I heard an extraordinary thing on the radio the other morning. In Britain they are debating allowing the development of crossed human animal embryos for stem cell research, though not, as one of the speakers made clear for implantation (that’s a relief then). Is it just me or is science getting a bit beyond us?
In other news, I see that the US FDA has approved cloned meat for serving up for dinner. I rest my case.
Daniel is increasingly speaking in sentences. He finds the formulation “can I?” very useful. Can I look? Can I see it? Can I do it? He’s beginning to get to grips with grammar. Before when he needed help he would say “help you, help you” urgently. Now he says “help you me”. Since Christmas both he and Michael have learned to say “yes” and he has a particularly forceful and sibilant yes.
He loves dental floss and reaches a chubby arm for it the second he gets into the bathroom. He will pull out metres of it, if let. He loves getting his teeth flossed as well. I would like to put this on youtube for my dentist but I cannot. The second I pull out my camera, Daniel runs around to the back and says “can I see?” Remember waiting weeks to get photos and they were all the tops of people’s heads?
He does not seem to need much sleep. This is a matter of considerable regret to everyone; particularly Michael who shares a room with him and needs lots of sleep. Often of an evening, Daniel will be bellowing for room service (‘more milk woman, make it quick’) and Michael will be rocking in his cot moaning with his hands over his head.
Michael seems to be a born leader and Daniel is happy to follow him into whatever mischief he proposes.
A couple of weeks ago, Michael wore an underpants for the first time. He showed it proudly to Daniel and got a hug for his achievement. This was short-lived as he wet himself about 5 minutes later and we were disheartened and decided to hold toilet training for another day.
Michael is, according to the creche, ready to be toilet trained. At home this manifests itself as follows:
Me: Michael before you get into the bath, do you want to do a wee?
Michael: Yes, Michael the pot.
Michael sits on the pot. Nothing happens and I put him in the bath where he, invariably wees straight away.
Michael (gleefully): No the bath Michael, the pot!
Both of them are obsessed with sticks, Daniel particularly so and he likes to pick up a stout stick when we go out for walks and attack innocent saplings with it.
They are both counting, Daniel with rather more success than Michael – getting to 10 more or less (usually less 5 for some reason) and learning colours. This latter is proving more challenging and they constantly point to items and say a colour at random “red!” “no, sweetheart, that’s black”, “yes, black!”
They both spend a lot of time saying, “c’est qui ca?” which means (to them) who or what is that? Mr. Waffle found himself held up for several minutes outside the newsagents identifying Johnny Halliday, Carla Bruni and the like while Daniel pointed persistently at pictures saying the magic words. I was at home with Michael at the time confirming in response to repeated requests that each of the 16 bottles on the windowsill in the kitchen contained milk.
Our paediatrician says that we mustn’t compare; oh dear.Â
We had some friends round this afternoon. A Scottish-Italian couple and their two children and an Italian woman and her daughter. The children started off speaking in English but quickly moved to French as the common lingua franca. The grown-ups spoke English to each other. I felt mildly embarrassed to be the main reason why two Italian women were speaking English to each other.
One of the mothers explained in graphic detail that this year, her nine year old had asked her a lot of questions about Santa Claus. So she said to her “OK, you really want to know, OK, I will tell you”. In the face of some alarm from me and the other parent with a four year old, her husband gracefully interrupted the anecdote with “So, she said to her ‘Yes, of course there is a Santa'”. That’s a relief, then. We discovered that the Befana does not bring Christmas presents to Italian children who live in Belgium which makes her presence in our lives even more baffling. We had some questions for our guests about the Befana and her ways.
Us: So Santa Claus lives in the North Pole and Saint Nicolas comes from Spain, where does the Befana live?
Guests: Elaborate shoulder shrugging, shocking ignorance.
Me (to Princess): Well, sweetheart, if the Italians don’t know…
Princess (in tones of wonderment): Are our visitors Italians?
