mothers on the verge

I realise that me going on about work is generally of little interest to anyone except myself, my colleagues and my clients, but I just can't help myself. My job, while pretty full-on, usually involves a host of mundane stuff - namely dreaming up ways in which to fill the blank spaces in powerpoint presentations and calling it strategy, placating clients, drinking a lot of Diet Coke and sneaking outside for the odd crafty ciggy. So the fact that I am slap bang in the middle of a couple of really odd weeks seems quite fascinating. To me, anyway. Upon uttering anything to do with work at home, Alpha Male's eyes immediately glaze over. There is one notable exception - last week's 'naked boobie shot'. This was one job where he was suddenly and inexplicably keen to discuss the exact technical details of exactly how the strawberries were balanced on the model's breasts. (As I explained to him at the time, I don't really get his Sapphic love obsession; if I decided

It's hot and huumid, and I just wrote 2800 words for a story due this week. I have to pick up The Rabbit, drop off the dry cleaning, stop by the grocery store and find something to slop together for dinner. My shirt is stretched out, I don't even know where my lipstick is. A fly the size of a kumquat just attacked me, and I have callouses on my feet that have measurable depth. My brain is fried, my hair kinked out into snarls and my breath corrupted from too much coffee. I need a pedicure. I need screens on my windows. I need a popsicle. I need a fairy godmother. All reasonable applicants considered.

At long last, some of the results of the balancing-fruit-on-model-mammaries slog of last week: click here to see what I do for a living (and no I'm NOT the girl in the picture, sadly) or here Hurrah. My ass is not grass. And even though I realise that my job is a little ridiculous (in the great scheme of things), I am still rather foolishly pleased... But one of the many pleasures of having children is the fact that they keep things in perspective. I got home tonight and proudly showed displayed a copy of the Express, one of the bigger bits of coverage. Firstborn giggled, "That silly lady has strawberries on her boobies!" while the Small(er) One simply looked bemused.

Tonight we were scheduled to have some people stop by for dinner. Once The Rabbit stepped into the picture, it became tremendously easier to have people at our place than pay a babysitter $50 and go out for dinner. We even decided for tonight to made it super simple and order take-out. Although that didn't stop me from scrubbing the apartment for 3 hours last night and doing 6 loads of laundry until 1 am so we'd have tonight free. Our "guests" were supposed to leave their weekend place around noon, and be in town by about 7/8 pm -- but at 3 pm we got a call: "Too tired, left too late. Not coming. Will call in some weeks and reschedule." Hmm....how about when you didn't leave at noon, calling us then? And in "some weeks?" I know stuff comes up. Believe me. I get that people have to cancel. But this just felt so cavalier. Since when did having a kid make me third-tier on the social strata? There's some terrible sickness that seems to have be

The Blue Angels (the military's sky flying tricksters) are gracing Gotham today. I live just near the East River and they're putting on a show this morning -- I believe because it's Fleet Week. Or at least there are an awful lot of sailors showing their colors on the city streets in the last few days. I love that the city gets the honor of seeing the show from our own livingroom windows: but I am embarrassed to say that everytime the jets zoom by, and I hear the thunder scream as they approach, my body starts reacting like it did nearly five years ago on 9/11. I lived ten blocks that morning from the towers and watched it unfold from my roof top. I don't want to waste too much space chatting about it again, but I guess my body isn't exactly over it, per se. Not exactly the most positive thing for a lovely blue, puffy white Spring morning, but I just to get it out there. (And yes, I've cut off my caffeine IV this morning!)

Over the past few weeks I've been booking our trusty babysitter for a few d/hate nights with The Prince. In the past, this hasn't gone over so well. The last "d/hate night" ended up as a foursome -- me and two of his buddies heading off to a Brooklyn birthday party and having a quick drink before we took the 45 minute cab ride home. Granted I didn't handle myself so well (Hiding my anger isn't one of my best skills), but I couldn't understand how a night planned for dinner and drinks solo ended up as a group activity. At one point I even took a separate subway car from The Prince and his buddy and actually had a great chat with some baggy-jeaned teen playing 'Grand Theft Auto' on his PSP. He showed me how to play it, super nice guy -- very fun. That was about the most attention I got all night. Last night I informed The Prince that I had a babysitter booked for Saturday night June 3 -- and that baring death of anyone in the IMMEDIATE family, we wer

Just to say apologies to anyone who we usually link to. We are undergoing new template teething problems, which means we've lost our blogroll and a few other essentials, but hopefully it will be business as usual soon.

