mothers on the verge

First off, I need to admit that I volunteered for all of this. Yes, I agreed, willingly, with enthusiasm to bake 6 dozen cupcakes, make 72 trick or treat bags (with curly ribbons) and bake 4 dozen sugar cookies to look like pumpkins (which I just finished) for the Halloween party that I assume the rabbit, just shy of her third birthday, will never remember. Forget I have a rewrite due on a feature, several deadlines for other pieces, nor even attempted to squeeze into my exercise clothes once in the past 2 weeks. I bounded into the party room this evening, oh so proud of my party bags and cupcakes -- and did anyone bat an eye? Of course not. The (s)mothers are too smart. Their cookies have little pumpkins baked in the middle -- in perfect orange. They think the trick or treat bags are, well, a little excessive ("Don't we have ENOUGH sugar for them, already?") I should know better. I lost my date at the prom. Have never attended a high school ruin-ion. I guess I thought I

Last week heralded a new era in the Yummy London Mummy household. I've been working as a freelance PR consultant for a while, mainly on a part-time basis, sometimes full-time, but always with an end date in sight and often from home. While I've enjoyed the flexibility and autonomy of freelance work, I've also missed many of the things that come with working for a company. I've always known that when I went back into full-time permanent work it had to be with the right PR agency. And by that I don't mean the biggest international most-soul-sucking spin machine I could find, I mean a company that works to a similar ethos to mine; no-bullshit PR delivered with passion, intelligence and a sense of humour. So I was quite happy to wait, thinking that if it took me six months to find the right role in the right company it wouldn't be much of an issue. As it turned out, the job hunt picked up speed as soon as I started putting myself out there. The first company I inter

We are in the throws of potty-training. The rabbit is succedding nicely -- however she has been prone, a bit, to 'holding it in" -- at least on the poop side of things. Unsure what to do after three days of abstaining, I called my sister in a panic. She recommended taking one of the rabbit's thermometers, rubbing some Vaseline on it and, yes, trying to loosen things up. The rabbit needless to say was not thrilled. And while it did the trick, she has understandably developed a horror of the "tamometer." We are again back to square one. Three days out and nada. This morning as we stood in line at the post office, she howled out, "I don't WANT to go poop! I don't WANT to go pee! I don't want a tamometer in my bootie!" Nice. Nothing like giving your neighborhood ammunition for the "bad mommy" looks.

Today Yummy London Mummy braves a, well, brave new world, and begins her new gig in the full-time work universe where nappies/diapers, poos and tantrums over the television (ok, telly), are not the stuff of daily chatter. (Well, at least not before a few drinks....) So in honor of this day, HER day, we say: You represent! We raise our juice boxes high in your honor! (and expect a full accounting as soon as the shock of being able to use the potty, er, ladies room(!) without someone else peering into the bowl, sinks in....) From those of us who have been there, juggling babes and boardroom, and are on what we like to call "our office hiatus," we're impressed with your fearlessness. And keep a seat warm, because we're certain we'll be jumping back in with you in short order. For today, cheers on us!

The rabbit has taken to calling me Hootchie Mama. I'm not sure I should be offended because I don't even know if she understand what it means -- nor does my usual costume of jeans, black or gray sweater and boots fall into Hootchie territory. Of course this summer I did decided to stock up on camisole tops which I wore with abandom after spending summers in this ferociously hot city sweltered in long-sleeved T's. But after passing 35, I decided to try and give up some of my angst about my not so perfect arms, and stomach, and well everything. (although tip for the day: Pilates is a miracle cure for anything jiggling in the mid-section. You think you may throw up mid-class, but the results are better than my years of running, swimming, treadmills, etc...) Anyway, so I started wondering...did a s(mother) on the playground hint at my attire and the rabbit picked up on the word? She seems to think it's cool, and loves to sing about her Hootchie Mama while she draws. It hasn

