mothers on the verge

Tonight The Rabbit gagged and nearly choked on a damn princess jewel purchased at the "Princess store" in Fantasyland on a trip to Disneyland this summer. Watching her gag on a blue rock the size of Elizabeth Taylor's cocktail ring caused me to shriek and terrorize her even further. Luckily the shriek followed her spitting it out. I think I was actually not breathing as I saw her smile, pop it in her mouth, eyes go a goggle, gag twice and then cough it out. For the past year I have endulged her princess fetish. My sister sends her dress-up clothes that her eldest has outgrown-- full royal Disney attire for Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Belle and all the other female creatures that force me to constantly talk to her about how its "better to be strong and smart and nice than beautiful." Yeah, that sinks in while Snow White is twirping about... We're off for the weekend for a wedding so at least there will be a four-day break from the crowns and gems. It's a...

Today I'm going after the mamas who feel they need to tell me what a rotten crap head I am for not having Baby Numero Due. Let's start with the C-section No. 2 -- which, if it weren't almost certain for me (for various safety reasons that, no, have nothing to do with my being worried about peeing uncontrollably for the rest of my life) I would probably feel less stressed out about it. But the idea of getting pregnant, and knowing I have to enter an operating room, need to have another needle enter my spinal cord (paralysis anyone?), must have my body cut open, morphine IV flowing, and surgical staples planted into skin makes me very nervous. Then spend 2 weeks not able to walk well, unable to pick up my baby, and have drugs coarsing through my body while trying to nurse. Sure I can try to go without a scheduled C -- and have an emergency C should my scars, belly, uterus rip open in the midst of labor. Sounds lovely -- right? Then of course there's the whole work element...

The Prince would have said goodbye himself, but in his immortal words: "I don't need to say good-bye." I think he enjoyed this double life more than he'd care to admit, but I also think he's happy to turn the reins back over to the ladies.

A last (quick) post to say thank you to YLM and MM for letting El Príncipe and I loose on the blog. It was fun, although I don't know how you both do it week in week out - especially when bringing up kids is so exhausting. We just spent a lovely weekend with some very good friends down in the country. They are a gorgeous family, although I suspect the father might be G-A-Y. The girls had a great time being feral for a couple of days and doing things that just aren't possible in London. The only 'problem' with seeing these particular friends is that whenever we visit them I am left with an overpowering urge to leave the city and bring up my girls in a more wholesome environment. I spend the weeks following a visit looking at houses on the Interweb fantasising about country walks, fresh air, farmers' markets, farmers' daughters, log fires, big gardens, welly boots (or jelly boots as the Small(er) One calls them), and so on and so on. It eventually wears off. YLM c...

I've discovered a new form of entertainment - checking out what search terms people have put into Google to end up at our blog. Some of the most recent include: - teenage daughter still wears nappies - I think I'm having a nervous breakdown - my mother + nervous breakdown - I'm having a nervous breakdown - how to get my toddler to confide in me - PR girl - apologies to mothers - yummy mummy sex - ayun halliday + self-centred - romance mothers - mother and son porn I fear that some of the above may have been a little disappointed.... Btw, Alpha Male will be back later with his closing post. Technically his last post should have taken place yesterday but since yesterday was spent recovering from a weekend of minimal sleep (we went to stay with friends and the Small(er) One had 'difficulties' adjusting re bedtime) and maximum wine consumption he has been granted a special dispensation. Anyway, in some parts of the world it still is yesterday so I guess we can cut him s...

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...

I am furious. No, that's an understatement. I am f*cking livid. YLM took Firstborn to the temple of corporate and dietary evil. But that's not the bad bit. I mean we did get take-outs once in the 4 years since her birth but only because there was no other available alternative at the time and I only let them eat chips. No, the mortal sin was that she let Firstborn eat a hamburger. My poor, innocent child that I try to keep nutritionally pure has been polluted. And I know that the only reason YLM went there was to satisfy her own weak and depraved appetite. She sacrificed our child's safety (nutritionaly speaking) to satisfy her own selfish desires. Surely that's child abuse. Firstborn got a happy meal that inluded a cheap, brightly coloured toy. Perfectly innocent you might say. But no, that's what they want you to think. The problem now is that firstborn will begin to associate McDonalds with pleasure, with reward. We are now on the slipery slope to chilhood obesit...

