mothers on the verge

I have been known to spend way too much time on eBay. Not too much money. No, I'm pretty good about that. But when The Prince gets on the Wii late at night, I'm often found clicking away at eBay on vintage sites -- just window shopping. Although I have to say eBay is an anthropological dream come true. Much smarter things have been written, I am sure, of how much you can learn about history and human kind from eBay, but it always reminds me that if you only learned about the world from what you read in a book, you're in a sorry -- and severely uninformed -- state. Once in awhile I will push the bid button, and did last week -- one of the first times in about 2 years. My prize? Boxes of mica chips -- in old five and dime containers marked, "Christmas Snow." I make a lot of my own cards and the image was just too good to pass up (many of you will see it this winter) along with them marked at a great price. I just got it in the mail about 5 minutes ago, on a perfectl

The girls have discovered a new and naughty joy - swearing. But they are too clever to just come out with air-blistering curses. Instead, they tell me all the swear words they have been busily collecting while pretending to be shocked. Example: Firstborn (looking earnest): "Mummy, I know a really naughty word." Me (pretending to look concerned): "Oh no, you don't do you? Not a naughty word!" Firstborn (even more earnest, bordering on saintly): "Oh yes, Mummy. I do. I know a really naughty word." (Smiling in anticipation). "Shall I tell you what it is?" Me (shocked): "Oh no, darling. I don't think I want to hear it. Not if it's really naughty. If it's really naughty then it shouldn't be said by little girls." Firstborn (barely able to contain her glee): "I think I should tell you, Mummy. I really do." Me: "Well, if you must." Firstborn (eyes shining): "I must, Mummy. I simply have to tell y

Just when any of you pregnant ladies out there thought it was OK to put your swollen ankles up and have a nice glass of red wine now and then, party-pooping Harry Burns, the chief medical officer for Scotland, has challenged the British government's advice that one or two small glasses per week is safe. We all know knocking back large quantities of booze when pregnant is bloody stupid. The latest headlines, however, appear to be designed to load up mothers with even more guilt than they already carry on their burdened shoulders. The story behind the headlines is this: Harry Burns believes alcohol spectrum disorder (FASD) is to blame for Scotland's escalating violent crime rate. Babies affected by FASD are only born to women who drink whilst pregnant, with one of the symptoms being a tendency towards violence in adulthood. Despite prior research pointing to the cause of FASD being heavy drinking (the official classification of binge drinking in the UK is when more than 7.5 unit

Well, it's happened. Here I thought we were in a recession, and now I'm finding that it's perfectly acceptable to spend the equivalent of a NEW CAR (ok, a yucky new car) on a child's birthday party. I'll let you read the rest because I now need to walk away from the computer before I say anything too inflammatory even for our little blog.

The Rabbit had Show and Tell this morning and there was never a doubt as to what she would "show:" her secret pink suitcase that I'm not allowed to look inside. The back story on this item is that a week or so ago I found foil wrappers from chocolate Easter eggs in the kitchen and her bedroom, and when I asked her whether she had eaten them she said "No!" smiling from ear to ear in the sign I recognized from my own childhood as "Oh yeah! I'm lyin!" And so a big cry fest began where Mama discussed how people don't lie to each other in this house, and The Rabbit fought me that she WASN'T lying but she didn't know how the pink foil got under her bed and the chocolate on her face. (Which means she hasn't mastered that first rule of subterfuge: hide the evidence.) It dawned on me that perhaps she needed a place where she could "allowably" lie. IE, a place where she could keep secrets from me. So I broke into my stash of favorit

I live in a concrete box -- a 20-story vulgarity that houses room after room of squat, flat apartments that seem to attract owners who want nothing more than to try and change them. (Stop.) Since The Prince and I bought our place in 2004, four apartments have done construction all within a 20-foot perimeter of me. Four. And we're not talking paint jobs. We're talking vile, gut renovations that send me over the edge. Drills that actually make the damn chair under me vibrate. And these have lasted about...oh.... 18 months of the 48 months I have lived here. One-third of my time. Now mix that into the fact that I work from home. I INTERVIEW people, I WRITE stories. All while trying to ignore the fact that basically, I am living in a CONSTRUCTION ZONE. While I am not sure about a spot in Dante's hell for (s)mothers. I know with all my fiber there is one for the inventor of the hammer drill.

