mothers on the verge

Firstborn started nursery this week. I drop her off on the first day, feeling oddly emotional; very odd considering that I've been eagerly anticipating this gift of two-and-a-half hours a day five days per week of relative peace and quiet. I watch as she races off to mix it up with the seething hordes. I watch jealously as another child sobs desperately, clinging to his mother's knees in terror, and has to be carried into the classroom kicking and screaming. Firstborn didn't even throw me the crumb of a backward glance! What have I been doing wrong to merit such callous treatment from my child? A tear wells up in the maternal eye. I peer through the glass doors hoping that Firstborn will suddenly realise that Mummy is being pathetic and rush over to give me a sympathy hug. No such luck, she's already knee deep in Playdough, grinning madly and tussling with a child twice her size. I trudge home, dejected and rejected. The Small(er)One is delighted to find herself with no

Firstborn has trailer trash taste. Basically, she's Dolly Parton's spiritual twin. I like to think that I am a reasonably tasteful, fairly stylish individual. Which is why is pains me so that my child will only wear pink, and preferably, the brightest, most eye-strain-inducing pink she can track down. If she had her way, Firstborn would only be seen in public looking like a Las Vegas showgirl - with extra sequins and a double helping of blue eyeshadow. Firstborn has a jewellery collection to rival Liz Taylor's, more handbags than I have in my wildest dreams, a pink ballerina outfit, a neon pink and lime fairy outfit, and a pink princess outfit. And then there's the shoes... Her favorite third birthday gift -given by a well-intentioned neighbour who has three daughters and is therefore an expert on what makes a little girl's heart beat faster- is a pair of plastic sparkly high heels with feather trim. As Firstborn eagerly unwrapped them her eyes became saucers and sh

The New York Times is doing yet another round of finger-pointing this morning with their story in today's Style Section attacking mothers and their Big Strollers. They know this is an instant button-pushers for readers -- what's going on Gray Lady-- not enough letters to the editor this week? Quote after quote from irritated people complaining of us mothers banging into them with our SUV-type strollers as if we proudly wield these monstrosities like some Kelly bag. What I want to know is this: Have they ever tried pushing one of these things down the street? Carry them down the subway stairs? On to a bus? Into a grocery store? Better: Fight their two-year-old who insists on pushing it themselves? A stroller is an instant symbol of ostracism. Sure, there are some who proudly push their $1000 prams in their Manolo Blahniks (oh yes, in NYC you see everything...) But for the most of us, we cringe when we have to pull our stained four-wheeler on to the sidewalk to mingle with the &q

The rabbit has discovered she likes to "clean." This means taking every wipe out of her diaper drawer and wiping everything she can find: her face, the goldfish, the toilet seat, the floor, my slices of apple (thankfully before I started to eat them.) Yesterday she decided to "clean" with my favorite summer top -- one of the few things I own that still has a shape to it, and allows me to resemble a non-mommy person. (Yes, this means no stains, no rips, and not so baggy that older ladies ask, gloating, "Is there another one on the way?" These are always the same women who pinch the rabbit's cheeks which causes her to growl like a half-mute....I actually encourage that...) When I finally wrestled it from her, she seemed genuinely perplexed as in "But why can't I mop the spaghetti sauce on the floor with your silk top?" I started to wish for her cousin's obsession with the vacuum cleaner. Of course, he tried to suck the fur off the famil

The Small(er) one used to eat everything, with a special talent for vegetable consumption. But now she's embarked upon a hunger strike. Actually, this is not strictly true. It's just that if it isn't a chocolate button, a piece of cheese, an orange, sweetcorn or an Innocent fruit smoothie then it won't gain access to the ever-screaming cavern that is her mouth. I guess that this isn't too dreadful. I imagine that most of the essential food groups are represented in this short list of foodstuffs, but being a neurotic, nervous and borderline insane (i.e. normal) mother, it worries me. I read an interview once about a boy who refused to eat anything except jam sandwiches for eighteen years and claims that he's never been ill. The accompanying picture was of a strapping lad with a ruddy complexion, but still... The days of being able to look pityingly upon other parents who's children refused to eat their greens is but a fond memory. Let that be a lesson to me.