I received a bill from the taxman today. Barstards! Apparently, the bill was caused by an error in the IR's computer system that overpaid me for child tax credit. Idiots! I will have to pay the half-wits but will do so with much reluctance. What really gets me is that there are no longer any tax allowances for parents. Give us a break! We have less disposable income than people without children and receive no credit for the benefits that we are bringing to society. My annual childcare costs are equivalent to a reasonable pre-tax salary for a young single person. They make me so angry with their going out and having fun all the time while I sit at home cursing the price of babysitters and watching yet more repeats of Friends on the idiot box. Provided my children do not become hardened criminals - they do act like terrorists a lot of the time so its too early to say with total conviction - they should grow up to become tomorrow's doctors or lawyers and hopefully contribute to s...

The glorified dildoes are in full control of the blog this week. Can you just feel the groundswell among the MILF cognoscenti? I'm told that my heartfelt post--the one about kid 2--contained at least one self-centered, thoughtless observation. I described the upside of further procreation as follows: "A few years of discomfort and zero sex=a real family life with two sing-song voices little voices, another round of ballet recitals" etc. etc. To which Manhattan Mama was inspired to send this off-blog communication: "... have to add that it's more than a few years of discomfort. It's also more permanent stretch marks, weight gain, scars, needles in the spinal cord, surgery, enormous nursing bras--for some of us." No dispute on the accuracy of the "zero sex" aspect, btw. All true on her end of childbirth, I have to say. But it sounds like MM forgot this blog isn't really about her this week.

Sorry to butt in on your week of blog heaven boys, I know MM and I promised to keep away. We seem to be experiencing some technical problems with comment posting - in other words, it's up the creek. We are trying to figure out exactly what's going on - until then, please feel free to email us your comments and we will post them on the blog until the glitch is fixed. Hope you're enjoying the inner workings of our other halves. Just think, you only have to experience it for a week but we're looking at a lifetime...

I fear for the future of one half of the human race. Men's traditional role as sperm and money bank is under attack from all sides (although I'm sure you can guess which of my accounts gets the most use these days) and our place in society is looking more and more tenuous. Many err factors are conspiring so that within a couple of generations we will be on the trash heap just like last seasons' shoes or handbag. Whilst there may be a residual role for men as glorified dildoes - not needing batteries we are more environmentally friendly and cheaper if you discount the cost of beer - many of us won't meet the grade and will be cast out into the wilderness of celibacy and ginger birds. Gays will probably thrive as women will still need arm candy and someone to bore with stories of shopping, relationships (if such things still exist) and how their best friend is such a bitch etc. So what's feeding my paranoia? 1. Women can now fertilise their eggs and 'conceive'...

The three years and eight months A.R. (after Rabbit) have indeed gone by in a flash. As is the balance of what can be reasonably called my young adult life. I think I first met YLM and AM at 30; it seems like just a few years ago, but now 40 is starting to loom. Since any reference to Manhattan Mama's age--real or imagined--will earn me many moons on the couch, I'll leave that out of the equation. So here's the question that presses with greater urgency with each passing month. Call it the Kid 2 Conundrum. Every day I spend with the Rabbit brings sustained, powerful joy. But will she get a brother or a sister? Now that she's about to go into public pre-k, we've cleared the first big financial hurdle. She speaks. She reasons. She can eat demurely in restaurants. She's fit for polite company. She can be a smartass, but mostly she rocks and everyone loves her. We could stop now, enjoy it, and keep a toe in the unencumbered adult life this city is built for. Kid 2, ...

Once children arrive into the relatively closed-shop of the marriage / relationship life seems to speed up, accelerate. We get visibly older, seem to have less time to ourselves, weekend lie-ins disappear, sex (remember that?) is more hurried in case it is interrupted by the todler, everything becomes a frenetic race - for example, dressing both kids for school in the middle of winter becomes a military operation done at speeds that induce G-forces. You know what I mean? Life moves at a greater pace; offset slightly by the counterbalance of sleep deprivation and general fatigue which does its best to re-balance the the whole shooting match. You spend a whole Saturday racing around like a cut cat from venue to venue, squeeze in some food shopping, if you're lucky a shower or some other form of personal hygiene (for me deoderant and/or aftershave disguises the general pong), swimming pool, the park etc, etc. No wonder we need the working week to recover. At the time it feels all too ...

