Me: I was saying today in the office that I was 37. Our 22 year old trainee was visibly startled.
Him: I hate to say this but, you know it’s not that she thinks you don’t look it.
Me: I know, it’s just that she’s surprised that someone my age manages to get out of the house at all.
Week one is over. I took a half day today. Shortly I will be off to see the Princess perform in a concert at the end of her course on the music of the Maghreb (salaam alaikum to you too). I am particularly looking forward to hearing the number about the sleeping camel; various versions of which we have been enjoying all week. I digress. So, I put in four and a half days. And it was fine. We even went out to a friend’s birthday dinner last night. The boys both have coughs and conjunctivitis (the consequence of communal child care, I fear) but we are heartless second and third time parents and we went out anyway. It’s going ok. Bon weekend.
Today, I got up at 7.45. Of course, I had already been up for considerable periods at 1.30, 2.20, 4.45 and 6.00 but at 7.45, I got up. I fed the boys and dressed them. I had breakfast with the Princess on my lap. I made ham sandwiches. I packed the boys into their car seats and bundled them into the car leaving herself and her father waving us off (they were going to her course in a separate convoy – Easter holidays from school you will recall). I dropped the boys off at the crèche and arrived into work (at 9.20 which is pretty good going, I can tell you), where, after some meeting and greeting, I worked. It turns out that being in the office is more tiring than I recall. At lunch time I went to the crèche and picked up the boys, brought them home, fed them, expressed a couple of bottles, fed me, put them into the arms of their afternoon minder, turned around, came back to the office and worked for the afternoon. At the end of the day I drove home, to be met by two mildly unhappy boys, one hard working minder and one very reproachful girl – “I wanted you to collect me from my course but you were at work”. Cooked dinner while spouse minded children. Fed everyone, bathed the junior members of the family and persuaded them to retire to bed. Collapsed on the couch. Heard distant wailing. Not distant enough. As I type, Mr. Waffle is off ministering to the “Princess of Wails, Queen of Hearts” (his description) who appears to have dropped doggy out of her bed and needs expert assistance for his retrieval. Is it really only Monday?
Today is my 37th birthday. Yes, I know, I do sound a lot younger. Thank you. Less of the barracking down the back, please. I am beginning to feel my age. Yeah, I know 40 is the new 30 (or as a friend of mine said on hearing that another friend’s 80 year old father was to remarry, 80 is the new 70), but approaching 40 has come as a bit of a surprise to me. I can see my face thinning out, getting that slightly gaunt and hollow look that trying to meet the incessant demands of a toddler on zero sleep will give you, particularly, if youÂ’re an older mother and you have baby twins as well. Why oh why didn’Â’t I have my children at 22 when I had the energy for it?
I will be 20 years out of school this summer. My oldest friend attended her 20th school reunion recently, much against her better judgement. She tells me that it was dreadful, “very Cork”. “But wasnÂ’’t it fascinating to find out what everyone was doing?” “Well” she conceded “it might have been, but all anyone talked about was husbands and children”. The oldest friend has a glittering career as a diplomat (this is obviously more impressive in Cork than in Brussels, where there are more diplomats than natives) so I asked whether her former school friends had expressed suitable awe. After various modest disclaimers she said “that no, it hadn’t come up – though they did express amazement that she wasn’Â’t married with children. I would be the first to say that having children is very challenging and rewarding etc. but, you know, having a glittering career is very challenging and rewarding too (with the added bonus that it makes for more interesting conversation –- toilet training doesnÂ’’t regularly feature). One of her former school mates summed it up by saying to her condescendingly “ oh well, having children is very hard; itÂ’s not for everyone”.
So, clearly, this all made me feel better about my achievements: one husband, three children, one job. I’Â’m having it all; my life at 37 is perfect. However, at the moment I donÂ’’t feel like I’Â’m having it all; this lengthy maternity leave has
largely turned me into a housewife and I’Â’m not at all sure how I feel about that. I was ludicrously pleased when I was able to order a dustbuster and a blender based on my supermarket points. I spent days admiring our new fridge.
The other day I said to Mr. Waffle, ““Great news, I have solved a mystery”.” I think he felt that I had oversold my discovery when I explained that it was how our cleaning lady manages to wipe down the kitchen counters without leaving a water swipe mark (if you want to know – itÂ’s by using window cleaning spray, I hope it wonÂ’t kill us all, but they are delightfully sparkly). The final blow came when I was watching an old episode of “Friends” on the telly in which MonicaÂ’’s cleaner said to her, ““Mrs. Bing, this tile cleaner is terrific” and Monica said “Really? I made it myself itÂ’s one part amonia, one part lemon juice and a secret ingredient.”” The cleaner asked, ““What’Â’s the secret ingredient?”” I leant forward listening closely, only to have Monica dash my hopes: “”What you think IÂ’’m going to tell you my secret ingredient?”” Yup, I guess I’Â’m a housewife now, alright.
