a bottle clutched between his teeth.

Appearance

He is a slight wiry little fellow and has the most hair of any of my children. Of all of them, I feel that he is the one who looks most like me though they all look very like their father.

Character Traits

Despite this apparent softness, he is as tough as nails and will never cry, if we are cross with him. He regards all efforts to criticise or amend his conduct with deep hostility. He loves sticking his finger up his nose, a habit as unsightly as it is unsanitary. The other day, I again remonstrated with him and removed the offending finger. He looked at me balefully, held up two fingers and stuck one up each nostril. Today I was absolutely furious with him because he would not keep on his t-shirt and went howling about the house saying “tummy, tummy”. I lost my temper and pulled off his t-shirt. I think that this is the first time I’ve lost my temper with him and he was shocked and appalled. He ran into the hall and found his father and grabbed him while pointing tearfully (unusual that) and furiously (much more common) at me. “Mama, méchante!” he said with considerable bitterness. Ah yes, a whole year of being 2, I can’t wait.  I now have only one child with whom I have never lost my temper.  No prizes for guessing who that might be.

When his brother or sister is sad then he will run to get a doudou to comfort him or her, unless he is the cause of the chagrin, in which case he will run around the room crowing with delight.

Michael is dangermouse. He likes to abandon his family and play with the big children. He likes to climb. He would run under cars, if he could. He thinks “careful” means please climb on the table and jump from it on to the couch.

He is immensely sociable and from when he was very young would smile ingratiatingly at strangers. In the park he likes to run off and play with other children and never gives a backward glance to his family. This is good practice for when he is a teenager, I suppose.

Communication Skills

His vocabulary is unsophisticated but not ineffective. “Sleep, asleep” he says hopping into our bed pulling the covers around him and clutching his array of doudous. This is a boy who would love to get out of his sleeping bag and cot and into his own bed. Unfortunately, since his father and I place no dependence of his staying quietly in bed the way his sister did when she transferred out of her cot, this is a desire that is unlikely to be fulfilled for some time yet. When his nose runs, he says imperiously to his parents “nose, nose!”.

He is very polite and as he sits down for dinner he will say, before chucking it around the room “thank you, Mummy, thank you Daddy”.

He adores talking on the phone and will say to my mother “Hello Nana” which they both seem to enjoy. He often picks up the phone and has imaginary conversations with his grandfather.

Leisure and Culture

He loves to run and to walk on the street, a pleasure he rarely enjoys as trying to stop him and his brother tossing themselves under a bus is a task that requires two parents and a well behaved sister.

He loves balls. He once caught sight of a ball on the street and wept for absolutely ages when he was not allowed to play with it. He loves kicking balls and is quite good at it. He knows no greater pleasure than trying to tackle me while with deft and fancy footwork I pass him.

He likes to be read to and is particularly fond of “Slinky Malinki” by Lynley Dodd (whom my genius husband guessed might be from New Zealand by looking at the illustrations in her books). He is also taken with the tale of “PJ Funnybunny” who having considered a number of options (spoiler alert) decides he wants to be a bunny after all. As we turn each page he identifies all the animals PJ tries becoming. Since it’s an American book, the animals PJ goes to live with are not very familiar to me and it is mildly amusing to see my small son pointing at a picture of a very odd looking animal which I have never seen before saying authoritatively “possum!”.

Dining

He eats most foods but doesn’t like sweet things. We think he may be the reincarnation of a 50 year old man who died of a heart attack. He once insisted on tasting his father’s wine. We allowed him to, sure that he would spit it out. He loved it and demanded more. Actually there is form for this in my family. My brother who was four at the time got drunk by finishing off the sherry (it was the 1970s) that guests had left in their glasses at my sister’s christening. My parents were actively concerned about him as he rolled on the floor giggling helplessly until they caught a whiff of his boozy breath. I digress. One day we were having mustard with our sausages. Michael demanded some and when we watched to see how he would react, we were amazed to see him cast aside the sausage and start tucking into the mustard with his spoon. He also eats pesto by the spoonful. If he were allowed, he would eat mountains of salt.

Conclusion

Michael is Thursday’s child – he has far to go. Assuming that he makes it to three. He is extremely charming, yet lethal, particularly, if crossed. Maybe he will grow up to be a spy.

And to celebrate his survival of another year, here is a slideshow covering 12 months of my darling, daring boy.