Yesterday was meant to be a civilised day. Firstborn's Godfather, aka Big G, kindly invited us to accompany him to the Victoria & Albert Museum followed by afternoon tea at Claridge's. Big G is about to take off for sunnier shores for a few months so we thought we'd better get in some quality time together before he goes. Plus, Big G and I liked the idea of playing at being grown-ups for the day. Firstborn was beside herself with excitement. The prospect of spending the day with Mummy without the bullying presence of the Small(er) One was enough to send her into orbit, let alone the promise of public transport (she has a bus fetish) and endless cake. Also, she likes Big G because he swings her in the air and gives her chocolate - both essential in order to get into Firstborn's good books. So we get to Knightsbridge and go to Big G's office - Big G works for a well-known fine art auctioneers so the reception is rather swanky, very quiet and filled with people gli

Firstborn likes to state the obvious. On Friday, the fifth of what feels like a thousand nannies arrives at our humble hovel for her interview. As usual, Firstborn bounces to the door, opens it and shouts out a cheery greeting. I smile, say hello, apologise about the state of the house (two small children imprisoned inside all day = utter chaos), and lead her into the sitting room. Prospective Nanny takes off her jacket. Firstborn's eyes widen, she points a finger at the girl and squeals, "You're wearing a pink shirt!" The nanny smiles and says, "Yes, I am." Firstborn's eyes take on an evil glint as she bellows, "You've great great big pink boobies!" I try not to laugh. I fail miserably. Firstborn and I are practically rolling on the floor crying with laughter. Prospective Nanny looks at us with incomprehension. I apologise and start the interview. But I cannot stop starting at her breasts. They are truly gigantic. They are huge pink mounds

Why is it that... At the age of twenty, I looked better naked than clothed - and yet I had no confidence in my physical appearance? But now, at the age of thirty-two and after two children, I look better clothed than I do naked - and yet, somehow, I've got huge amounts of confidence... both in body and in soul? It's a mystery to me.

I have a herd of (s)mothers that live in my building. They are very dangerous. They look like you and me. They dress the same as well, have even learned the lingo, but lurking deep inside are frightening beasts that will turn you into fearful shivering insecure mamas if you're not careful. Their two favorite subjects? School and Baby No. 2 I do live in Manhattan. Private school is about as expect in most circles as proper shoes and handbags. I have neither. So I believed I was free from the whispers that ignite about this time of year on the playgrounds in the city. The rabbit is going to public school. I am a product of its system as is my husband --- although neither of us grew up in NYC. (Me? California. The Prince? Washington, DC). We both finished school with advanced degrees, can match our socks and use a fork. Done. Scene 1: I am pushing the rabbit on the swings. A (s)mother asks me innocently, 'So have you applied for schools yet?" I answer, "Oh, I'm doing

Tonight I was at home doing a little online grocery shopping... (of course it takes me just as long sitting at the computer as it would to just walk down the street and grab some goods there...) So I'm musing about a dinner I am making for the Prince's friends on Friday and say, 'well, maybe if I'm home in time I could make an apple pie' and he gets that look in his eye as he leans in for a grope. What IS it about homemade baked goods that gets them going? The mommy thing, right? I gave him a swift kiss and ran down to the laundry. Sometimes a moment alone with the spin cycle is where I finally get a chance to unwind. The Prince will still be hungry when I get upstairs, and at least by then, I'll be a bit more fluffed myself.

At breakfast this morning, Firstborn, taking a break from smearing porridge in her hair, announces; "Mummy, I sit next to Freddy at school. He's my best friend." "That's nice, darling," I say, slightly distracted by Alpha Male bitching about my credit card bill (doesn't he realise that the purchase of new shoes is an essential part of my psychological well being???) "Freddy likes playing ships," she continues. "That's lovely," I say. "Do you play ships too?" Firstborn shakes her head, "No. I can't play ships. I'm a girl." I'm astounded, "What?" "I'm a girl," Firstborn explains patiently, rolling her eyes at my stupidity. "Girls don't play with ships. Girls play with dolls and pink things." Oh. My. God. So much for feminism.

The Prince is obsessed with MILFs. Yes, Mother's I'd Love to F**K. Don't get me wrong. I like to believe I'm a bit MILFY myself... But last week, he returned from the playground with the rabbit to tell me who, this week, has been looking kind of MILFY. My vanity took a hit as did my sense of comradery. In other words, who were these other mothers, why were they looking better than me, and what in the world is he doing comparing other women to porn? So, the next day I checked the history on my browser and sure enough, a smattering of MILF sites appeared. Okay, I know he checks out online porn on occassion -- but on my computer?? Where I work? Sure, I'm glad he's looking at home instead of elsewhere -- but maybe he should use his Powerbook next time. Not mine.

