Rules for Being a Manhattan Mama

1. When bike riders and peds bark, "Excuse me!" as you knock into them with your puke-stained stroller, don't even turn your head. It makes them think you can be intimidated -- or give a shit.

2. Take your rabbit everywhere -- but remove her within nanoseconds of a melt-down. (Even Manhattan Mama's hate bratty rabbits).

3. Do not pay the nanny to stand in line over-night for a top spot at a competitive nursery school. For God's sake wait until kindergarten.

4. Get your Rabbit acquainted with 2-3 cafe's in your neighborhood. Tell her this is Mama's playroom.

5. Rabbits in designer baby clothes grow up to be Plum Sykes. Avoid.

6. Mama's who ramble endlessly about homeschooling/organic blueberries/the wonders of their Brooklyn Brownstone may be (s)mothers in disguise. Run.

7. Adults who ask what your rabbit's name is, deserve getting a tongue stuck out at them. Do not apologize. This is Gotham. Give out our name????

8. Take-out noodles count as dinner. Take-out dumplings count as dinner. Take-out counts as dinner.

9. Fruit snacks dropped on the subway car floor, stay on the subway car floor.

10. Please. Get a pedicure, get a babysitter, grab your Prince and go out for a margarita. Straight up. No salt. Really. Manhattan Mamas need some airing out too.

The Grim Reaper

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. ...

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Bill Cosby: "...there’s a building, and it sits downtown ... and it’s called the public library.

Just a recent interview I finished. Love Bill Cosby championing public libraries. We need more.

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What Price Romance?

Let's talk romance for a moment. Manhattan Mama clearly feels deprived in this department and this is one of the most bewildering aspects of life with her. My latest attempt to remedy this is to make a reservation at A Voce--some interpretation of Tuscan cuisine--that the NYT recently gave three very optimistic stars. I've been a few times on my employers expense, so I know it's nice but I also know what it's going to cost. I'm thinking lucky if we get out of there for less than $150. Tack on another $50 for the babysitter. Then drinks, cabs, etc. Better not to do the math. It's not that MM wouldn't be perfectly happy with a kabab or a trip to the hipster taqueria, maybe some flowers from the corner stand. None of that would register in her mind as this mythic thing know as a DATE, and thus would win me no more points on her end than remembering to take down the recycling. Making a DATE means you're thinking of her, which means you're engaged with h...

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mothers on the verge

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