mothers on the verge

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

I have no time. I HAVE NO TIME. Maybe I should rephrase that. I have no time to myself . I realised the seriousness of the situation when I found myself trying to have a wee in peace this weekend. I sneaked off, locked the door, sat down in blissful anticipation of a whole minute to myself... it must have lasted all of ten seconds before the kids managed to track me down. They stood outside the bathroom door, hammering on it with their fists and shouting to be let in. I mean, jeez. Give me a break. A woman's got to retain some form of dignity. A bit of private time to go to the loo isn't too much to ask - is it? I work from 8am to 5.30pm - which, considering that my occupation/vocation is public relations, is really pretty good. (There was a dirty rumour flying around recently that one of the big PR firms had installed beds into their offices so that employees no longer had an excuse to go home. Nobody batted an eyelid. It was like, yeah, and? Like, tell me something new.) My ...

The rabbit has been testing me fairly regularly for the past 2 weeks. Like today: I get to school after spending 3 hours non-stop on the phone with deadlines. I'm fairly wiped. but I'm so excited to get her. Today is ballet so we usually have a snack and then walk over to class, but today I'm thinking I'll treat her to a cafe' stop -- a muffin or something special after class. I walk in and I get big hugs and then it starts. She won't throw away her lunch even though I asked three times. Even her teachers asking doesn't help. She won't put on her sweater, won't put on her coat. Won't even listen to me. At all. So, since I have reached a point where this has been going on near three weeks, I tell her that I am walking out and will be back in 5 minutes and well see if she's ready then because I don't want to play this game anymore. I walk out, and she comes wailing behind. I can tell from the glances of the (s)mothers in the class and the t...

It's 11 am, okay 11:06 am, and I am still in my pajamas -- working, mind you, but still haven't changed from the shorts and T-shirt I was wearing when I crawled out of bed 5 hours ago. Normally I am a very organized individual -- down to the 30 minutes I actually write into my daily schedule (yes, I have one of those too) three times a week to jump up and down like a bouncy ball in front of FitTv pretending I am giving myself exercise. So finding myself unshowered, and fairly undressed at this late hour is an unusual event. The Rabbit is at school, the house is quiet, the Prince has even called to me tell me something sweet, and I am marching successfully through interviews. Got to say. Pajamas may be the key. Must go. Don't want to ruin the good juju.

We have an air conditioner perched out of our hi-rise apartment that the pigeons have taken to like a nest in the Himalayas. At first I thought they were roosting to have some babies -- which I sort of warmed to believing the rabbit could have a min-wild kingdom from the confines of our living room, and also because as the myth goes in New York: We always see adult pigeons, but no one ever sees the babies. But instead of laying eggs, the pigeons have left, well, you guessed it. So instead of watching the pigeons with fascination, I've taken to throwing pencils, small books, or just about anything on my desk that I think won't break the window to chuck when I hear their foul wings rubbing against the glass. And the rabbit has now followed suit. She prefers to toss crayons and her small collection of rubber balls screaming, "Go away you DIS-gustin pigeons!" I promise. We'll keep her away from the nature preserves.

This is my favorite excuse I use when I'm at home sneaking in an interview -- and the rabbit comes barging into my "office" (Bedroom) screaming that she's hungry, or needs to go "pee-pee" or whatever else a 3-year-old's needs might be at that particular nanosecond. Usually when I have to do a work call while I'm home sans babysitter I tell the rabbit in advance. I explain in my calm, slow, please-understand-me-this-time voice that "mommy needs to go make a work phone call and I'll just be a 10 minutes ("No! Five!") okay five, and when I get out we can go down to the park for 20 minutes ("No! Five!") Well, actually sweetie, five is less than 20 but that's fine, but I need you to let mommy make her call. Okay?" ("No.") "Okay honey. So let's put on a few minutes of "Max and Ruby" and I'll be right out." And if I am very lucky I can actually eek out a 20-minute interview and feel...

So yesterday afternoon, I started to smell something burning from the hallway of our building and opened the door to see some neighbors examing the stairwell. Maintenance men were downstairs trying to crack open an apartment where the smell was coming from. The Rabbit was already scared -- we had heard the banging sound of them trying to break the door from our place and she was clinging to me. One of the maintenance guys poked their head out and I asked, nervously I admit, 'Is there a fire? Should we leave?" and he suggested we head downstairs. The Rabbit began to wail. Which she did for the entire 3 minutes as I collected our coats, shoes, my purse, passports, and the checkbook even as I tried desperately to calm her down. She was terrified screaming that she didn't want to go outside to the fire, really pleading with me not to open the door again. A few minutes go by and a neighbor knocks to tell me a cat (I am not a cat person FYI) had walked across the stove and set i...