Idlebones

Sophie Turns Three

October 29, 2007 – 18:23

 

Dads smiling voice answered the phone on it’s second ring.

“Hello?”
Raucous noise in the background, a shrill, excited voice singing happily, and adult voices laughing loudly.

“I take it she’s arrived then” I said with a laugh.

I’m not surprised by my rude omission of the word “they” for “She”. Adam and Jean are home for Sophie’s 3rd birthday, but of course, my favorite little niece is the scene stealer as usual. Helen had arrived earlier in the week with my favorite little nephew, all bundled up in his carry cot. Awake by the time they reached Mimi and Granddads, Cians little fists grabbed  for anything put in his way. Big broad grins and big smiling eyes as he was passed from Grandparent to grandparent, Uncle to mother. He seems to have inherited his mothers eyes and his fathers athletic physic. Later, I’m sure, we will be subjected to both their silly senses of humor and gleeful senses of fun. 

  All roads led to Cian as far as the biscuits, raisons, chocolate covered sweeties and Granddads grapes were concerned. He is a strong, handsome little boy. His brawny little arms reached out for any unsuspecting free finger of a passing adult so he could swing his way on to the next passing object that attracts his attention. A baby Tarzan reaching from vine to vine to reach the bottom drawer under the fridge so he can have a good rummage. If Brain O’ Driscoll has no “Mini Me” up to now, the position is now taken. Such a mirror image of his playful dad’s character,  Marc now has a taste of what his parents had to put up with all those years ago. Marc, himself, arrived on Friday, delayed by work commitments. Usually when Marcy Marc arrives his first port of call is the fridge. This time, however, he rather sweetly ignored everyone in the room and fell to his knees to say hello to his smiling son, whom he hadn’t seen in a whole three days. Cian was Hanging on to his mothers trouser leg as he turned to great his daddy with his trademark broad gleaming grin. Marc picked him up and enveloped him in one of those hugs that only a loving farther can emulate. I think it was at least a minute before Marc could find it in himself to acknowledge there was anyone else was in the room apart from him and his baby boy.
Sophie is handed the phone by her granddad.

“Hiya Unkie Owen”
“Hiya Sophie. Watcha doing sweetie?

A little giggle erupts from my phone that immediately turns any hardened thought i’ve had from my days work to warm sweet jelly.

“I’m having a party!” She announces proudly
“Cool! Who is coming to your party?”

A pause. A dramatic little intake of breath.

“Mimi, Granddad, mummy, Daddy, Auntie Helen, Unkie Marc” (a little pause as she gathers herself and takes another breath) “Ciarwan, Fwank and Jill, and Unkie Owen!”
I have to grin. I have to clutch the phone as if I’m hugging her.

“Unkie Owens coming? Oh dear,  I don’t know about that. Are you sure he’ll be there? Has he been invited?”

There’s another little pause while Sophie, I can imagine, scrunches up her little eyebrows and then blares down the phone:

“Your Silly!”

For the next minute I hear rattling and chomping on the receiver as Sophie goes into hyperdrive. Eventually Dad’s giggling voice comes on the line. He’s laughing like a small boy.

“I think that’s a yes!” he says between chortles.

“Sophie is trying to eat the phone, so I would suggest you get out here before she cuts us off for good”

       Later, Sophie and Ciaran are oblivious to our calls for them to come inside as they take it in turns to hurdle the small outcrop of mushrooms at the bottom of the garden. Adams’ admonishment of Sophie’s destroying of her new clothes quickly gives way to his “oh sod it, she’s only three” Clothes can be replaced. Adam and Jean look on with incurable smiles as the two little dynamos tear into a bush and discover a tall shrub leader pole could quite possibly be a microphone. Ciaran grabs it first, his small hands grasping it like he was in boyzone. He flicks the microphone back and forth as he sings along to the unrecognizable song in its head. Sophie watches on in awe, before deciding that this is a game that she must have a go at. For the next 20 minutes the two of them perform alternate laps of the mushroom track, and singing into the microphone like some bizarre hybrid sport combining Karaoke and Gymkhana. Cian watches on from the safety of his mothers arms, kicking his little legs as if trying to keep up with them in his mind.
Helen and Mimi have baked Sophie a birthday cake. It’s pink and in the shape of a castle, with four Swiss roll turrets covered in white icing. The Drawbridge is made from chocolate fingers and Sophie’s name is written across it so there’s no mistaking who’s birthday it is. Jean puts a sparkler into the cake before carrying it in to a beaming Sophie. As Jean walks into the room singing happy birthday, Sophie stands wide eyed, arms straight and slightly behind her, her little hands opening and closing in glee.

Ciaran is all business as the presents come out. He folds his arms, tightens his lips and furrows his brow  and observes the brightly wrapped boxes the way his father stands contemplating a carpentry problem. Sophie just attacks the mysterious objects head on and soon has the wrappers all over the floor.

Someone, in they’re wisdom, has bought party poppers. Sophie and Ciaran scream in delight as they pop loudly and spray them in strings of crepe paper. Mimi has bought sparklers for the cake, both kids entranced by them as they fizzle and spit in the middle of the pink castle.

Of course, Sophie’s visit home would never be complete without a visit to the beach. First she must make sure she is properly dressed for the occasion. Wellington’s on, warm jacket party hat and feather boa. Check! All done.

As soon as the strand is sighted, Ciaran and Sophie are of as fast as their little legs and short pumping arms can carry them. We’ve brought some miniature footballs for them to play with, and they soon have us worn out running after them when a kick goes astray. Usually by me. I get soaked in the stingily cold water up to my knees and have to run around with them to warm myself you again. It soon becomes clear, as I take yet another heavy tumble lunging for a volley that Marc has sent my way, that I am to come out all this with the least dignity. There is damp sand caked into my hair, up my nose, in my pockets and great streak of it runs up one whole side of my body.

Now the kids are arguing over a dead seagull. Ciaran plucks a long black and white feather “for my Daddy” Sophie has other ideas. She watches him carefully, and I see the scheming look in her eye a second to late.

Running passed him she snatches the feather from his fingers and run over to her Daddy
“Look Look Look Daddy I findeded it over there…..” she begins.

My brothers face takes on a serious look. The kind he used to give me when I was being a “Tool” when we were kids.
Much Negotiating ensues. The Party of the first who had the party, versus the party of the second party who was at said party, who did wantonly claim finders keepers rights (so there!) on the feather that he had pulled out a dead bird right under under the nose of the party of the first party at the party.
Thankfully. A resolution presented itself when I find another feather from a seagull amongst the rocks and give it to Ciaran 
All parties then happily bashed each other over the head in a mock sword fight with their feathers.

Sophie on daddy’s shoulders, Ciaran on mine. By the time we go to the top of the hill leading down to the beach, our faces were scratched and polished by their feathery foils. When we got home, the adults look like they’ve been sleeping rough all week. Sophie and Cian, however, are still flying.

 

This year, Sophie turns 4, and expects to be a whole foot taller. One foot for every year.