mothers on the verge

Why having a girlfriend makes sense: The toilet seat would always be down. Where it belongs. A girlfriend would never ask why the hell you 'needed' to buy yet another pair of shoes. All women understand that expanding the shoe wardrobe has nothing to do with 'need' and  everything to do with desire. You'd be more likely to fit into a girlfriend's jeans, thus doubling your outfit choices in one fell stroke. Strange emotional outbursts would be immediately understood as being the product of rogue hormones rather than down to certifiable insanity requiring a straightjacket and immediate divorce. Women would also know that this kind of outburst is easily cured by chocolate and/or ice-cream, preferably accompanied by sympathetic noises and a cuddle. Being a bit lazy about leg hair removal would be unlikely to provoke insults as to sexual orientation and/or your partner insisting on calling you 'Trevor'. Other women understand that sometimes a grooming

Let’s talk about allergy-moms. You know the ones – please don’t bring anything with eggs, wheat, citrus to school for shared snack because my child is allergic. Or the mom who managed to get milk snacks banned in our school, until a teacher grabbed a child's yogurt, sent him to the principal’s office, and his mom explained what she would do if her son didn’t get his yogurt back. That experiment ended. These were food freaks, as far I was concerned. And as long as they kept their freakdom to themselves I was fine. (I never threw peanut-allergies in there – that is terrifying, and a totally different situation.) But two months ago my daughter got diagnosed with the genetic condition, Celiac disease. We’re not talking ‘I’m not eating gluten because I hope I lose weight.’ Or ‘I can’t eat wheat while I’m nursing because my infant is allergic.’ Or even, ‘We’re hoping one day she outgrows it.’ I’m talking my kid can’t eat school lunch, can’t put her banana on a table if a sandwich sat

Welcome to the new look Mothers on the Verge. Thanks to those lovely people over at Blogger, who have in their wisdom introduced an all-singing, all dancing, bells 'n' whistles super-fancified new template designer , we can now pretend to be so much better than we actually are at all that technical html splendidly geeky stuff. Yup, what I'm saying is that it's fairly idiot proof. Meaning that even we old birds (y'know, desperately trying to keep up with the kids but still having trouble remembering to say 'DVD' rather than 'video'... yup, we're probably doomed) can make our blogs look pretty without a whole heap of effort. We likey. You blogger dudes rock. Hats off.

Following on from Tuesday's post: Mamafia are bitches and so bitchiness is the only thing they understand; the only solution is to out-bitch the bitches . Simple, right? Erm, kind of. The problem is if, like us, you're invariably too slow in shooting back a cutting response. The best retort in the world is inevitably wasted when the recipient is but a tiny speck on the horizon. Leaving you standing there feeling impotent, kicking yourself and cursing your incompetence. To lessen the chances of this most unsatisfying outcome, MotV has been honing our bitch gene to a fine point while slaving away on a cut-out-and-keep response sheet to amply prepare you for any future Mamafia face-offs. Read on and weep: Mamafia put-down : "Oh, you are looking well. I so love to see a pregnant woman looking properly pregnant, with real womanly curves and a great big bump. So wonderful and brave that you're not obsessing about your weight and denying yourself little treats throug

One of the absolute essentials for all mothers to get down with - and something they NEVER tell you in all those blah-blah happyland baby manual books - is how to deal with the Mamafia, aka (s)mothers. Now, new mothers may lull themselves into a false sense of security by thinking they have a few more years to go before they have to do deal with the school gate crowd. But I have news for you , girlfriend. The Mamafia is everywhere; where mamas gather, the Mamafia lurks. Sure they're at the school gates - but they're also at Baby Rhyme Time, at local library story sessions, at Happy Clappers Teenies Music Mayhem, stretching out at Baby Yoga, in your baby doctor's waiting room... they might even be in disguise as One Of Your Friends . Yup, now you're a mama you just can't get away from them. But how to recognise a fully fledged Mamafia member? Here's a simple checklist: All Mamafia moms display Alpha characteristics. This makes them super competitive and ext

Oh dear. Oh dear me. Oh deary deary deary me. Have just discovered that the teacher I thought was called Miss (w)Horeson is actually called Miss Hallsham. It appears that Firstborn has been pronouncing her name a bit strangely - or maybe all those years of bopping in front of great big speakers at dodgy gigs has finally come home to roost. There I was, feeling really sorry for the poor woman, thinking that it was such a shame for a young pretty girl like her to be saddled with the sort of name that makes schoolboys snigger (oh, ok, and mums old enough to know better). Or shall we say that I  did feel sorry for her... right up to when she loudly corrected me on my humungous mispronunciation gaffe whilst throwing me the sort of sad, pitying look I myself would reserve for a mad old bat who smells of wee. Oh. Well, that's not entirely fair. I'm pretty sure I don't smell of wee.

