mothers on the verge

So it's January, a new year and the Prince and I have returned to the topic most popular/unpopular in our life: Baby Due. Popular because we just can't seem to stop talking about it. Unpopular because we can't just seem to stop talking about it. I have reached the place where I firmly believe that raising The Rabbit as an ONLY is not a curse placed upon her head. There are plenty of studies that now show an only child as modeling behavior similar to the oldest child -- ie, fine. And being a mother who chooses to have just one doesn't make me feel like some heinous selfish monster despite the will of the (s)mothers. But I am also feeling like, 'Is this it?' And wondering if I am ready to surrender this part of my life for good. It's one thing to waiver back and forth -- both options remain. It's quite another to choose one and make the decision permanent. There's a great story in this month's Parenting magazine which I think articulates these fe

The Rabbit and two other 4-year-old friends are sitting in princess dresses watching Strawberry Shortcake in what is a momentary break in the most chaotic tea party afternoon ever. In just 90 minutes they have managed to: 1. Have potty breaks once (yes, I am watching them...) 2. Argue twice over who got to wear the Tinkerbell shoes. (The shoes got a time out). 3. Eat 3 pink petit fours with butterflies on them. 4. Spill "tea" on the floor 4 times. 5. Get 5 minutes to play the piano. 6. Cry 6 times. 7. Make me get up from my desk 7 times to negotiate an argument. 8. Tell each other "You're not my friend" 8 times. 9. Give me 9 shots from the Rabbit's doctor kit. 10. Make me look at the clock 10 times and wonder where their mommies were. I have to say, I love that The Rabbit has her friends over. I just wish they could behave maturely and calmly. Is that asking too much from sugar addled, nap-deprived 4-year-olds? I think not.

All in one week I upgraded our computers at home (oh yes, me.) and became the proud owner of a sleek little iPod Shuffle. The last time I had a portable music player it was the size of a small purse and let me tell you, running with that was like carrying weights. Not bad for the exercise factor, but still -- not fun. I know this is going to sound like a crazy ad, but I have a stack of CDs, have my iTunes store open and I am psyched to hit the streets with the Gorillaz popping in my ear.

1. Alpha, who gave up smoking three years ago, went out tonight and bought a pack of pipe tobacco and rolling papers. Then he stood in the garden and smoked, shivering in the gale force winds, and making bashful faces at me through the window. I sat on the sofa shaking my head at him and tutting. The truth is that I am secretly gratified as this moment of weakness means Alpha can no longer hector me about my own addiction to the evil weed. Ha. 2. The decorators are in giving the flat a facelift. Last night I forced Alpha to take the perfectly fine but somewhat bland cream paint he had bought for the hallway back to the shop to exchange it for a taupe shade (I had been looking through interior design magazines all day and was feeling 'inspired'). The hallway now looks like a giant biscuit and at some point I will be forced to apologise, not to mention having to retract my assertion that: "I know all about interior design, in fact I have a natural talent for it, and I am tel

At what point am I supposed to hire a housecleaner? Does everyone have one but me? I manage to wipe down the main gross areas of the house about every other day. But then I find dust bunnies, truthfully, that are bigger than my hand. I've never been one of those people comfortable having strangers (ie, someone other than me, The Rabbit or The Prince) in my home. Even when we had a babysitter/nanny I never got completely comfortable with her being around. And so the idea of someone touching my stuff every week to clean makes me feel edgy. (Yes, I am sure there are prescription drugs that can help me with this.) But then I walk into friends' homes. Counters are wiped down. One week of recycling is not sitting in plastic bags next to their front door. There are no empty toilet paper rolls sitting on the medicine cabinet. Beds are made. Their houses reek of confidence, like those moms who sigh dramatically on the playground and then complain they only made it to the gym 3 times thi