It's rare that I blog about work, but I had a bit of an odd day today. Come to think of it, a very odd day. Sometimes my job throws up some wierd stuff. Like the time I had to go around all the magazine houses in London accompanied by an angel (actually, a male model dressed as an angel, who had to be smothered in glittery body lotion prior to the event - yes, by my own two hands - and who complained bitterly all day about the fact that his wings hurt). Or the time I had to look after five journalists at a music festival; they dropped acid as soon as we arrived and talked bollocks for the duration, then dropped more acid on the bus home and had to be carried to their front doorsteps. Or the time I took half the editorial team of a big UK lad's magazine to Belgium; the features editor spent the entire weekend in his hotel room and came to blows with the hotel manager when he tried to leave without paying his porn channel bill. Yes, I have many stories, but nothing felt quite as

It's fundraising time at The Rabbit's nursery school -- planned for the last 3 months by an intrepid bunch of (s)mothers who I swear make me twitch every time I am around them. At one meeting I was asked point blank "What do you do and what can you get for free?" Uh...how 'bout nothin'. Does nothin' work? I admit. I am not very good at asking for donations. What I have done though? I have baked cookies for endless bake sales (as readers of Mothers know....), sold hundreds of dollars worth of scary chocolates that were probably made in 1999, and brought umpteen snacks, donated art supplies, etc... for her class and her school. But did I get a credit on the little booklet that has been emailed to us all? Nope. Only the (s)mothers who actually contributed to this specific event got their snippy names in print. Forget the Mothers who baked the Cookies that paid for the Coffee the (s)mothers drank while they all congratulated themselves for planning the event.

I love summer. I truly, wholeheartedly love summer. I love being able to sit outside in the evening with a glass of wine and a cigarette (yes, my hideous vice, no lectures please, I've heard them all and I will, I will give up, just not right now...). I love being able to leave my thermal vest, jacket, hat, gloves and random shivering in the wardrobe, not to resurface for MONTHS. I love wearing t-shirts and forgetting about socks. I love the fact that the days extend well into the evening. I love the sudden surge of people in the streets, the crowds gathered outside pubs and bars, the fact that people smile more, that homegrown versions of my favorite foods are available in the shops so I can eat as many strawberries as I like without worrying about my carbon footprint, and that I have a valid reason to eat ice-cream (like, I have to, it's SUMMER). But summer has it's darker side. Yes, I'm talking about grooming. That thing you can cheerfully ignore for the colder mont

Why is it that the Prince comes home and expects a certain kind of attention -- but during the day I might as well be the tax man. This morning he could barely speak to me by phone for 14 seconds -- and lest you think I don't get office-life, I used to work at a news daily where I had to write 3-4 stories a day. Phone time was precious -- but for the Prince, I always carved out time. By the time he gets home at night, I am stressed from my own work, the Rabbit and usually irritated by the brusque treatment from him during our one or two calls. How hard is it to shift tones for 30 seconds, then hang up and pit bull on someone else? I think the rest of this week I'm on phone boycott. Watch: He'll never even notice.

The Prince's sister delivered a beautiful baby girl on Sunday. Exciting news. And it reminded me of my own special delivery experience-- The Rabbit was born via a Cesarean section. Granted, scheduled C-section because she was breech (stubborn even in vitro...) but nonetheless, for all those who have had one (and our numbers are growing rapidly....) we're talking major surgery -- and the creepy kind where your innards are on the table and you're awake enough to know. Sure, it's a lovely morphine-induced awakeness, but still, you know. So moments after I am sewn and stapled shut (oh yes, staples....think the kind that the cable guy uses to keep the cords off the floor. Gross - right?) I am pushed into a tiny waiting area to my gorgeous new creature and....seven family members (both mine and The Prince's) snapping pictures of her and me, both drooling. Lovely. My father happens to be of the medical persuasion, so at some point his skills kick in and he shoves everyone