I'm going back to full-time work in a couple of weeks. I'm very excited - it's a great role with a great company and I know I'm going to enjoy it a lot . The only problem is finding a nanny. Actually, the problem is that Alpha Male is trying to get involved with finding a nanny. And his requirements are very different from mine. I'm sitting at the kitchen table going through a big pile of CVs when Alpha Male ambles over and asks what I'm doing. "Sorting through the nanny CVs", I tell him. "Excellent!" he says. Then he pulls out a chair and starts to comment on my short-list. "We can't have her, she'll give the children nightmares," he says of the first one, squinting at the attached picture. I sigh. "But she's perfect," I point out."Look at her experience, it's brilliant. Plus she has first aid training, lists her interests as finger-painting and baking cakes, and she can drive." "No way,&quo

A friend of mine had a baby two weeks ago. It wasn't the easiest birth so she still feels as if she's been run over by a truck, and to top it off she's got mastitis. Last night her husband was up for some fun and games. She politely refused and explained that she couldn't for the next four weeks - on doctor's orders. Then she told him that even if she could, she was in so much pain and so exhausted that she wouldn't be in the mood. And he said, "Yeah, but that doesn't stop you from giving me a blow-job, does it?" This is the guy who refused to sleep with her for the last three months of the pregnancy (when she was feeling at her most frisky) because it "made him feel weird, knowing that there's a baby in there, and what if I damage it?" Like, get real, if your d*ck was that big you'd have a front page splash on the National Enquirer. No, she hasn't left him... yet.

Before I had Firstborn, I had dumb notions fixed in my (admittedly pregnancy-impaired) brain. NOTION 1: Alpha Male and I, leaning over the side of the cot, gazing upon our pink and chubby baby, sunlight streaming through the window bathing everything with a magical glow. Alpha Male looks at me, smiles tenderly, and says, "Thank you darling. Thank you for making my life complete." THE REALITY: Alpha Male and I standing on opposite sides of the room, our ears vibrating from the noise emenating from our Munch-mouthed red-faced baby. The streetlamps outside cast a urine-yellow glow. Alpha Male glares at me, hollow-eyed, and says, "I have to get some sleep! Can't you f*cking well do something?" NOTION 2: Alpha Male and I, our relationship taken to a new and glorious level by the merging of our genes, go out for a romantic dinner while a family member babysits. We have a wonderful evening, flirt madly with each other, then walk home hand-in-hand feeling satisfied t

It's true. She's a genius. How do I know this? No, not because I've had her assessed by MENSA - come on, I'm not some pathetic parental cliche - but because I went through the potty training experience with her. Firstborn initially liked the whole potty training drama. She liked her new pink potty (yep, her obsession with all things pink started early), thought it was a great place to stash her toys, and since she's a bit of a nudist the pants-off scenario suited her just fine. We had the occasionally soggy carpet to contend with (much to Alpha Male's horror - I've always suspected that he harbours a mild case of OCD) but apart from that Firstborn took to weeing in the potty with great enthusiasm. But poos? No way. I tried everything - I morphed from understanding Mummy into sad Mummy, from insane Mummy to annoyed Mummy, angel Mummy to monster Mummy - I did the lot. But whatever I did, there was no way that this child was going to poo anywhere except in her

I hated being pregnant. Really hated it. It was exciting for about one minute when I initially looked at that emerging little pink line. Then I descended into pregnancy hell. I wish that I could have been the kind of pregnant woman who wafts about glowing, with shiny hair, a madonna-like expression and a cute well-formed bump. I was the opposite. Four months of constant morning sickness gave me a green-hued pallor, lank hair and a permanently grumpy expression. And since the only respite from the constant nausea came from cramming packs of biscuits, toast, cake and chocolate into my ever-ready mouth, it also made me extremely fat. The only cravings I had were for hydrogenated vegetable oils, and lots of it. As soon as the sickness left, the misery arrived. Tears streamed down my face at every opportunity. It was like never-ending PMS. Then I got Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, oedema and strained ligaments in my groin... nice. I am possibly the only woman ever who positively looked forward to

I told the Small(er) One off this morning for throwing porridge at the ceiling. Firstborn threw her arms around the Small(er) One, glared at me reproachfully and bellowed, "Mummy! She's only a baby!" Then they both gave me the hairy eyeball and trotted off hand in hand, no doubt to plot evil doings upon this household. Oh, how the worm has turned...

