mothers on the verge

Check in tomorrow, August 1, for our exciting interview with new friend Ayun Halliday as she chats and chomps through her favorite topics and offers us all some much needed advice on how to deal with (s)mothers, and how to find some post-coital breakfast bliss. The occasion? Because her book, The Big Rumpus, is unleashed as Mama Lama Ding Dong in the UK (Yummy London Mummy's stomping grounds) tomorrow, and because, well, we think she's a bit on the verge herself. A mama after our own hearts.

Normally I associate guttural rantings with The Prince, usually following some sort of Maker's Mark/beer binge. A favorite (ah, warm memories) occured years ago when we lived in Oakland, California and involved the fast food joint Jack In The Box, and The Prince yelling over and over again about needing "tacos and chips!" following an evening picnic with Brazillian friends. (Do I need to write that this didn't end well?) But this morning, the Rabbit heard me on the phone with, Yummy London Mummy (so good to hear your voice!!) and thought I was speaking about her beloved movie Totoro. She ran about chasing me, while I was on the phone, screaming in some sort of drunken-binge like rant, "ToTo-what?!? ToTo-what?!? Mommy!!!" The Prince actually had to physically pick up her shaking, twitching body and remove her to her room as nothing could force her mind off the fact that perhaps I was talking to Totoro, or there was a second film to buy, or who knows because

We have been back in London for just under a week, and already the memories of our glorious two weeks of sloth is receding into the mists of time. Still, some of my fondest moments are hanging in there (although for how long, who knows? Especially as my brain these days has a similar composition to that of Swiss cheese.) Such as the day at the local pool when a poo called off play - thankfully not originating from one of my children - but the image of the widespread panic caused by the rogue floater still makes me chuckle. The spectre of Jaws rising from the deep end could not have caused more of a poolside flurry. Then there was the moment when the Small(er) One started to talk in sentences - a moment that has been long overdue considering that she experienced her second birthday in April - swiftly followed by the sudden ability to jump, stand on one leg, blow bubbles in her juice and descend stairs using her feet rather than her head. Unfortunately, these landmarks have also been acc

Holidays are great. No work, no nursery run, and no trying to figure out how the hell you can rustle something edible up for the kid's dinner when fridge holds nothing except one egg, a squeezy bottle of fake lemon juice and, inexplicably, three bottles of vintage champagne. Whatever the joys, being on holiday does have a downside - namely, the shock of having to spend 24 hours per day with your significant other. I mean, think about it. Most of the time you jostle along quite happily, a few kind words over dinner, a two hour slump in front of the telly and then blissful sleep for a few hours until the kids wake you up with some nonsense about nightmares or needing a wee. It's easy, right? Not too stenuous on the membranes, nice and cozy and all right's with the world. And then you're on holiday and suddenly you have to start coming up with entertaining chit-chat over breakfast, lunch, sunbathing AND dinner. Your partner also starts looking at you as a woman rather than

I knew the stereotypes going in. I knew that moms were the ones often scrambling for the free moment, juggling it all. But I guess it took this trip to realize just how long I've been putting myself in last place. We're on a trip to Los Angeles. The Prince has work out here for 2 weeks and asked if I would come so he wouldn't be away from the rabbit for that long. I can juggle my work-- theoreotically -- from anywhere. As long as there's a computer and a connection to the 'Net, I am in business. (Think of this as foreshadowing.) I have family on the left coast so I figured, place to crash, family visit for the rabbit, I grab some work time to get my deadlines in, not a problem. Until the computer at my sister's crashes. Permanently. My laptop can't pick up a wireless signal from the house, the Kinko's charges $15 an hour (I probably have 40-50 hours of work to do in the next two weeks) and my parents still have a dial-up. I have to beg for babysitting ti

