Off to school with a spring in her step
THE YOUNGER hates Dunnes Stores. Not because they don’t currently stock The Irish Times. Nor because she feels their product is inferior or their service mediocre. Her only knowledge of Dunnes as a shopping experience is that they stock Peppa Pig umbrellas.
This is a good thing. Yet still she professes hate. Why? Because they’re Irish.
The success of their marketing tagline, “The difference is we’re Irish”, has already cost them the purchasing power of this four year old. Her abhorrence of all things Irish comes from the growing realisation that, come next week, she’s off to school where she’ll be told to cut that Béarla out.
No nostalgic sheen for this girl when it comes to adopting the mother tongue for the first time. She speaks English, therefore, she declares, she is English. We’ve tried the 800 years of hurt speech and she waves us off. “I speak English and I hate Dunnes Stores,” she says, chin jutting in you-just-try-and-change-my-mind defiance.
May. She enters the school on induction day, resigned. She has her wary face on. There is one buddy among the crowd of new faces and she is clung to in a final, despairing attempt to halt the march of time. The morning passes and the younger returns to our arms with the dictat that she will not return to that place.
In her short time in captivity she has decided she is not only not going to school, but that she also despises Irish language and culture. It was a defining and intensive three-hour induction. By the time September comes, she tells us, we should have an alternative plan in place.
We do, as you do with second-child concerns, our best to ignore this. But summer has been over-laid with the knowledge that when it comes to an end she will pass back through those gates. Every weekday morning.
She knows it. We know it. The topic raises its bemused head on occasion, occasions which inevitably end with a resounding, “I’m English!” from the child as if this should qualify her to do whatever she chooses. Maybe she’s been studying her history.
How simple the solution was, how obvious. The missus, with a sad harrumph, announced last Friday she was taking them shopping for uniforms and school paraphernalia. All morning I was treated to a barrage of texts as tales of their march through retailers in town were shared in case I felt deprived at missing the event itself.
Feeling sorry for my put-upon wife, I agreed to meet them for lunch where their purchases could be appraised. There I was greeted with the sight of younger child in full mid-shopping frenzy, gurning down a toasted cheese as she regaled me with tales of the advantages of pinnies over trousers, the tightness of elastic ties and wonder at how the heels of her school shoes sparkle when weight is applied. The worm had turned.
Lights in the heels of school shoes? Pah! I hear your disdain. The youth of today, wafted in frivolity. How can they be educated when the infants’ classroom will look like the interior of the Top Hat roller disco on a Saturday afternoon in 1985?
Listen to me. Whoever had the idea of illuminating school shoes deserves a President’s award. They have done for ease of passage through the school gates what the nuns, with their metre-sticks patting in their hands, could never manage.
As long as her heels are sparkling, the younger will skip in every morning humming Amhrán na bhFiann. Here’s another one with flashing feet ready for a Riverdance revival.
Suddenly she has a Dunnes clubcard and is attending local council meetings.
As a reward for their being so patient during a morning of shopping, we tell them we’ll visit the beach. We take them home first to pick up beachwear. They are both determined in what they want to bring.
The elder, as is conventional in these times, arrives by the sea decked out in swimsuit, carrying a bucket, spade and a frisbee. The younger makes her way through the dunes wearing a cream shirt, a red and green tie, a navy pinafore, a green jumper, navy socks and, of course, flashing-heel shoes.
She carries a wicker basket in which she has a folder, a pencil case, a selection of colouring materials and a copy book. Over her green wool-clad arms are a pair of Dora the Explorer floats. This particular ensemble is completed with a pair of pink plastic sunglasses.
She makes sandcastles in full uniform. Soon she grows hot, climbs into her wetsuit and runs, shrieking, into the sea.
abrophy@irishtimes.com