The relationship between parents and a first child is fraught with anxiety. Fear and love and passion impossibly entwined. While you feel the same love and passion for your second and subsequent child(ren), the fear is diluted, not so ever-ready to leap at you and sink its fangs into your heart. The first night of Firstborn's life was spent with me hanging out of the hospital bed gazing into her perspex cot, too scared not to look in case she stopped breathing. The first night of the Small(er) One's life was spent desperately trying to discharge myself so I could go home and get a decent night's sleep (curtains for walls and a ward full of wailing newborns are not conducive to relaxation). Driving home from the hospital with Firstborn snug in her baby car seat had me cursing and swearing, shouting obscenities at any other driver who dared to come within 10 meters of our vehicle. The world was suddenly jam packed full of danger. The drive home with the Small(er) One was spen

I willingly went back to freelancing after the rabbit hit 10 months old -- happier, truthfully with a freelancing lifestyle, and thrilled to be able to spend the extra time with her. And while thankfully the work has stayed steady, everytime I try to push the envelope a bit -- knock on a new door, take a risk or two, I honestly feel fate's little head shaking her head saying, "No no no, this is not for you" and smacking my hand away. Now I know that everyone has their ups and downs -- but somehow the stay-at-home mama thing adds a whiff to this of two-day old fish. And I can't help but wonder if there is a perception of desperation clinging to me -- at least seen by others -- because they see me in that light: home, filling lunchboxes, writing during the hours afforded to me by nursery school and weekend nights. I guess what I am realizing is that I am hungry for a little bite of personal success. Don't get me wrong, I know I am extremely lucky. (Really.) Everyone

Question of the day: Do applesauce, cheddar crackers, cold pasta noodles and a juice box count as dinner?

After spending two days recovering from food poisoning, I awoke yesterday morning, stubled into the kitchen and felt like one of those commercial moms who get saved by their disasterous kitchens by a miracle cleaner. The Prince has rushed home Monday afternoon after I called mumbling something about the rabbit needing watching and me curled up on the bathroom floor. The next 36 hours remain something of a blur, but I recall hearing them go out for dinner that night, his getting her into bed (sans bath) and scrambling something for her for breakfast the next morning. I do have one flash as I crawled into the kitchen at night for a sip of water (bad idea, FYI) of seeing dishes and food lying about -- but even at that moment, I couldn't muster the energy to be furious. That came later. So when I really came to yesterday, with the rabbit at school and the prince at work, I saw my penance for getting sick: food, crumbs and dishes scattered about the kitchen. Clothes covered in chocolate

Hey you! You in the fancy sports car! You with the receeding hairline and the gently rounded belly not quite contained by your YSL shirt. You who will never see 40 again. You with the smug little face and the jaunty strut. Yeah, that's right. I'm talking to you. See that sign above the bay into which you've just maneuvered your sky-blue Porsche? Look at it carefully. That sign depicting a parent and child is there for a reason - it means that particular parking bay is reserved for parents insane enough to bring their child(ren) to the supermarket. And no, your girlfriend does not count as a child. Although in this case, only just. Do you not understand that when you steal my parking space - yes, MY parking space - by cutting me up back at the junction there, you condemn me to parking in the car park equivalent of Siberia? Which means I have to lug two fractious pre-schoolers and a trolley full of food into a lift that smells of wee, walk across the lot in the rain and there

It was Alpha Male's birthday yesterday. I usually spend a lot of time and effort hunting down the right gift. Hours of research, thought and care goes into finding the perfect token of my love and affection. This year though, due to being somewhat pressed for time and increasingly incapable of organising a piss-up in a brewery (although if anyone from the office is reading this, rest assured that this applies only to my domestic life; I'm still perfectly capable of organising work related piss-ups, hurrah) I started the great gift hunt at 5pm Friday evening. While I usually shop at a slow crawl (why rush one of lifes greatest pleasures?), on Friday I was a woman possessed. Having a strict time slot really serves to focus the mind. I came home laden with bags but the fact that I had been forced to make snap purchasing decisions did not rest easy on my mind. Had I just grabbed and bagged? Would Alpha Male unwrap his presents and realise that I Had Not Given It Enough Thought? The