Firstborn has decided that she's a kangaroo. This new identity first emerged yesterday teatime. Since then it has escalated rapidly. I made the mistake of calling her by her name at bedtime. "Mummy?" "Yes darling?" "I'm a 'roo." "That's nice sweetie" "NO!" shouted, "I AM NOT A SWEETIE! I AM A 'ROO!" "Oh, OK." "MUMMY! You have to call me Mr 'Roo." "Oh, sorry, OK." "Mummy. You're a silly sausage." "Yes, sugar, I am." "NOOOOO!!!!! MUMMY!!!! Mr 'ROO! NOT sugar!" I wanted to suggest that kangaroos do not bellow at their mothers at the top of their voice and go red in the face with rage, but on balance, I decided that silence was the only possible option in the face of such bloody-mindedness. Firstborn hopped all the way to nursery this afternoon. She would have hopped all the way home as well except that exhaustion overtook her. Then she ins

The rabbit has a favorite toy: a rubber snake. Her grandparents were trying to buy her a fluffy penguin after a trip to the Central Park Zoo. But she shook her head calmly and said, "Snake" as she pointed to the green creature. "WHACK" goes the snake as it is flung against the couch, the wall, the fence near our apartment and the back of the legs of little old ladies in our neighborhood. (There are many to choose from.) This is a very enjoyable sport and usually is followed by a lady squealing in mock horror at the rabbit, "Ohh! A snake! I'm scared." To which the rabbit rolls her eyes in the back of her head and smiles her "Demon Baby" grin. We don't have any idea where she picked up Demon Baby. We've asked --- she just smiled. Now, as one who has an unnatural attraction to horror films, who has seen The Exorcist too many time to count (yes, even the Director's Cut), I have to admit I'm a little unsettled. Today I put her in a

Tonight as I am rubbing the latest cream into my face in effort to stave off the inevitable — and to hopefully look like a young mama as the rabbit gets older — I stupidly read the back ingredients. "Human Fibroblast Conditioned Media." I'm a curious character and so I decide to Google the ingredient that is allegedly going to eliminate the physical evidence of the years of exhaustion already etched on my skin. And what does the Internet tell me? That "human fibroblast conditioned media" is a derivative of newborn cells from foreskins. Yep. From circumcision to a beauty bottle near you. So here's the scary part: I can't decide whether to throw it out or not.

The first part of new six-year UK study by childcare expert Penelope Leach and the FCCC (Families, Children and Child Care) was formally presented yesterday at a National Childminding Association conference. The six-year study finds that young children of up to the age of 36 months not primarily cared for by their mothers tend to have slower social and emotional development, and are also more likely to be aggressive, withdrawn and sad. Mothers, it seems, are the best at providing the high levels of response and sensitivity that infants and toddlers need. While Leach singles out group nursery care as having the greatest negative impact on child development due to low staff:toddler ratios, registered childminders or qualified nannies are deemed to be the next best thing to stay-at-home mums. Interestingly, children cared for by close relatives were found to be at more of a disadvantage than those looked after by professional one-on-one carers. My concern is that the findings of this stu

Halfway through our Sunday lunch of sausages and mash, Firstborn pipes up, "Mummy, Archie showed me his billy." "Oh?" I say, "that's nice, darling." Firstborn continues, "Mummy, why don't I have a billy?" Alpha Male asks, "What's a billy?" "No idea," I reply. "A billy, Mummy," Firstborn says, her voice loaded with scorn, "is what boys do a wee-wee out of. Don't you know that Mummy?" It turns out that the highlight of my daughter's first week at nursery was being flashed at. It's a premonition of what the future holds. Alpha Male is furious. "Little prick!" he bellows. Never was a wiser word said.