There was some talk about multi-lingual schools because that’s what we’re like in foreign exotic Brussels and, in particular, the European School which has sections in all of the EU languages (except maybe Maltese, who knows?). One of the Italians has an Italian friend who is married to a Pole and they are sending their twins to the European School and they have put them in different classes (as the parents of twins are often advised to do) but in a weird twist, one twin is in the Polish section and one is in the Italian section. Is it just me or is this utterly bizarre?
We tossed them all out at 7.00 (none of them put their children to bed before 9.00 – shock, horror) to the regret and ire of our children. Much though we enjoyed seeing them, we were glad to see them go as we had decided to compress all our socialising for January into one day and our dinner guests would be arriving at 8.30.
And now, dinner is over, everyone is in bed and I should be too.
That is all.
The Princess was in foul form after school on Wednesday. Her friend L was mean to her and wouldn’t play with her. All the children were mean to her (inquiry on Y, nice girl I would like her to be friends with, elicits, ‘I don’t like her, she always wants to be my friend’, truly, life is complex) and only the grown-ups were nice and she had to walk around on her own.
“L said that she would kill you,” she said. “Well, that’s a very unpleasant thing to say and I hope you would never say that to another child,” I said piously. She asked, a touch anxiously, “she can’t kill you really, can she?” “Of course, she can’t,” I said. “That’s alright then,” she said, looking distinctly guilty, “because I said she could”. My poor little mite, my heart went out to her in her efforts to get in with L who blows hot and cold. She said, “I want to see my old friends” meaning my children’s friends and I thought, well at least she has them. Then on Friday, L came to visit and all was sweetness and light though I am touched by the way the Princess keeps giving L things to try to ensure her place in L’s affections. As L was leaving, the Princess gave L her helium balloon which she had played with all week and to which she was most attached. I only hope that L is a worthy object of her affection, but I doubt it. Hold the mother-in-law jokes please.
Meanwhile, Daniel is busy reinforcing the idea that Daddy is for Daniel and Michael is for Mummy. “Who wants to come out of the bath to Mama, Daniel will you come to me?” I asked. “No,” he said firmly “Michael Mama, Daniel Daddy”. “I’m Daniel’s Mama too,” I said forlornly. “No, Michael Mama” he reiterated sternly. I was heartbroken.
My husband is very bracing and robust about these things and says, “oh for heaven’s sake, they’ll all be fine”. It’s a relief one of us has a sense of perspective, I suppose.
I am amused by the UK’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office’s estimation of itself. Reading Mr. Waffle’s Economist over his shoulder, I see that the FCO is looking for a Strategic Communications Director. All the usual requirements, blah, blah but number one on the bulleted list is “outstanding intellect”.
Apparently “[d]ynamic, high-calibre communicators will relish working in this intellectually rigorous culture”.
I’m sure they will.
Chatting to a friend on the phone the other night, I was reminded of an event from the holidays the memory of which I had, for some reason, suppressed. The Sunday before Christmas, I wanted us all to go to mass. The Princess did not want to go. I insisted. She screamed roared, sulked, refused to put on her coat. As always when there is a deadline, matters went from difficult to impossible. I went on ahead with the boys. My parents-in-law live near a very busy road. Michael took advantage of a moment’s inattention on my part and nearly stepped in front of a speeding car. I got such a shock. I was very contrite as Mr. Waffle always insists they are put in the buggy but I want them to walk because they hate the buggy and walking is good for them. Not as good for them as staying alive, I have now decided. I picked them both up and wrestled them into the buggy amid howls of protest. At this point, Mr. Waffle emerged with a screaming Princess. “Why, why do I have to go?†Me (also screaming in a model of good parenting) “Because I want you to, is that too hard to understand? Can you think of anyone but yourself for just 10 seconds?†Boys form background of howling – a sort of Greek chorus to our main event on the public highway. Still in shock form Michael’s brush with death and furious with the, entirely unabashed, Princess, I join my children and succumb to tears. Evil daughter remains adamantine in her protests. Boys keep howling. Mr. Waffle says bracingly as he shepherds along his tearful flock “Will we all sing a song?â€