The city is warming up, and the cockroaches are coming in looking for the shade. I killed one such creature last night by throwing a copy of The Andy Warhol Diaries on top of it -- the heaviest book I could lay my hands on at the time -- and then left the book, and dead roach I presumed under it, until The Prince came home 4 hours later to clean it up. Let me tell you Mamas, that is a service I value. Now lest you think the bugs are here because of a lack of cleanliness on my part– well, while the floor is swept and washed every day, (well, I think about it everyday) the creatures still come. I know I shouldn’t be so uptight about this – they’re only bugs, big ugly flying revolting scary heinous nauseating bugs, -- still, I just don’t like them. Call me crazy. The rabbit mercifully hasn’t inherited my freak-out over these creatures. She still thinks it’s cool when fireflies land on her hand. (yet another flying insect I would prefer respect my personal space…) And I am trying not to re

Okay, we're not. But we're supposed to be -- all of us mamas that is -- according to a new survey from Web site Salary.com which queried more than 400 mamas and discovered we should be earning $134,121 a year for our services. Work away from home and you get to tack that on top of it! Take the survey yourself at: http://swz.salary.com/momsalarywizard/layoutscripts/mswl_newsearch.asp (and if I could link to this I swear I would, but we'll need Yummy London Mummy and her technological expertise to explain why I am unable to this anymore....) Now, I knew long before Salary.com announced this, that I was being paid far less than I was worth -- that is, nada -- for all the cooking, grocery shopping, hair brushing, stain removing, bathtub scrubbing services I complete in between my writing assignments. The Prince has his duties too. Right now they comprise of bath giving (the rabbit, not me....)and cockroach removal. (Ah yes, the little beasts have returned with the first sign of

I just spent the last three hours baking 8 dozen cookies, and yes, wrapping them in individual cellophane bags. (Yes, I know this is a sickness....anyone know the name for it?) Then, the Prince just strolled in from working late and I beelined for the grocery to nab another pound of butter and some flour. Somehow I believe that if I bring in 16 dozen cookies tomorrow the (s)mothers might just leave me off their radar for another week or two. (Did I mention the fundraising auction coming up in just 2 weeks and me with nothing to donate?) We all know this competitive parenting situation is real -- after all, Nightline stuck one of their reporters on the topic for the last 7 months and plans to air its insights in a week or two -- but what I really want to know is: HOW DO I MAKE IT STOP!

The (s)mothers have organized yet another bake sale for the rabbit's pre-school. Since I can't man the booth the day of the sale because of work I agreed to bake one million cookies again. (The (s)mother are constantly confused about my working since I'm always at home --- it hurts their myoptically-focused brains I think.....) As I am literally sitting making a grocery list of ingredients (which are quickly adding up to a sizeable donation -- not even including my time....) an email pops in asking parents to individually bag the cookies before bringing them in to the sale. Now, I know that this is only a little bit more time, and little bit more money for baggies, but this has set me off again. (I'm still reeling from the last bake sale where they stole my tins -- WHO STEALS TINS?!?!?!?!?) So I call The Prince for some whining support and he listens, pauses, and says, "Just don't do it." So why can't I follow this advice? (Other than the fact that it

The Small(er) One had her second birthday party yesterday. It degenerated into a riot - the usual state of affairs when you pack over-sugared children and over-lubricated adults into an impossibly small space. Children's parties are a minefield. In comparison, throwing an adult-only party is a breeze. All you need is lots of booze, some music, and one of your wilder friends to behave badly to ensure the other guests have something to talk about. When it comes to kiddie celebrations, there is something about the combination of daytime hours, alcohol, screaming excited children, luridly coloured party food and annoyingly repetitive music played at top volume that brings out the worse in grown ups. I don't mean drunken foolishness - this is a must for a half-decent party - but the kind of stuff that makes you despair of being human; namely, hideous displays of parental competiveness. If any of the following subjects start to creep into the conversation it is the host's duty to

So what is it about baby clothes -- and those towels! -- that's makes them so freakishly soft? Just returned from the sis-in-law's baby shower in Washington, D.C. where she was feted with cake, lasagna and brownies -- none of which she could eat because she developed gestational diabetes in her second trimester. This has been the pregnancy of protein since she was diagnosed, and now she downs about a container of tofu a week -- that's a lot of soybeans folks. We all stood there -- okay the women, yes, the women -- with our hands curled in these piles of cotton like some stupified cats kneading them into submission. It was only when we all caught ourselves -- and yes, all mothers -- that we guilty laid them down. I have to wonder if there was some unconscious freudian thing going on there...like, is this our last time we will have contact with this super cotton, otherwordly fluff? With The Prince's mission for baby due down to a mellow level, I've felt actually more