mothers on the verge

I hate conflict. Odd that I would then choose journalism as a profession, yes? But truthfully where I come into most conflict? As a mother. Before The Kid was born I had learned to navigate potential minefields by spotting them miles ahead. I had a conflict radar eons wide and if I so much smelled a problem, I would dart the other way. I perfected a wide smile, a small laugh, was expert at changing subjects in group environments, and surgical with quips designed to deflect tension. Then The Kid was born and I discovered that her very existence attracted conflict like shark to chum. Having a child means engaging with other parents. And get a group of parents together and the needs that radiate from them are vibrant: Is my son reading level lower than his best friend? Will her teacher like her? How did their daughter get into that college? Do her parents like me ? These are often not topics that are dispelled with "Can you believe what Snooki did?" I find all of it dram...

Dear Kate, I didn't mean to take so long to write back. A whirlwind around here — some normal, some annoying. First, I'm thrilled to hear that Firstborn is loving school. That's ideal. Isn't it awful when you find you've entrusted your child to teachers, to a school, and find that they weren't really to be trusted in the first place? They don't get your child. They don't WANT to get your child. Basically, they've failed and you are left to pick up the pieces. Which you've done. And well. Today was a snow day, which means the Rabbit did not go to school. I should find this sort of thing exciting because I grew up without snow in Los Angeles. On a rare day we might be kept home because of brush fires (ash falling on the playground and that sort of thing.) or Noah-like rain storms. (Once, our car began to float down Sunset Blvd as my mother drove us to school. She regained tread and took us home.) Given the day off of school, the Rabbit had a mini-p...

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?

I pick the Rabbit up from school today -- last day. She comes running across the playground, tears streaming down her face, and falls in a crumple in my arms. I am consoling her when one of her teachers comes up and says, "We had a hard time today at the end of the day." We? I walk with her to a shady corner of the sidewalk and the Rabbit starts to tell me how her teacher screamed at her -- twice -- today. Once for talking to another girl when she was supposed to be listening to teacher, another time because she was looking for her sparkle paint in her book bag as they were lining up to go home. Now I agree that she needs to pay attention to her teacher, and line-up time is supposed to be quiet, and their hands at their side. But screaming? I don't think so. The Rabbit says, "And what I did didn't need screaming." Love it. On her last day. Had to make her cry. Because she wanted to make sure she had everything before she left, and tried to talk to a friend. ...

Yes, I am a bad blogger. I keep thinking about all the things I would like to write about, in fact I compose many (I fondly imagine) witty and insightful posts on the tube while being squished into a sweaty heap by all the other (larger and meaner) commuters, but with one thing and another they never actually make it onto the page. If only I could post directly via my brain I'd be OK. I've gone past being 'blah' and now have morphed into 'insanely busy' which means I don't have any time whatsoever to think about anything else except the next work deadline and trying to keep the kids clean, fed, watered, hugged and kissed, and dropped off at school or nursery on time. Sometimes when I have a few moments to kill I manage to wash their clothes and check their book bags for notes from school, which always feels like an astounding achievement. Sometimes I even manage to converse pleasantly and collapse in front of the telly with an equally exhausted Alpha Male. I...

Had a shitty week this week. It started with a letter arriving in the post. A normal, white envelope, like, so what? But this was no ordinary envelope, for it contained the key to freedom, the end of scrimping and saving to pay expensive private daycare fees, the answer to having to take two children to different schools at different ends of the borough every day of the week, a means for the girls to spend more time together - oh yes, this letter had been eagerly awaited for a while. This oh-so-important letter was from Firstborn's school in response to our application to get the Small(er) One into the nursery class at the same esteemed (and free state school) establishment. We were reasonably confident about it because we fulfil the top three criteria to get in - practicing Catholics in the parish, live in the area, and last but not least, Firstborn is already there and they have a sibling priority policy. BUT THE SMALL(ER) ONE WAS REJECTED! Yes, rejected, the utter tossing @*?$!!...