He really should have figured out by now that I am always right. It would save a lot of time and trouble in the long run if he just kept this fact front of mind. When he gets mad, he shouts; "What are you? Some kind of feminist?" Like it's an insult. He doesn't get the shopping thing (in my view is a serious compatibility issue). Why does he not understand that shopping is not an indulgence, it's crucial for my peace of mind? A bit like golf is for him but much less pointless. Why is it that half an hour of Alpha Male child-focused responsibility equals two hours of mine? He tells everyone he has to cook dinner every night as I can't even boil an egg. The truth is he doesn't like me 'messing up' the kitchen. He also nags that I don't do enough around the house. The reason I hired a cleaner is so I don't have to do 'enough' around the house. He secretly wants me to be just like his mother - who is a wonderful person but is also pra

**Disclaimer: This is not abut The Prince. Entirely...** Nag. One of the most hateful words. And why? How easy it is to toss it at a woman and bear down on her the shameful -- or alleged shameful -- behavior of generations of women before. How many of us have been temporarily silenced by that word flung at us to keep us from saying something we need to say? Okay, sure, maybe a double reminder to take out the trash, or take out a car seat, or submit expenses is unnecessary. But what about driving slower when your rabbit is in the car? Or pick up a prescription before the pharmacy closes for the night? And ask yourself -- have you ever been called a nag by another woman? Picture a nag. Go ahead. Close your eyes. I see a broken-down horse that is exhausted and bullied. Not a creature that has any energy to even stick up for themselves. I say we put an end to this nag-ing. I say leave the stinking trash in the can and go on kitchen strike until it's thrown out. or just pick up the p

We are on holiday and I am encased in a cloud of lethargy. The sun is hot and the humidity high. My brain is in shutdown mode. I have nothing to do. I don't have to be anywhere. If it wasn't for the presence of the kids I would probably sleep for the entirety of our two week break. I am poised somewhere between feeling acute discomfort for being so stunningly non-productive and the blissful wallow of the gloriously lazy. We are staying with my in-laws at their house in Geneva and I think I am in Heaven. I have had a lie-in every day. Dinner magically appears, followed by hours of wine. I have an afternoon nap every day (strangely, my usual seven hours of broken sleep is no longer enough) and life has become as easy as a beautiful dream. Firstborn and the Small(er) One's Cousin J is with us, as her mother has just produced number four and understandably, welcomed the chance to offload at least one of her litter. Cousin J and Firstborn are as thick as thieves, self-proclaime

I spent the past weekend in Venice. And what a glorious, if somewhat sleep deprived, weekend it was. I was out there for the S.Pellegrino Cooking Cup, an annual event hosted by the famous water brand. The Cooking Cup is a unique regatta - very Italian in both flavour and style - with chefs and sailors facing with a tough challenge; while crews from one of Italy’s top sailing clubs, Campagnia della Vela, compete to be first over the finish line, chefs from around the world toil below deck in blistering temperatures, creating culinary masterpieces in tiny, very basic galley kitchens. This year was an especially choppy one, resulting in many sightings of chefs prostrate on deck and groaning with sea-sickness. I could only sympathise from my vantage point on one of the hospitality boats, glass of wine in hand and being plied with endless treats by an army of attentive waiters - totally my kind of sailing experience. The reason I was there was to direct a press trip on behalf of my client S

Well, we're back from our quick jaunt. Let's see: The Hamptons were gorgeous. I think they must install some sort of Manchurian Candidate like chip as soon as you cross the Village line, because I swear everytime I am out there the weather is ethereal. Our hosts were wonderful -- as usual. And the Rabbit feasted on the clean air, trees, grass and beach. In fact, she cried terribly when we left this afternoon -- these terrible city parents dragging our kid back to the smog and soot of Gotham. We're now ensconced in our apartment, air conditioner roaring, sky grey, the streets reaking that special summer stink. I had one celebrity sighting: Diane von Furstenberg and her hubbie Barry Diller in shorts, ratty T-shirt and walking some big dog. When you're worth a gazzilion dollars, you can dress this way in the Hamptons. Now before you get too jealous -- let me describe the ride home on the train. Or the four trains -- the Rabbit refused to nap, kicked the chair (and the rain