mothers on the verge

I wrote before that The Prince and I are going through a rough time right now. No specifics -- and not about us. (and not about our health, or The Rabbit's, for which, yes I am extremely grateful.) I actually feel good about how strong we are together when we hit times like this. We may squak and squabble with the best of them. But when it gets really tough, (and this is tough), we really meld together, knowing without saying when it's the other's turn for a shoulder to lean on. In the past 2 weeks -- just before all this happened -- and since I have been noticing butterflies. Single orange butterflies just flying usually a bit above my head and then disappearing. I saw one picking up The Rabbit at her school yesterday in the playground. Another as we were walking as a family last weekend. And so forth. It's happened about 4-5 times. Now I've seen butterflies before. We've even raised a few crews in our place and released them. (Amazingly fun.) But even before ...

As I'm pouring my second cup of coffee this morning I hear a "clip, clop, clippity, clop" sound from my kitchen window, and look up to see one of New York City's finest (read: cop) in a fine cantor on a horse making their way down the block. And then he was gone, a car honked trying to pass a taxi that had stopped in the middle of the street to pick up a fare, and the city went back to its soot and gray, although with a tiny bit of glitter winking in its corner.

I did something a little strange on Saturday morning. Something a little unlike me. Something a teeny bit insane. Saturday morning. I got up. I put my trainers and joggers on. I went to the City and gathered with hundreds of other runners. Then I got dressed up in a gorilla suit and did a 7k circuit of the City of London for the Great Gorilla Run . I walked, I ambled, I limped, and then I finally ran in a suitably face-saving show-off manner for the last quarter of a mile. (But before you scoff, please bear in mind that over the past decade I have done nothing more taxing than run to the bus stop. I obviously had to keep my health at front of mind). I learned a few things: 1. Furry gorilla suits are unbearably hot and itchy, and not designed for anything more than a slow amble (especially on an unusually hot day in late September) 2. I am shamefully unfit 3. In fact, everyone else is in better shape than I am (especially all my colleagues who pelted, excuse the pun, to the finish li...

For a variety of reasons I am feeling very out of sorts -- and suspect I will for awhile. No I am not pregnant. Not it has nothing to do with trying to be pregnant -- which we're not trying. (That was for any friends who may be reading and wondering and would pepper me with questions that I just feel too exhausted to answer.) I will say that at times like this I am so grateful for the friends I have, for my sister, for people who let me repeat myself many many times in a row and don't say, "hey you're repeating yourself." I also love having this blog. Because while I know you will all read this and go, "Ugh. She's writing one of those bummer of an entries and WON'T TELL US ANY OF THE JUICY DETAILS!!" I still like thinking some of you are reading and saying, "Hey. Been there. Ate the pint (or two of ice cream). Know how you feel. And know it will pass." Even if you don't write it. So, thank you.

Oh horrors. The fall fashion pages are full of coloured tights. Coloured tights! Agh ! I remember those from the first time round (sadly, a recurring theme as I sail perilously close to my mid-thirties). And I remember them with serious misgivings. Coloured tights is not a look that can be carried off by normal folk. They only work if you are under 21, have legs like twigs and the sort of panache that enables you to carry off a quirky look. If, like me, 21 is a distant memory, you have legs like a Shetland pony, and wearing anything other than black (except in the height of summer) makes you feel foolish in the fear that you look slightly insane rather than delightfully kooky, then I beg you to steer clear. The only pleasing aspect of this latest resurrection of the fashion disasters of my youth is that this time round the tights are opaque rather than see-through. I still shudder at the memory of my appearance at the school disco with legs clad in bright red 15-deniers, feeling prett...

The Rabbit's shyness has morphed from cute when she was 2, to sightly irritating now that she's nearly 5. It can be very frustrating when she won't say good morning to friends, parents, even her teachers — and I have to bite my tongue to stop from pushing her. I remember too well feeling so shy as a child I didn't want to raise my hand in class to call attention to myself. Maybe I slipped some of that genetic code to her. And maybe it will take her 30+ years to learn that the world is not actually populated by wolves trying to trip you up. (Okay, 99% of the world.) So this morning's Op-Ed in The New York Times on shyness in children and the urge to medicate it was fascinating to me. I never have once even considered having The Rabbit medicated — nor even thought what she was experiencing was anything other than, well, shyness, and therefore not even necessary to bring up with her doctor. While there are children with serious illness who do need to be medicated, I w...