It's mornings like this, 58 degrees, cool, gentle breeze, that send me right back to California. At least in my mind. I opened the door to our back area, walking the Rabbit to school this morning, and got slammed into a memory of walking to the car with my mom when I was 10 years old. An April school morning, wearing a sweater I already knew would be way too hot by recess time. Dew collecting on grass, slivers of bright sun slicing through the big Jacaranda tree across the street. That smell of wet and bright and just a tinge of warm. I never knew how much of that would worm its way into my genetic code. I've lived in Manhattan over two tours of duty adding up to about 13 years. When I moved here in college I remember being as equally jolted by the city. Just walking out in the morning sparked me far more than coffee. (I wasn't imbibing caffeine yet. That soon corrected itself.) Everything was a rush from the street art in Soho, to the water towers I could spot from my tar

Firstborn, the Small(er) One and I have just returned from watching the Flora London Marathon. As one of my clients is mineral water brand Vittel - sponsors of the Marathon for the past decade - I am lucky enough to be able to watch the sight of 35,000-plus runners loping, limping and sometimes crawling their way past the finish line from the relative comfort of the Vittel Grandstand on The Mall. It's a remarkable thing, the London Marathon. The 26.2 mile (42.2km) course, which runs through the capital from Greenwich and Blackheath in south-east London to Buckingham Palace, is famously gruelling. Your heart goes out to all those who's bodies fail them less than 100 meters from the finish line, legs turning to jelly and buckling, sending them tumbling to the floor. I saw one man last year who refused to give up even though his legs were unable to carry him for more than two or three steps at a time - every time he fell he just got up again, slowly and painfully, to take another

It is a sad day. Firstborn, who so recently had dreams of being a princess, has announced that she wants to be a pop star when she grows up. You may think this is no big deal but I beg to differ. Firstborn is five years old and, in my opinion, shouldn't even be aware of what a pop star is let alone aspire to be one. I was hoping she would be in double digits before she started to worry if her booty-shaking is going to make the grade; the sight of my skinny freckle-nosed little daughter trying to dance like the Sugababes while warbling lyrics about love into her pink Hello Kitty hairbrush (with a fake MTV accent) makes me feel quite queasy. Yesterday Firstborn was watching CBeebies and playing with her Baby Annabel doll, today she's demanding High School Musical DVDs, telling me Beyonce is super-cool and talking about which of her classmates have 'boyfriends'. How did my sweet little baby girl get from being five years old to five going on fifteen... all in the blink of

I am completely caught up in two cable shows right now: HBO's John Adams and Showtime's The Tudors . An American/England match-up, well played, I think, for our happy little blog. Both are fantastic in very different ways. Given the repulsive rabid nature of our current election, the John Adams series is at least reminding me why I actually do feel proud to call this country home. (Yes, I know these are actors.) And then The Tudors is like a twinkie you just know you shouldn't eat. All Harlequin romance and revenge. Mmm! Fun! My favorite part of The Tudors was a little preview for this week's episode: plotters against Anne Boleyn. In the show she seems pretty damn wicked. (While in reality, I feel slightly bad for her -- she was BEHEADED after all. For BORING HER HUSBAND.) But to speak against her meant sure suicide to her detractors. So they remind themselves to sit and wait. For a moment ripe where the mood against her shifts. I loved this. Reminded me how to deal wi

That's all I want to know.

YLM and I agree - becoming a mama can bring out the best in you, and the very worst. But neither of us were at all prepared for the horror that are the (s)mothers. Sure my own mama warned me. Told me to avoid the PTA like an e-coli infested melon cup. But did I listen? For me, if it's not personally experienced, it's not real. So after five years of experiencing (s)mothers, I have gleaned a few things that I feel compelled, much like a vaccine for yeast infections, to pass along to my fellow Mamas: How you too can pass through a pack of wild (s)mothers and not ever be detected. 1. Pack your child a homemade lunch. Preferably one that is organic, free-range, hormone-free and put into an environmentally appropriate container — perhaps a paper bag you have made by yourself by pulping newspapers and drying it in the sun. 2. Sign up for every damn field trip, PTA function, bake sale and fund raiser. Then complain — lightly — when asked how you do it all. Shrug, and take a sip of y

