belgianwaffle

Youngest Child

One for Sorrow

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Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins, Youngest Child

A magpie got into the utility room. When I returned from my tennis this morning, all of the utility room windows were covered with towels and the back door was open. Mr. Waffle (himself returned from his run where he had a 5k personal best, who even are we any more?) was trying to help the bird to leave the house and the towels were to discourage it from banging itself against the windows, a process which was unlikely to yield positive results. Our two children at home had already cravenly fled the coop (bird pun intended) leaving Mr. Waffle and the cat to tackle the problem as best they might (hard to say that the cat was really a help as such).

I went upstairs to have a shower and when I came down I went into the utility room confident that I could resolve the issue but what I would say is that a magpie is a large and slightly intimidating bird in a small space. I hotfooted it back to the kitchen and closed the door behind me. I pointed out to Mr. Waffle that, historically, the issue of birds in the house fell to his lot. “Why?” he said plaintively. “It’s bigger than all of us, probably the patriarchy,” I said and then proceeded to flee the house like my craven offspring.

This rather bitter message arrived in the family group chat some time later:

Mr. Magpie has left. Thanks to all who stayed to help.

In case anyone was unclear, he added: That was sarcasm.

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A Successful Campaign of Indoctrination

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

Herself cycles in London; middle child cycles in Dublin; even youngest child is prepared to give it a go occasionally. I feel I have secured them for the cycling revolution.

I was surprised and delighted to discover that the middle child – with no prompting from me – has, this summer, begun to cycle longer distances with friends for fun. To Maynooth (about 30kms away); to Greystones (also about 30kms away); and back! I feel an inner sense of achievement, I can tell you.

Nine Lives

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Posted in: Hodge, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

I’ve got a bit out of the habit of blogging recently. This is a shame because it is the only way I remember anything.

So, baby steps here, let me tell you about the (relatively brief) trauma of June 16. The cat went out the front door about 7 in the evening. Sometimes she likes to sit on the front step and survey her kingdom. She usually starts to meow to get back in about an hour later. On this evening, about 10.30, there was still no sign of her. Mr. Waffle and I walked up and down the road calling her name (does she know her name? I doubt it). I kept an eye out for a corpse in the middle of the (very quiet) road. I thought death was the only thing that would stop her coming back to enjoy the comforts of home.

Mr. Waffle goes to bed at 10.45 and feeds the cat then. From about 10.15 she sits on the corner of the rug keeping a weather eye on his movements. This prolonged absence so near feeding time was very unlike her. I put out a message on the road group chat and people started hunting for her in their gardens. Could she have dragged herself off to die somewhere of natural causes? Like all of us, she’s not getting any younger; 17 this year. I began to wonder how I would tell the children of the death of their beloved cat. My own cat died while I was teaching English in Italy and my mother felt it would upset me to know so I was kept in ignorance. When I went to visit my friend in Switzerland (train from Rome very exciting) who had seen everyone at home more recently than me, I asked her how everyone was and all was well until I came to the cat. “The cat is dead Anne,” said she baldly. So, you know, a moment I didn’t want to repeat for my children.

At 10.44, one minute before feeding time and about 10 minutes after my anxious alert to the neighbours, there was a meowing at the front door. She was back! It took a lot out of us. She seems fine, thanks for asking.

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We Love to See It

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Posted in: Middle Child, Twins, Youngest Child

My beloved youngest child returns from his Erasmus term abroad tomorrow (he’s been gone since the start of February, so long). I asked my beloved middle child who seems to have enjoyed being the only child in the house whether the return of a much beloved brother on Wednesday was a source of joy. “What, Wednesday, already?” yelped middle child. Apparently not counting the days.

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Posted in: Twins, Youngest Child

Youngest child is not loving his Erasmus location. I mean it’s ok but it compares unfavourably with the fun he was having in Dublin. My sister went out to visit him to support his drooping spirits and it seems to have gone reasonably well.