I've been criticized, parodied, given a sarcastic moniker--"the prince"--and now I'm being asked to participate in this year-long stream-of-consciousness rant. Given the readers of this blog no doubt also identify as "mothers on the verge," I can't imagine anyone here will have much interest in, say, the trick of keeping some semblance of male-ness in the Rite Aid while shopping for feminine hygiene products. Get ready MM and YLM, the site stats are about to take a plunge. Like Alpha Male, I'm a man living in a household of women. Unlike Alpha Male, it's still a one vs. two situation gender-wise. I bow down to AM for keeping it semi-together in a three-girl household. We'll go on a man-date later. In a nutshell, here's what MM can't stand about me: I don't do enough housework. I don't "see" the things that need to be done. I'm not nice enough on the phone when MM calls me to "talk" during the day. I don...

Surprisingly, the only kicking and screaming in the home today was the sound of me being dragged reluctantly to the laptop as a 'guest' of this blog. More like a bloody hostage. Someone call the police, I'm being held against my will! Oh well. I suppose that it will be a valuable opportunity for me to correct some of the libellous bile that has been spewed about me for the last 12 months. Actually, that would take more than a week to complete so I'll just have to do what I can to salvage some reputation. I guess I had better start by introducing myself. My name is 'alphamale' and I'm a father of two and husband of one. My name makes me sound like a cross between Victorian dad and the Incredible Hulk but in fact I'm just another down-trodden, emasculated father, so typical of our times. I am a mere sperm and money bank but more on that later. I live in London - without doubt the best city in the world starting with 'L' and I am still recovering fr...

The girls and I are in The Sunday Express magazine today. The interview and pictures happened such a long time ago I'd almost forgotten about it, so it was a bit weird to see myself and the girls grinning out of the page in lurid colour. It was even more weird to read what I had said to the journalist, although it does appear that I behaved myself and didn't say anything too inflammatory. I can't find the article online but will scan it in and post it here for all who may (or may not) be interested.

I am, literally, knee-deep in sh*t. Yep, the Small(er) One and I are embroiled in the potty wars. I'm no novice. Firstborn and I had a similar tussle a couple of years ago. At the time it felt as if the transition from nappy to knickers took forever but in hindsight it was no more than a (sometimes painful) month. So far, the Small(er) One has been potty training in one way or another since October last year - which admittedly has included more than a few false starts and some lengthy sabbaticals - and it seems the end is still nowhere in sight. The nursery has been brilliant. The enthusiasm! The cheering when the Small(er) One is cajoled into sitting on the potty for more than thirty seconds! The wild celebrations when she manages (generally due to luck and timing) to hit the mark! But sadly, after a week of success Firstborn suddenly decided the potty was the cause of all evil in her world and started to implement avoidance tactics. Inquiries as to the state of her bladder are n...

I'm off the wagon. Call my sponsor.

Enquiring minds are desperate to know! Well, YLM? Are you still in the wagon, or do we need to call your sponsor?

Come Monday (hmmm...) YLM and MM are turning Mothers over to ..... the male members of our group!! (Cue screams, shrieks, frightened gulps....) Oh yes, The Prince and Alpha Male will rule our blog for seven days provided (listen up boys...) they follow OUR rules. What, we wouldn't have rules? So we're counting down the days....and hoping our readers will help keep the male members in line. 1. No posting of pornography. Of any kind. If you think it might be considered pornography by your other half, it is. Oh yes, it is. 2. Write only about sex, and you'll prove us right. 3. If posting while inebriated use spell-check. We recommend this highly. 4. No posting of photos of yourself or various body parts. This is not Yahoo personals. 5. Do not flame our readers. However, they may flame you at will. Hey -- you agreed to this. 6. You must each post at least twice during the week. No, linking to your buddy's blog does not count. Or porn. (See Rule No. 1) 7. Think of our blog r...

Firstborn has turned into a teenager. She doesn't want to get up in the morning. She is in full-scale rebellion against her (quite reasonable, I think) 8pm bedtime. She wants to wear lipstick. She keeps trying to sneak out of the house wearing my high heels. She is desperate for her 'boobies' to grow. She tells me she can't wait until she's eighteen when she'll be The Boss. She won't leave the house unless her toenails are lacquered. She has a 'wardrobe crisis' every morning. When she doesn't get her way she runs sobbing to her room and throws herself onto the bed in anguish. She could quite happily spend hours on the phone giggling with her cousin. And her favorite song is 'Crazy' by Gnarls Barkeley. Yeah, I know, this all sounds quite normal for a teen. But the problem is that Firstborn is still (thankfully) most definitely pre-pubescent. In fact, the child has just turned four. I know they say that kids are growing up much quicker thes...