A housewife and out of touch with “the young people” as I understand they are known. Let me give you an example. A friend of mine who is a competition lawyer said of a small town in England, ““I went to a rave there.””
Me: What a rave, a rave??
Her: No, a raid, you know, where we turn up at a company’Â’s office and go through their stuff looking for incriminating papers.
Me: Oh right. Do you go to raves?
Her: No.
Mr Waffle: I donÂ’’t think that they have raves any more.
Me: Really?
Him: No, I haven’Â’t read about them in the paper in ages.
Roll on 40. And has anyone seen my glasses?
poggle
on 10 March 2006 at 10:34
Oops! Hippo birdies!
Knobber
on 10 March 2006 at 10:46
bon anniversaire waffleroo
jackdalton
on 10 March 2006 at 14:14
Hap’birty, ‘waf… you Oldie you 🙂
poggle
on 10 March 2006 at 14:17
You got the Doc to come out of hiding!!
Beth (Homepage)
on 10 March 2006 at 14:35
Happy Birthday! You don’t look a day over 28. You know, I assume.
groupie
on 10 March 2006 at 14:51
Happy Birfday. I love the idea that the career diplomat might be taking the easy route out.
kristin (Homepage)
on 10 March 2006 at 15:17
happy happy birthday! you ought to go enjoy yourself and take in a rave. or a raid. either sounds preferable to getting the little men to sleep.
happy b’day!!
xo
Friar Tuck
on 10 March 2006 at 16:24
Or as I once heard someone say, why didn’t you have children when your parents were young enough to take care of them?
Minkleberry
on 10 March 2006 at 19:49
Happy birthday. And gaunt and hollow is in, don’t you know- just look at Terri Hatcher xxx
Lilo
on 10 March 2006 at 20:32
Many happy returns Ms Waffle. You’re not the only person born in 1969 wondering how it is that 40 seems to be galloping up so fast.
bobble (Homepage)
on 11 March 2006 at 00:16
I think it’s only natural to feel ten year younger than you actually are and surprise yourself when you realise you aren’t. I do it constantly. My last rave was 1990 by golly.
disgruntled
on 11 March 2006 at 12:53
>Happy Birthday … I’m younger (by a couple of weeks but still, these things are important) but even so managed to humiliate myself at work by asking my staff what ‘crazy frog’ was. Apparently it’s some sort of popular beat combo for telephones.
Angela (Homepage)
on 11 March 2006 at 13:30
Happy happy Birthday! To celebrate, I will be throwing a huge rave in my basement. We will be serving energy drinks, and will only allow admittance to those carrying a hard boiled egg.
beachhutman
on 12 March 2006 at 00:17
Happy birthday Young Waffle.
belgianwaffle
on 12 March 2006 at 21:10
Oooh, thank you all for kind birthday wishes and sweetie bonanza. You’re all younger than me, aren’t you? And tell me, do you really need hard boiled eggs to get into raves?
Norah (Homepage)
on 13 March 2006 at 11:13
Happy birthday Waffly. Ibet the secret ingredient is bicarb of soda.
belgianwaffle
on 14 March 2006 at 09:06
Thank you, thank you Norah. Should I try it or would that just be too sad…back at work this time 3 weeks. Goodness gracious me.
dmts
on 14 March 2006 at 22:05
happy belated birthday Ms Waffle – let me tell you, as someone on the down-hill slide into the decade that is being hailed as the new 40’s that the view isn’t too bad at all. (although it’s a fairly gin-fuelled view!)
belgianwaffle
on 21 March 2006 at 20:58
Ooh gin fuelled, how lovely…
A man in a hot air balloon over the Belgian countryside realised he was lost. He reduced altitude and spotted a woman below. Descending a bit more he shouted, “Excuse me, can you help? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago but I don’t know where I am”. The woman replied, “You’re in a hot air balloon, approximately 30 feet above the ground, between 40/41 degrees latitude, north, and 59/60 degrees west, longitude”. You must be a middle-grade Commission Official”, said the balloonist. “I am”, replied the woman, “I’m a Grade A*8. How did you know?”
“Well”, answered the balloonist, “everything you told me is technically correct but I have no idea what to make of your information and the fact is, I am still lost. Frankly, you’ve not been much help at all. If
anything, you have delayed my trip.”
The woman below responded, “You must be a Senior Commission Official”. “I am,” replied the balloonist, “But how did you know?”
“Well,” replied the woman, “you don’t know where you are or where you are going. You have risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise which you have no idea how to keep, and you expect people beneath you to solve your problem. The fact is you are in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but now, somehow, it’s my fault”
A friend of mine is thinking of setting up in business on her own. I asked her whether her, soon to be former, partners had put a restraint of trade clause in their contract. “Funnily enough, she said, “I pushed for that but none of the men seemed to care, they were too busy trying to work out how to include a clause which would ensure that they could fire any woman foolhardy enough to get pregnant.”
Friar Tuck
on 02 March 2006 at 16:05
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
belgianwaffle
on 02 March 2006 at 22:05