I am about to reveal something not quite cool about me, but.... There is a limit to the amount of time I can sit on the floor with The Rabbit and play with her Little Ponies. And we're not talking one hour here. After about 8 minutes, my need to take deep breaths increases rapidly, and after about 12 minutes I start to fantasize about how great a cappucino would taste while sitting and watching some CNN. I never had any Little Ponies when I was a kid. Somehow they passed by my childhood just like Count Chocula cereal -- which I heard was a euphoric experience for many people. But these plastic ponies, with the jewels, and hair clips and brushes, with names like Sparkleworks and Love Wishes were surely invented on a pot binge. The Rabbit now counts 31 in her possession, including the series of fake ones her grandmother bestowed on her for Christmas. These are even worse -- even uglier, like someone thought the Little Ponies needed bulking up. They look like minature Clydesdale poni

A roach, something so large it had to have been prehistoric, was crawling on The Rabbit's bed not just 10 minutes ago. If I type badly or makse some spelling, syntax or spelling errors in this post, too bad. I can barely stop shaking. To try and understand how physically big this thing was I was attempt to use type letters to show you: ccccccccccc ccccccccccc oooooooo ooooooooo ccccccccccccccccccccccc ccccccccccccccccccccccc kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr oooooooooooooooooooooo aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ccccccc

So I discovered how serious my lack of computer skills were when I realized how late I was in upgrading to the new Blogger to even post. (Let's not even start on how lame I am for these looooong vacations from our blog...I don't think YLM is going to forgive me at this point.) But I have upgraded and I will attempt to list the reasons for my recent departure which will only firmly fasten in the minds of you, dear readers, how lame I am: 1. My bathroom exploded with a leak from the "refuse pipe" from our neighbor upstairs and we are now living with 1/4 of our bathroom wall missing, and our windows open as the walls dry out. And Wednesday is set to be 27 degrees. Farenheit. The plasterer made us an appointment thank goodness to fix out walls. For Feb 15th. Yes, February. 2. I got a skateboard (yes, you read right) and am trying to teach myself to ride it. Which means The Prince is riding it. And The Rabbit. And I look about as cool as I did when I tried to learn to snow

January is a dreary month. The excitement (or anxiety, depending upon your circumstances and personal level of scrooge-ness) of Christmas is over. Your bank balance is in the red, which is possibly a good thing because there's nothing left in the shops except for the past season's fashion disasters (clue: it's in the sale, which means nobody wanted it when it was full price and with good reason). Your trousers are too tight from an excess of gluttony. Your skin is grey from lack of sunshine and months of central heating. And to top it all, the magazines are laying on the detox guilt at a time when all you want to eat is a comforting trough of rhubarb crumble and custard - the mere thought of a wheatgrass smoothie every morning followed by a bracing trot around the park makes me want to dive headfirst into the biscuit tin. Yes, I have the January blues. Roll on February, March, April, Summer...

The Small(er) One has been brainwashed. After a Christmas of being over-indulged by her adoring extended family, which basically translates to eating as much chocolate as she wants whenever she wants, and watching back-to-back Disney movies (Cinderella and Aristocrats on a 3:1 ratio) for a full ten days, the Small(er) One, all of two and a half years old, has decided that she is Cinderella. She insists on wearing a crown and a ballet skirt at all times - even over pyjama bottoms or jeans, and sneaked under dresses and nighties when the mean stepmother (me, apparently) tries to lay down the law. Before the Small(er) One deigns to leave the house she insists on being decked out with the entire contents of the dressing-up jewellery box. She also carries a handbag on the crook of her arm, just like the Queen. She will only answer to "Cinderella" and objects loudly when addressed by her given name. In addition to the Cinderella obsession, the Small(er) One has developed hair par

1. I will learn to say "sorry" and mean it 2. I will get my ass out of bed in the morning without cursing and bitching 3. I will fold the laundry once it is dry rather than leaving it in a heap for a week 4. I will stop obsessing about my wrinkles; instead I will cleanse and moisturise properly, drink water instead of Diet Coke and learn to love the character my, um, 'laughter lines' give me 5. Ditto tummy flub; instead I will do sit-ups every morning, drink more water, hold myself upright instead of slumping and stop trying to pretend I am ever going to have the body of an eighteen-year-old again 6. I will stop flicking my cigarette butts into the garden (yeah, I know this should read 'I will ditch my unwholesome reliance on Marloboro Lights' but hey, one thing at a time) 7. I will make more of an effort with the other parents at Firstborn's school and I will stop trying to make Alpha go to all the kiddie parties on his own by pretending I have som