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.

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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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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It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las...

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mothers on the verge

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