Is it just me or is anyone else slightly weirded out by the transformation of that self-proclaimed free spirit and sampler of husbands par excellence, Carla Bruni, to what can only be described as a European version of the Stepford Wife? It may be the required look for her latest role as Presidential arm candy (as opposed to the Versace dash she cut in her groupie years) but Mme Sarkozy's wardrobe for her trip to London has been a proper rib-tickler: the neat little flat pumps an amusing contrast to the stacked shoes sported by tiny Monsieur Sarkozy; the Jackie O style coat/ dress combos; the Queen Liz style hard frame handbags... all topped by a butter-wouldn't-melt expression. 1950's lady-about-town with a dash of French schoolgirl, what could be more fitting for the supermodel turned folk singer turned First Lady? The main problem faced by the new Mme Sarkozy is the fact that a change of wardrobe is not sufficient to offset her rather mucky reputation. It has been widel

I have just discovered that the waste pipe for the entire apartment building runs through our bathroom. That in itself is not particularly pleasant. Add to this the fact that the waste pipe is leaking (and has been for an estimated two years) and you'll understand why I am not in the best of moods today. I did wonder why there are mushrooms growing underneath the bath and what the source of the constant damp patch in the hall closet was. The smell of effluent which regularily wafted from the bathroom (for which poor Alpha has often been blamed) is now explained. But I am finding it hard to accept that the collective poo of the many residents in the building has been seeping in to our apartment for such a long time; at best a Feng Shui nightmare, at worst a health hazard. The joys of living with dodgy London plumbing. Shit really does happen.

Never hire a builder who can't speak English. Example: Alpha: "Can you make sure to close off the live wire sticking out of the bathroom wall before you finish today?" Builder: "Yeah yeah. OK." Three hours later. Builder: "OK. I go now. See you." Alpha: "Did you close off the live wire?" Builder: "Yeah yeah. All good." (Alpha goes in to bathroom to check, emerges with face like thunder) Alpha: "The live wire is still sticking out of the wall. What happened?" Builder: "Yeah yeah. Is fine." Alpha: "No, it's not fine. The live wire is sticking out of the wall." Builder: "Is fine." Alpha: "No, it's not fine. It's dangerous." Builder: "You shut door. No go in. No problem." Alpha: "I don't think you understand. I asked you to shut off the live wire. It's dangerous. The kids could get in there and be seriously hurt." Builder: "You shut door. OK?&

Moment of utter joy: Being given a seat on a packed tube train after a long and tiresome day. Hurrah. Moment of ghastly gloom: None of my trousers fit. It's not that they're just a bit tight - that I can live with - it's the fact the buttons are a-popping. Time to cut down on all of those delicious but guilty pleasures? Boo.

Ten things all wannabe parents should consider before taking the plunge: 1. Babies scream, children shout and teenagers refuse to talk at all. All of these stages will make you grit your teeth and long for a lengthy refuge in a dark room. 2. All mealtimes will resemble the Battle of the Somme: messy, lengthy, often futile and generally chaotic. Success will only ever be achieved via the application of careful strategy, detailed planning, exhaustive bombardment and dogged determination. 3. Even the simplest task, such as leaving the house, will take a minimum of twenty minutes (on a good day) when a small child is involved. 4. Give up on being houseproud if you want to stay sane. The following are unavoidable: grimy handprints on the sofa and crumbs under the cushions, felt-tip scribbles on the walls, a trail of toys wherever the child chooses to roam, DVDs posted in the trash and stickers stuck on every available surface (including your bum). 5. Embrace insomnia - it's the only way

Recently, I've been cryptic of the things in our lives that have been causing problems in our household. No more details but I will say they basically manage to cover all the bases of normal life stresses: work concerns, lawyers who steal money from you, best friends of 15 years who drop you because you don't want to discuss politics, and your children. Very normal stuff. But lately I have found that instead of wanting to rant about these things, I have become a bit of a recluse. Clammed up. Shied away from most contact other than that forced upon me, like when picking up The Rabbit, smiling at The (S)mothers and trying very hard not to make eye contact so as to not have to engage even in that normal banter: "How ya doing!" I guess I know I should just smile and say, "Great." But it's so that I'm afraid if I open my mouth, swarms of flies and bees will erupt out and cause perfectly normal G-d fearing folk to back away in stunned repulsion. And so I&#