Her: I was glad that Santa didn’t give me a lump of coal.
Me: Me too.
Her: Who does he give coal to?
Me: Bad children.
Her: Am I sometimes bad?
Me: Well, yes, like when you had a hissy fit in the supermarket on Saturday and everybody looked at us and I was mortified.
Her: What do good children do?
Me: When their parents say they can’t have something, they don’t make a fuss.
Her: Not even a small hissy fit?
Me: Not even a small hissy fit.
Her: Are there any good children in real life?
When you live in Brussels, people always say – oh, you can travel very easily to anywhere – this is true, but you rarely do.  However, to celebrate (ahem) the fact that the boys have decided not to nap at the weekends, on Sunday we went on a day trip to Lille in France. We emerged from the car park into the last day of the Christmas market. Michael instantly wanted to go on the big wheel. We managed to put him off until we had all had lunch. The big wheel was a tremendous success as the children don’t seem to feel the cold at all.  Arrived at ground level with three happy children and two frozen parents, one of whom could only see odd square patterns out of one eye (hello, migraine, welcome to France). We bought the children a helium balloon each (18 euros, fools and their money etc.). We wandered the streets of the old town, perished. The children were cheerful, though.  We bought the Princess a pair of boots and a pair of shoes in an expensive shop, on sale but still dear (fools and their money part ii).
We decided not to go to the beautiful chic and expensive café which was probably the best decision of the day.  We took ourselves to a creperie where we had upstairs (reached by a hair-raising spiral staircase) to ourselves once we had dislodged the unfortunate courting couple who had been there when we arrived.  We spread ourselves and our 8 balloons (3 helium, 5 non – a present from the expensive shoe shop – we started with three but then the Princess wanted more yellow ones so we had to go back and get more – sometimes I think that there is no greater humiliation than being a parent) over three tables and I put my head in my hands, glad that the migraine patterns had stopped but beginning to wonder whether they might in fact be better than the pain (slightly reduced by the application of paracetemol).  Mr. Waffle tried to stop the boys turning on and off the lights and rescued helium balloons from the ceiling.  The Princess was actually very good and quite sympathetic and I began to entertain brief hopes that she might turn into a pleasant and considerate grown-up eventually.  We finished up in the café and took children, buggy and eight balloons out the door with considerable difficulty.  I felt very sorry for the other patrons who were clearly frozen as we went in and out several times.
We decided to cut our loses and head for home.  The car park was small and narrow and there was no room to get the children in to the car because although the car park had been empty when we arrived, it was now full. We were about to try putting them in place from the front when the large car beside us left.  I shamelessly opened the door and put in the children causing a long delay which nearly killed my husband.  We put the three helium balloons in the boot with the Princess (you know in her seat in the station wagon, we’re stupid but we’re not heartless) – one covered by a coat.  Mr. Waffle then tried to get out of the car park with gritted teeth.  Daniel who is our most sensitive child and Daddy’s boy, stuck out his lower lip and started to cry because, as he explained to me “Daddy cwossâ€.   We explained in great detail to the Princess that the balloons had to stay down because otherwise Daddy would not be able to see out the window and we might all die.
I filled two bottles for the boys in the hope that they might sleep.  Much of the milk got in the bottles but a certain amount landed on me.  My mother always said that children don’t mind being warm and wet and I can now attest that this is true.  It wasn’t too bad being wet and milk soaked in the car but when we screamed to a halt on the hard shoulder of the motorway and I had to go to the boot and remove the balloon which had escaped its moorings and was floating about the car, the chill wind was deeply unpleasant on my damp jeans.  For the remainder of the journey, the Princess had to hold the remaining two balloons on her lap. I should have taken them all into the front but I feared her wrath (grim death on motorway v. child’s wrath – which would you choose?). The Princess was moderately successful at keeping the window clear but the whole thing was a bit of a strain and we were very glad to get home.
Gave the children dinner and packed them off to their beds. Â Before collapsing into ours, Mr. Waffle made dinner for the following day and we discussed the weekend.
Him: I think the children liked it.
Me: Hmm. They liked yesterday’s outing better.
Him: What did we do yesterday?
Me: Um, can’t remember, but they liked it.
Him: There may be a point to our complete photographic archive.
Me (checking camera): Oh yeah, we went to a farm.
Him: Have we lost our minds?
Me: Yes.
This morning, her highness donned her new expensive boots with great reluctance because “Safa at school has the same shoes and we might get confusedâ€, could only wish that she had been inspired to raise this on the previous day.
I read that the gap between European and US productivity would disappear, if only Europeans took the same kind of holidays as Americans. Frankly, who are the winners here?
Despite nearly 40 years of marriage to my mother-in-law, my father-in-law continues to be just the tiniest bit less than right-on occasionally. This is what comes of being a captain of industry.
F-in-L (expounding): The bottom line is that if a business has to choose between somebody who will work full-time and someone who will only be able to work part-time, then they will want the full-time worker; our own personnel officer etc. etc.