1. The Small(er) one had such a screaming fit in the library that we were escorted from the premises by a grim faced librarian 2. Following our shameful exit from the library, it was discovered that my light fingered Firstborn had boosted a book on, of all things, Tantric sex. I'll take it back tomorrow, I promise... 3. The Small(er) One put half a tonne of her favorite toys down the toilet then screamed in anguish until I fished them out 4. Firstborn decided that the only fashion statement that would work for her today would be neon pink and lime, then screamed in anguish when I informed her that she would NOT be wearing her fairy outfit to nursery 5. The Small(er) One took her nappy off, played with her poo, screamed in anguish at the mess on her hands and legs (she's surprisingly fastidious sometimes), then screamed in anguish when I cleaned the mess up 6. Firstborn took over two hours to eat dinner, informing me it was "disgustin'" (i.e. not fish fingers), the

Let's get one thing straight. I love my children. They're my heart and soul. I adore them with every fibre of my being. But they also exasperate me, make me feel as if I'm about to go nuts, and make me want to shut myself in a dark room for hours. I used to wonder why we can't do the running through a meadow, laughing, enjoying each others' company and larking about with our hair blowing in the wind, like they do in the perfume ads. The grim reality is that whenever we try to lark about in a meadow (or rather the park, meadows being in short supply in London), one of the children is whining, the other is having a tantrum, and I am shouting at them to be quiet and stop screaming / whingeing/ rolling about on the floor in a rage because we are here to have FUN for goodness sake and by God that is what we are going to do if it kills me. I also used to wonder why looking after children left me feeling shattered at the end of each day. Am I incompetent? Am I not cut out

Today is day four of my 2 year old daughter's nap strike. I've fulfilled 6 "cold, COLD water" requests, four wails from finding a "mama hair" on her pillow, and several whimpers for more string cheese from her bed. A twicth that appeared under my left eye last night has migrated to my right. My mother says she may just be ready to "end her naps." Yeah? But what if I'M not?? I finally went into her room this afternoon, reduced to shouting this was the LAST time I was coming in with a nap-time snack, when she looked at me, put her finger to her lips and said, "Shhhh, Mama. I'm trying to sleep."

The Small(er) One started walking properly this week. She's been 'walking' for a while, which meant clinging to my finger and dictating that I support her efforts from here to there for at least 99% of her waking day. Yeah, that was fun, especially when a polite request from me for a toilet break was invariably met with bellows of rage, promptly followed by a chubby little body writhing on the floor in anguished abandon. But now The Small(er)One has discovered that it's much more fun to do this thang on an independent basis - basically, that she can get up to all kinds of enjoyable destruction when my back is turned. So far this has involved reassigning the contents of the kitchen cupboards to the washing machine. I'm not complaining as it keeps her quiet for hours...although I wasn't too happy when I missed a pack of instant oatmeal before putting the laundry on to boil wash. Firstborn is finding it all kind of hard to deal with. Imagine, for the past three yea

1. Drew on my newly upholstered cream armchair in blue biro 2. Smeared a purloined pot of Vaseline on the sofa 3. Got into the cupboard, emptied the Cornflakes onto the floor and then paddled in them 4. 'Weeded' the garden (i.e. pulled all the flowers out and left the weeds) 5. Told the man in the Corner Shop that he has "funny pointy teeth" (he has, it's true, but still...) 6. Had a tantrum in Woolworth's when I refused to buy Fairy Princess Barbie 7. Hid Fairy Princess Barbie in the bottom of the pushchair when I wasn't looking, which resulted in an unpleasant incident with the shop security guard 8. Painted toenails, fingernails, legs, hands and my white duvet cover with Maybelline Lilac Lightening nail polish - ever tried to get nail polish off soft-soft toddler skin without ending up in casualty? No, me neither 9. Hosted a mud party in the garden with the next-door neighbour's children as guests of honour; my patio looked like a re-enactment of th