Michael: Who are you?
Daniel: I’m Ben 10!
Michael: Never heard of you, you must be from a different channel.
Youngest Child
Now, we are six
I was seeing a house the other day and the estate agent made conversation with the boys.
Estate Agent: And how old are you?
Michael: We’re five.
Estate Agent, turning to Daniel: And how old are you?
Michael (more forcefully): We’re five.
EA: But how old is your brother? 6,7,8?
Michael: WE’RE FIVE.
Me: They’re twins.
And today, they are six.
But first, they were new born babies;
And then, they were crawling one year olds;
When they were two, we were busy;
They were three when they had their first birthday in Ireland;
Then, they were big boys of four who had started school;
And last year they were five and Michael wanted to be able to read.
So, this year, they are six.
Michael is the most charming person; delightful, endearing and entertaining. He also can be very cranky. “STOP kissing me,” he often hisses at me. Despite my telling him he would be able to read when he was five this hasn’t happened – he can read a little bit but he’s a long way from Tintin. He has outsourced the effort of reading to his brother. He eats about 5 things, he still bites his nails, alas, and he is as thin as a whippet. He is very generous and is usually willing to share. He is utterly indifferent to the views and opinions of others. He loves, loves, loves playing club penguin on the computer and is alarmingly good at puffle rescue [if you have to ask..]. He has an uncompetitive streak and is often happy to let things go. This can be a relief to his hard pressed parents. He has started saying “sh” more often than “s” (my ship, not my sip) following intervention from the speech therapist [possibly last free thing we will ever get in Ireland]. He is keen to trade and at bedtime is in and out to his sister’s room swapping toys. He hates all languages that are not English and is waging a rearguard action against them – though when he speaks of Asterix and Obelix he gives them the full French pronunciation, not knowing any better. He has become a better walker and it’s been quite a while since we have heard the plaintive cry of “Carry me, carry me.” He is a home bird and loves our house. He would spend all his time here, if he could. The prospect of moving, fills him with horror. Fortunately, for him, it doesn’t look like it’s getting any closer. He continues to be by far the best card player in the family and the best loser. Possibly, because it doesn’t arise very often. He has a great deal of joie de vivre and likes to chat to strangers. He doesn’t appear to have a shy bone in his body.
Daniel is very serious, except when he is hysterical with laughter. He likes to explain things in detail, the plots of books we haven’t read and television programmes we haven’t seen are particular favourites. He is very earnest about these things. Often, when you ask him a question – for example, what would you like for lunch? – he will think for a long time and reply with the plot of an episode of the Power Rangers. He gets very, very cross about injustices, real or perceived, and will howl the house down at the drop of a hat which is unfortunate but, I hope, just a phase. He is a terrific reader and loves reading. When not being forced to read aloud to his brother, he likes to take himself off with Tintin or Horrid Henry. He is the most musical of the children and can reliably produce a tune. He also has a very good ear for accents – Mr. Waffle says he is fluent in English, French and Dub. He speaks extremely clearly in all three. He is anxious to please and is always looking to see whether people are happy with what he has done. He has excellent hand writing and always colours between the lines. He is amenable to being kissed occasionally. He loves playing football, hurling and soccer and the trip to the GAA on Saturday mornings is the highlight of his week. He is horribly grumpy in the mornings except on Saturdays when he positively leaps out of bed, beaming. He is a good player and is very competitive which, funnily enough, makes him inclined to hang back in defence because no one else does and the goalie tends to be sitting on his hurl staring at the sky [his team mates are 6, remember]. For a while there, he used to say to us, when we distracted him from something, “you made me lose my focus.” This was slightly disastrous as we then laughed and he was furious with us. He is a picky eater but has yet to meet a sweet food he doesn’t like. He’s a fast runner and even though he’s a year younger than many of his classmates [he is the second youngest in the class, his brother is the youngest by 20 minutes], he can give them a serious run for their money. He is very clever and recently when asked who were better drivers gave this impeccable answer: “In general, it doesn’t matter but in this family it’s Daddy because he doesn’t have penalty points.” He seems to really need his glasses and they almost never come off. Sometimes before going to bed I go in and look at his little face without glasses and it is almost like looking at a stranger – partly because his face is in repose and it is always full of whatever emotion he is experiencing by day, but mostly because he is not wearing his glasses.
They are both, despite the bar on kissing in most circumstances, very affectionate, which is lovely. They are always delighted to see me, except when watching TV or playing on the computer, in which case, my presence is a matter of indifference to them. Ah, a mother’s lot. Still, I wouldn’t change it.