Me: Useless exposition re turning around the work place, life-work balance, losing female and, indeed, some male talent etc. etc.
M-in-L (pensively): I suppose in the 19th century employers were saying – holidays, how will we run the business, if people go on holidays? And PAID holidays? You must be joking.
F-in-L (who is a big fan of holidays) blustering: Come on, now, that’s completely different..
Her: Look Mummy, a Smart.
Me: Actually, sweetheart, it’s a Cinquecento. You know Mummy used to live in Rome and a lot of people have Cinquecentos there because they’re easy to park.
Her: Did you have one?
Me: No, I had a moped.
Her: What’s a moped?
Me: Like a motorbike only smaller, I’ll show you one someday.
Her: In a museum?
Peacefully. Largely. We spent a couple of days in Dublin, then down to Cork on the train for a week or so and back to Dublin for New Year.
Santa Claus played a large part in our celebrations. When we got to Dublin airport, tired and ratty after a 2 hour delay, he was waiting in arrivals with a big sack of sweets and toys. When we arrived at Mr. Waffle’s parents’ house, it was to discover that Santa had sent an email to announce that there would be presents in the hall (two tractors and a princess dress, since you ask). When we got out of the train in Cork, Santa was waiting for us. I was startled but somewhat touched to see my three children run into his arms and give him a big hug. A number of older ladies then went up and danced with him. The next day was Christmas day and Santa was active overnight. Santa delivered dinosaurs for the boys and a range of things for herself including a pair of sparkly silver shoes, several sizes too small. “Stupid Santa,†I said. “No, Mummy, Santa has been very kind, don’t say that, we can give these shoes to a poor child with small feet,†said Pollyanna. The rest of our time in Cork was slightly bedevilled by continued requests to find a poor child with small feet.
To fit us all in my parents’ house, my sister had moved in with my aunt who lives next door. This was very kind all round. There were a number of difficulties, however (not for us, as my sister would no doubt tell you, bitterly). My sister, after long years in America, is used to houses which can be warmed throughout to the same temperature; there are no such houses in Ireland. Furthermore, the uniform temperature she likes is very warm indeed. My aunt has central heating but doesn’t bother using it much. She sleeps with the window open. She is very hardy. Despite my aunt leaving the central heating on for days and finding herself gasping for air in the garden, my sister found it necessary to sleep in thermal underwear, wrapped in an electric blanket, covered in a sleeping bag and topped off with a hat. She also had a portable heater beside the bed. Actually not the bed as such because my aunt decided that she didn’t need any spare beds a couple of months ago [take it up with the professional declutterers]. She slept on an air mattress which my aunt had got from a friend. It was very swish but, alas, leaked slightly.  We were awkward guests and, though no one complained, I couldn’t help feeling just a tiny bit guilty about the level of inconvenience that we caused to everyone. In retrospect, the low point was probably when we commandeered the study for Daniel’s cot because he wasn’t sleeping in our room. He lay there solemnly drinking his milk while my sister was tried to get her invoices out before the end of the month in semi-darkness. “You do know,†my mother hissed “that your sister is trying to run a small business from that studyâ€.
The boys will eat very little. This was brought home to me by the sight of their cousin J dutifully devouring everything his parents put in front of him and by my mother informing me at regular intervals that ‘those children will eat nothing’. I don’t really care about this because I am heartless. Mr. Waffle, however, is most distressed by it and this tended to cast a pall over many meal times.
Those children also got a mountain of presents from devoted grandparents, aunts (special mention to the aunt who felt that all of them should get a present every day they were in Cork) and uncles.   When we returned to Dublin it was to find that Santa had been (again!) and left stockings for each of them. We struggled back to Brussels heavily laden with goodies and prepared for the last day of Christmas.  Yesterday was Women’s Christmas and Mr. Waffle was nice to the Princess and me on the strength of it.  Not as nice, though, as the Befana who called to our Italian neighbours upstairs and, finding that they were both grown ups, left three long red stockings filled with treats pinned with clothes pegs to the lift outside our door.  For a while we thought that she had left lumps of coal but consultation with the neighbours revealed that they were actually an extraordinary coal like sweet. Finally, last night we had our Galette and the Princess got the fève. What with Saint Nicolas on December 6, Santa Claus on the 25th and the Befana yesterday, it has been a rolling Christmas treat and the return to regular arrangements this morning was greeted with mournful demeanours and protest.
Presents and family bonding aside, the highlight of the holiday for the Princess was holding a starfish at the aquarium and for the boys feeding the ducks in the Lough. I feel that this says something but I’m not quite sure what.
Her: When I grow up I want to be a fishmonger?
Me: Why sweetheart?
Her: I want to know about fish.
Later.
Her: When I grow up, I want to be a thief. Pause. I don’t want to go to prison though. Further pause. Mummy, you said children don’t go to prison, didn’t you?