Now Honest to Goodness, living breathing Manhattan (S)Mothers will be viewable in YOUR OWN PERSONAL LIVING ROOM! This press release flew right into someone's e-mail box just moments ago and I had share with my fellow Mamas. When it goes live, I'll try and give readers a heads up so we can watch the TRAIN WRECK as it HAPPENS!!!! (I swear, I did not make this up, though, hell, I wish I had): BRAVO STARTS PRODUCTION ON NEW DOCU-DRAMA "MANHATTAN MOMS" NEW YORK - September 20, 2007 - Bravo announced the start of production on its new docu-drama "Manhattan Moms" (working title), a series following an eclectic group of Gotham socialites and their families. From their over-scheduled Manhattan lives of private schools, charity events and running businesses, to escaping to their summer homes in the Hamptons, the series will take a look at this particular cultural milieu and the real-life drama of Manhattan's exclusive society. The announcement was made by France...

Is there anything more humiliating than jeans shopping? No, I mean that honestly. Really. Because if there is, I have yet to endure it. And I'm not talking about actually trying them on at the store. No. That's cool. I'm talking about trying them on for The Prince and then having to endure the, "Can I try them on?" Oh yes. This is what comes of living with a man whose waist is my hip size. Which means, since I like to wear them low, and I don't know, be able to BREATHE....my jean size. (And no we're not talking 32...he'd think blubber had landed on his back if he had to wear a 32.) Either he starts eating more ice cream. Or I just stop eating.

Faithful readers of MOTV will possibly remember a post a while back where we tried to get Britney's back (a bit) for all the attacks on her. While YLM and I would never, could never, imagine porting our babes in a car without a car seat, I do believe that if a camera were trained on me 24/7, (and I had any ounce of People magazine worthiness) they would certainly come up with some tasty tidbits to splash across the pages. The latest attack has come from Britney's, shall we say, performance on the MTV Music Video Awards. (Disclosure: I once worked for this enterprise in my other life.) And a performance it was. I finally decided I needed to see what the row was about and watched a streaming video of the act today. My opinion? You Go Girl. Yes, she lip syncs. (Uh, hello J-Lo, Beyonce, me...) Yes, she's been handling her mom, custody battle, underwear needs, photo shoots, friends, people, badly. (Very badly. Britney, honey, please call Jodie Foster and let her give you some gu...

Principal and assistant principal walking through hallways of school this morning, chatting and laughing. Principal says something, smiles. Assistant principal says, "Shuut Up!" Both laugh and walk past classroom on the way to try on jeans together.

I swear I don't know why I do this to myself (sure I do, I'm insane.) but I am going to try and trek out to the first PTA night at The Rabbit's school tonight. I know I'm going to hate it. I know it's going to be boring. I know I'm going to feel uncomfortable ("why won't that mom sit with me!") but I also just want to know what is going on with this school. The Prince brings the Rabbit to school every morning, and somehow has missed the schedule posted to the door out front, as well as the day for curriculum night, etc. Picking her up at school, I get to see the playground, and a lovely smile, but just a smile, from her teacher. I am far too curious (read: neurotic) to have this limited amount of information. So off tonight I go to the Parents Torture Association meeting. Did I say that?

Tonight was a movie, picnic dinner night. The Prince picked up some take out tidbits from Whole Foods (scary how much I love this place), and the three of us settled in to watch "The Last Mimzy." Yes, I know it's a little scary. Yes, I know it's based on a short story that's even scarier. But it's also a fairly amazing movie that has The Rabbit asking about genes, DNA and triangles. Until...night time comes. Bath time goes well. Book time? Lovely. We sing, we snuggle, we turn out the lights...and the shadows appeared. After the third request for "one last snuggle," I finally pry from The Rabbit that she just doesn't want to sleep in her room. Doesn't understand why she has to sleep alone when daddy and mommy get to sleep together. She's too young to understand that sheer joy of sleeping alone in a room, solo in a bed, able to twist and turn to your delight. Nor does she have any siblings to understand the sheer joy of knowing when you le...

Can someone explain to me how we are supposed to ever purchase toys for our children again that aren't handmade by the Amish in Ohio? (Note: a friend recently purchased some of those tin stars all over barns in Ohio....and found small "Made in China" stickers all over them...) With the recent recall again today from Mattel about excessive lead levels in paint, I have hit my limit. Already we've purged Thomas the Train , and The Rabbit's beloved Dora . We don't have any Barbie (yet, I'm sure) but with art kits from Toys 'R' Us recently added to the list, I have no clue what could be a potential poison pitfall lurking in her bedroom. We were recently sent replacement trains from RC2, which manufactures Thomas....but I stared at the bright red paint, now seemingly (allegedly) fine, and thought, "Sorry. Just can't trust your word anymore over my daughter's safety." And out they went. Again. I am one Mama, who has already announced ...