Virtue
I stayed up until 11.30 last night making and printing off birthday invitations for the boys. I am full of virtue.
Another Year Over
The children (one of whom is checking this as I write under the new censorship system) got their school reports this week. They’re all very brilliant, as ever, though I note, thanks to my OCD filing system, slightly less brilliant than last year. Six trophies were given out in school and three of them were claimed by my children, admittedly for perfect attendance rather than genius at Irish (two trophies – these went to other families) but you can’t have everything. [Boastful Mum – signed the ever-vigilant censor WHAT? evil mum!]
The Princess’s teacher commented as follows on her report:
“She has shown great skill in her story writing throughout the year and equally in her oral accounts of these stories.”
A sample of this work is quoted below:
My Pet
My pet’s name is Hodge. She is a cat (or a pig cleverly in disguise). The longest time she was ever away from a can of cat food was ten seconds, she probably died of hunger. She is MEANT to eat dry cat food but I don’t think that the next door neighbour understands the word “cat diet”. She is MEANT to drink water out of her bowl but she prefers Dad’s bedtime glass of water. Note to self, close the toilet lid.
A picture of the subject of this story is below.
Legal fat cat:
[“I’ve been checking the authorities and there’s no law against being 6 kilos” says Hodge]
The schizophrenic nature of this blog under the new regime is proving trying for me. So much so that the Princess may shortly have her own blog. She is pushing for the title “Comments of an 8 year old” to redress the perceived wrongs in this blog. It’s hard to regard this development with any great enthusiasm.
In less controversial news, we are all on summer holidays now – hurrah! Tomorrow we decamp for a week in Kerry. Let us pray for fine weather. Full account to follow when we get back. There’s something to look forward to.
Weekend Round-up
Yes, I know it’s Wednesday, but I’ve been busy.
Last Thursday, I went to Leiden to visit my sister who is working there for a couple of months. I left the children with my kind husband and snuck off. My sister met me at the airport and we took the train to Leiden. Within 5 minutes of arriving we had hired a bike for me as my sister deemed it impossible for me to survive without. I have never seen as many bikes as I did in Leiden. The potent combination of students and a small Dutch city made for bicycle heaven: everyone of all ages cycling in their normal clothes [no fluorescent jackets], young kids in front and behind on all the parents’ bikes, excellent cycle lanes, very flat [though windy]. Behold the bike parking at Leiden centraal. My sister says that they always know the tourists because they’re snapping the bike racks so I didn’t myself; I regret that now.
So we cycled back to her house and then back into town where we went on the obligatory boat tour. After cycling, boating seems to be the preferred way to get about in Leiden and later when we cycled through the suburbs, we saw boats tied up at the end of almost every garden. Leiden has more canals than any city in the Netherlands except Amsterdam. Amsterdam is a lot bigger than Leiden. Leiden is essentially entirely canal.
We went to the cinema that evening, expecting confidently that X-Men, First Class would be in English subtitled in Dutch. Well, it was subtitled in Dutch but you would be surprised how much of that film is in Russian, French and German. Listening to Kevin Bacon speaking Russian while trying to interpet Dutch subtitles is a surprising and unsatisfactory experience.
The next day we saw all the shops I hadn’t seen since we lived in Brussels: Hema, mon amour; Dille & Kamille; stop laughing at me. Then we went to the Mauritshuis in the Hague which I have wanted to visit for years. It’s really well worth a visit. It’s a small museum with a lot of very famous pictures so you wander from room to room saying, “Oh look, look, look!” This may be mildly tedious for other visitors.
On Friday evening we went to dinner to Mr. Waffle’s friend the Dutch Mama [confusingly, she’s Irish, it’s her husband and children who are Dutch] and her family whom my side of the family have now appropriated as our friend [this is what you get for being hospitable, this was my sister’s third dinner at their house]. We had a really lovely evening. We spent much time discussing the Dutch psyche. The Dutch Mama feels that they are all very anxious that everyone should stay part of the group and to be ahead is just as bad as to be behind. I suppose this might be very useful, if your country might sink, should anyone step out of line. I always feel that the Dutch are smug; my views possibly influenced by having lived with a very annoying Dutch girl for a while about 20 years ago. But, I must say, after my trip to lovely Leiden, I do feel that they have quite a bit to be smug about.
On Saturday we cycled to the North Sea. The beach was heaving with people and I ventured in for a swim which was pleasant though industrial [plane overhead, tanker in the distance]. And then we cycled back. And then I thought that maybe I was starting to fall out of love with my bike a little bit. My sister is fit as a fiddle from her Leiden cycling regime and I found myself panting along in her wake on the 14 km round trip to the beach. All in all, I wasn’t entirely sad to say goodbye to the bicycle that evening. Sorry to say goodbye to my sister though.