He was home for Easter which he enjoyed very much though we hardly saw him as he was off with his friends the whole time. Which is what you want, I guess.

While home, he announced to us that he was thinking of flying to Budapest for the Hungarian elections. What would seem crazy from Dublin somehow seemed grand from the continent. I mean it was still a long flight. But off he went and he had the time of his life. He sent us video footage from the count party including himself chanting opposition party slogans in Hungarian (at least that’s what I thought they were and presumably that’s what he thought as well – his Hungarian wouldn’t be great).

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More generally he pronounced Budapest to be satisfactory.

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Apparently travel is broadening.

It’s a Social Whirl


Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

It was my birthday in March. Herself was home (day after her poor great Uncle’s funeral) which was great. We were to go for breakfast together but alas, a logistical issue with an application arose for her and we spent much of the morning trying (unsuccessfully) to resolve this before heading off for breakfast at 11 and then on to the airport after a short walk. While, obviously, it was delightful to have her here, it’s hard to say that taking your daughter to the airport so that she can return to the land of her exile is a complete highlight but, as she pointed out, she was due back at Easter so I would probably survive.

My family delivered on my birthday with a number of subscriptions including cheese (sister) and flowers (middle child). Very thrilling. Even youngest child remembered and sent a card (dates wouldn’t be his strong point). This only scratches the surface of the excellent presents received from all parties. How I love my birthday.

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To recover from dispatching the exile, I went in to Bewley’s for a restorative cup of tea and the waitress recognised me from previous adventures and basically asked why I wasn’t at work. “It’s my birthday, I’m off!” I said. She gave me free tea. God, I was thrilled.

Mr. Waffle also has a birthday in March so the Dublin contingent went out to dinner to celebrate. I don’t know that he really enjoys his birthday as much as he should. I think he feels he’s too old for this but I will never be too old.

It was sobering though to go to a friend’s 60th birthday drinks. That is old. Because Ireland is small a former colleague was there who turned out to be the birthday boy’s sister in-law’s daughter’s husband. Try to keep up.

I have been out for dinner a number of times with my tennis buddies moving on from the more challenging on court engagement to an arena where I truly shine. Speaking of tennis, on Palm Sunday I went to an early mass in a church where there are a number of regular crazy people in the congregation and the environment can be a little exciting but it had an early and speedy mass which I needed to get to a tennis match at 10.

To my surprise in the pew along from me there were some very clean cut enthusiastic Americans (mid-Westerners, so wholesome) responding clearly and crisply throughout (not a feature of the Irish congregation which is given to the holy mumble) and I felt that they might have gone astray in this city so I talked to them afterwards and it turned out their son was studying in Dublin and they had come to visit him. “It’s actually my first time…” began the son. “At mass since you came to Dublin?” I inquired based on knowledge of other people of his age. He was shocked. “No, in this church, I usually go to the pro-Cathedral.”

I scooted on to tennis and told my opponent about the encounter. “You go to mass??” said she. “Yes,” I said, a bit defensively. Apparently, I am not a beacon for the faith. “I’m amazed,” said she, “it’s just that I thought you were a Protestant.” Honestly, with my name I could never be; it looks like sectarianism may be on the way out. Or maybe she just thought I looked like I would be good at crafts (I am not good at crafts).

On that self-same day, I then had breakfast out with my husband, went to my bookclub for the afternoon and returned to welcome my sister to our home like the gracious hostess, I am. A bit too much perhaps.

Is this why I’m losing my mind? I went to Carlingford with Mr. Waffle a couple of weeks ago and I said to him, “Can we go to that place I like?” “What place, a walk, a sight, a cafe?” he asked. “You know, you know,” I said. “I do not,” said he. I rummaged deep in the recesses of my brain and said, “You know… Mornington Grove”. There was a long pause and then he said, “Do you mean Strandfield?” Truly, that was impressive work.

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