The whispers have started. It seems that the plot to blow up a number of planes over the Atlantic is no more than a cynical PR exercise cooked up by Bush n' Blair to draw attention away from the US and UK 'handling' of the Israel-Lebanon crisis. Aljazeera , somewhat unsuprisingly delighted to have the chance to cast aspersions, hectors: "Is it any surprise that the British intelligence chose to launch yet another absurd publicity stunt at such a critical time? And how long would the Western world believe such alleged "terror" plots uncovered by the secret intelligence agencies?" Is it any surprise that Aljazeera has jumped into the murky waters of conspiracy claims with such unabashed glee? Online Journal's excited twitterings are along the same lines, although it dares to go a few steps further than Aljazeera, claiming that: "British law enforcement; neocon and intelligence operatives in the United States, Israel, and Britain; and Rupert Murdo...

Well, I had hoped after my pathetic week-long (more, get real) avoidance of posting to write something more snarky, but given todays news I feel I can't. Now those who feel a need to blow up our airlines have used hair gels as a way to attack us. Just splendid. The stupid thing is, of course, that hair gel is so 1990s and that's why they got caught. Who wants crunchy stiff hair anymore? That would have been a tip-off to me. But now they've made it hard for us to even pack our lighter-weight stuff too. Truthfully? Terrible news. Great that they were able to capture the people that they could find. They should be sent home to their mamas, who would know exactly what to how to handle them. I know I would.

Grumpy, cross, fidgety, headache, tired and an inexplicable urge to spend money (successfully resisted). Grrr.

Today I quit drinking Diet Coke. Friends would say that I should worry more about my Marlboro Light consumption, but hey, battling one evil at a time is enough for me to cope with right now. So far, I have a headache, am in a foul mood (although as Alpha Male says, and what's so unusual about that?) and stomach ache; all or any of which may or may not be related to weaning myself off the fizzy stuff. The reasons I decided to stop my daily habit of pouring two/three/four or so cans down my throat are as follows: Diet Coke acts as a diuretic, which would explain why I often feel dehydrated. Plus dehydration means flaky skin and more wrinkles. Not good. Aspartame is getting more and more bad press. While many of the 'Aspartame is the root of all evil in the world' sites have a tendency towards the hysterical, I am also loathe to swallow the arguments of the other side - mainly because the argument that Aspartame is harmless is backed up by studies funded by, hey, you'll ne...

The Big Rumpus is released in the UK today under the title Mama Lama Ding Dong (Snow books), with Mothers on the Verge having the pleasure of kicking off the Ayun Halliday virtual book tour. Creator of underground parenting magazine The East Village Inky and author of No Touch Monkey!, Job Hopper, and Dirty Sugar Cookies, Halliday excels at pithy observations on daily life, centered around, as she puts it "the complex, absurd wondrousness of being the unpaid caregiver of small children". Dealing with issues as diverse as the pregnancy-hormone crazed and eggshell-paved spousal battleground of circumcision, trying to recreate Christmas past (the verdict: tricky at best), and the social integration of head lice, reading Halliday is like experiencing a fantasy booze-fuelled no-holds-barred night out with your similarly encumbered girlfriends, without a hint of English reserve (in YLM's case) or any of the social niceties (MM's). We think we love her. Here's the lo...

The Rabbit is set to start pre-K next year at a public school, and in a class -- so I thought -- with all her friends. In fact The Prince and I turned down her acceptance to one of the best public schools in the city (which we had to interview for -- can you believe this?) because we thought it would be more important to have her start her first real school experience with some children she knew. We get our letters in the mail today and I find that's she been tossed into some class where it looks like none of her friends are. And basically, upon opening the letter, my brains leaked from my head. I began to yell. And shout. And rave about being singled out (oh, yes me -- not The Rabbit. Yes, I am aware of the psychosis here....) And I called a mother who happens to be one of The Rabbit's friends mom and started swearing at her. I acted like someone needed to punch me in the face with a bullet of lithium and then cart me into a padded silent cell where I could chew on my bindings...

I have discovered a new vice. An ice-creamy, chocolatey, biscuity thing of extreme temptation with nutty bits; it is single-handedly responsible for making all my waistbands uncomfortably tight. The wondrous Maxibon is everywhere in Switzerland, but thankfully quite rare in London. It is currently ranking joint first with my other secret delight - the Reece's Peanut Butter Cup (again, thankfully rare in London. Phew.) The only issue I have is that the biscuit to chocolate ratio is a bit off - more lovely biccy please and less of the chocolate coating on the other end. Only then will I be truly happy (and much larger). Damn it, Maxibon, you will be my downfall.