So, on Sunday, I was back in Ireland and feeling that Mr. Waffle had done Trojan duty, I took the children to see Kung Fu Panda II [not as good a Kung Fu Panda I, you will be unsurprised to hear]. For the duration, Michael sat on my lap, weeping and trembling with terror. On the way out from the cinema to the car park, there is a games arcade where, weakly, I allow the children to play whenever we go to the cinema. I don’t give them any money though as I am too mean. Michael ran straight for a zombie game where he hoisted a gun on his shoulder and pretended to shoot disgusting zombies who exploded all over the screen. He was delighted with himself. He said that the exploding zombies were not scary. “And Shen, the peacock is?” “Oh yes!” The power of narrative, I suppose.
On Monday, which was a bank holiday, we woke to glorious sunshine and I told the children to throw on their shorts and sandals, packed a picnic and we all drove to Trim castle. I really plugged the castle to the children. And they were quite excited when they got there. Except the weather had turned overcast and they were freezing. We had to wait 15 minutes for the guided tour.
Once we got in, I knew we were doomed. Firstly, there was no way in or out except with the tour guide; secondly, the tour guide was slightly gloomy; thirdly, the tour was scheduled to last 45 minutes; fourthly, the tour was aimed squarely at adults and there was really very little to see except stones and spiral staircases and finally, and not insignificantly, the castle was slightly colder inside than out. The children dragged themselves around whining [quietly, mercifully] and we prayed for the tour to end which it did, eventually. Then we ran out and had our picnic in the car. Not content with this failure, we went in search of St. Patrick’s where the “Rough Guide” promised us an echo and an interesting tomb. Even had these things been available, they might not have been sufficient to hold the troops’ interest. In the event the church was closed. We had a look around the graveyard where we considered the grave of Sir Hercules Langrishe who died in the late 90s. We wondered how he got on in the local primary school. Hercules is such a difficult name to carry off. [Apparently, it’s a family name. Mr. Waffle tells me that the first baronet was a pal of James Burke and an open letter to him (on Catholic emancipation) is mildly important though long.]
Michael got bored and started walking around with his eyes closed and walked into a pole giving himself a very nasty bruise on his cheek. We went home. All in all, not a triumph.
Weekend Round Up
The boys went to two birthday parties this weekend. Very exciting. Birthday party one was in one of these indoor play centre places which they both loved and I dropped them and ran. On my return Michael confided to me sadly, “There was nothing I liked to eat but I drank the orange juice.” They had chicken nuggets, chips, ketchup and cake. When you would really like your child to eat chicken nuggets, you know you have hit rock bottom.
On Sunday we went to a completely different party. The birthday boy was 4 and an only child. As it happened almost all the other invitees were 4 or younger. It was a collection of the north inner city’s middle classes. One pipe bomb could have taken us all out. There were about 20 kids there and a good sprinkling of associated parents. The Princess wandered up to a table where I was chatting to a father who was there with his 4 and 2 year old children. She was deriving mild entertainment from rubbing a balloon on her hair. “My goodness,” said the Daddy of the two small children, “your hair’s standing on end, why is that?” “Static electricity,” she said coldly, leaving him somewhat deflated. That’s the difference between 4 and 8, I suppose.
On Saturday night Mr. Waffle and I went to see The Pride of Parnell Street. This is two monologues with no interval and we were in the fourth row and I was tired so, towards the end I fell asleep until woken by the sound of elderly ladies giving a standing ovation. Oh dear. We did a lot for the average age of the audience. The only person we could see who was younger than us was a little girl of about 9 further down our row. Would you take your young child to a play about domestic violence and the collapse of a marriage? Answers on a postcard, please.
The play itself was good but it dragged. I’m not sure whether it was the direction or the script; I don’t think that it was the format, I’ve been to compelling monologues and at least this had two actors. And it was likely to please. I know the setting intimately and could summon immediately to mind every location that the actors mentioned. It was nicely written. I thought that the wife was really excellent although the husband failed to impress. It was full of [described] incident but I fell asleep [during one of the husband’s bits]. Never a really ringing endorsement. And Mr. Waffle did lighting for the director when they were all students together [Mr. Waffle’s lighting career probably peaked about then] and the director’s wife was in my bookclub years ago. So you can see how we really wanted to love it. But we didn’t. I think I preferred “Thor”. Will we all cry together?