Jammy tigers

In Ireland, spring is a leisurely affair. Over the course of many weeks, spring sproings slowly, with plenty of false starts and teasing back-and-forths. It begins with a snowdrop or two in January or February, and finally reaches its apex with the cherry blossom in May. Ususally the daffodils are out by St Patrick's Day, but there are no guarantees.

Much like summer in Ireland, where we say, "Oh, I remember last summer. It was a Tuesday," spring here comes and is gone in a flash. One day we were under two feet of snow; the next - or so it seemed - the white blossoms had popped like popcorn all over, and now we have daffodils and tulips and cherry trees, oh my. The green leaves are already revealing themselves behind the white blossoms and in a week or so it'll all be over bar the shouting. No wonder they have a festival here, otherwise it would be finished before you'd even managed to pay attention and think you should go look at some trees.

It's Easter and we've been partaking in secular celebrations. There was an egg hunt ("hunt" implies there was some sort of search involved; it was more of a fast egg collection, really, since they were all just lying there in the grass waiting for the hordes of basket-wielding, flouncy-dress-wearing munchkins) yesterday, and another at a party today. Monkey has a huge haul of small plastic eggs containing stickers, M&Ms, and jelly beans, while Miss was just as happy collecting stones as eggs. It was pure chance that I didn't make a comment about all the work one of the mums had put into filling and hiding all 300 eggs this afternoon, because somehow it completely bypassed my notice that this was supposedly done by the Easter Bunny. In Ireland, there's no such thing. You get a chocolate egg from your parents, and maybe another from your grandparents, and maybe some more from assorted relatives and friends, especially if you're an only child like I was, and then you gorge yourself silly on substandard chocolate-flavoured substance and doom the planet with all the unrecyclable plastic packaging. At least, that's how it used to be done. But there were no mythical beings to worry about.



Speaking of mythical beings, Monkey sometimes wakes in the night, or doesn't want to go to sleep, because he's afraid of tigers. (Just now. It was a scary giant last year.) In these instances, I find it's easier to work with what you have than to tell them not to think about it, because there's nothing harder than trying not to think of a scary tiger, or giant, or three-horned dragon with purple spots, or whatever it is that's bothering you. So, in much the same fashion as Harry Potter vanquishing a Boggart, I try to make it ridiculous, and told Monkey that the tigers weren't after him, they just wanted jam sandwiches and were looking for him to open the fridge for them because they don't have thumbs. Now he says they like jam made of little boys. I'm not sure how to deal with that one.