Poor Alpha managed to inflict 2nd degree burns on himself this weekend, which just serves to demonstrate that twiddling with the radiator cap attached to a hot car engine is never a wise idea. But he was pretty lucky in that he only managed to cook part of his hand and forearm - it could have been much worse. The resulting blisters are quite stunning and it is only my commendable sense of common decency, oh yes, and my fear of making you all feel a bit sick, that's stopping me from posting the pictures. Alpha was very brave and manly about his injury, even though it must have hurt like crazy (and probably still does). Personally I would have been shrieking in agony and writhing about on the floor while shouting for painkilling drugs... but then I will happily admit to being a wuss. The only real problem is that Alpha's right arm is trussed up and he has to avoid getting it wet for the rest of the week. This isn't a problem in itself, you'll understand - the problem

So, yes. There actually are Mothers involved with Mothersontheverge – although my absence for the past year, it’s understandable thinking that YLM was solo. She’s amazing – and I’m a hideous flake for disappearing for 12 months (was it that long?? Maybe 11?) Don’t want to go into a long sob story, but as I am hoping to be welcomed back by you all and YLM I think some explanation is required. So in April last year a family member was diagnosed with cancer – on Easter Sunday. (Loved that, right?) No, not The Prince, or The Rabbit, but someone still in my immediate family and it knocked me a bit. To jump right to the main point – the cancer appears to be beaten, surgeries are over, and we’re all starting to breathe again a bit. Then right around that same time The Rabbit began experiencing extreme acid reflux – every night. Eight months of Prevacid did little to knock the situation into appeal. And after a battery of more tests, and a biopsy (not fun let me tell you, watching your 7

Happy Mother's Day, fellow matriarchs. Although personally, it's highly likely I'd have forgotten if the the kids hadn't woken me up with excited demands for large amounts of moolah. "Whaddyaneedmoneyfor?" I mumbled, trying to pull the pillows over my head to escape the cruel daylight seeping through the curtain gaps (mental note: must buy blackout lining). "For the Mother's Day sale at school of course!" they shrieked, leaping up and down on the bed and, accidentally I'm sure, squishing my left ankle. So I eagerly await hometime in anticipation of a being presented with a bar of squished soap and/or lavender scented talcum powder, together with beaming smiles and squirming pride. I will, of course, flatter them to kingdom come about their excellent taste, their general wonderfulness and my soaring happiness as a result of said wonderfulness. Although it won't be much of an effort, I must say - those girls could present me with a pie

We get all sorts coming through our doors since we relocated to Dubai. Some for a holiday, some passing through, some looking for refuge and a (tiny) few choosing the homely comforts and quirky charm of Casa Alpha over the straightforward luxury of a business trip hotel. Having guests is a new experience for us as oddly enough nobody wanted to sleep on a blow-up guest bed wedged into a teeny space of our weeny London flat (unless very, very drunk)... Through having experienced so many guests over the past 12 months I now have valuable insight into what makes the difference between welcoming a guest back for a repeat visit with open arms, and being forced to mutter lame excuses as to why another visit this side of my being alive is not going to work out. And I must say that I'll be mending my own manners accordingly from now on. Following input from friends here in Dubai who also have loads of guests, here is the definitive MotV Good Guest Guide : Make your own way from airport

One of the peculiarities of living in Dubai is that you eventually figure out that 99% of the people residing here are somewhat liberal with the truth. In fact, many people will happily and blatantly lie to your face. They will try to stick to their story like superglue, even when faced with the sort of evidence that any sane and reasonable person would be forced to accept and thus eat their words. So, you know they're lying, they know they're lying, the rest of the world probably knows they're lying... and yet they will persist until they turn blue in the face and gulp their last breath (as you give in to temptation and merrily throttle them ... in your imagination at least). The secret is to refuse to give up and hang in there, insisting that you are right and they are wrong, preferably in a loud voice. This behaviour is all a pointless little game you see, a bit of a pissing match, with the winner being the one who insists that they are right the longest. There is litt

Okay. Maybe I'm not exactly a girl anymore since I'm most certainly the wrong side of 25 (oh, ok then , make that 35), but whatever I am, I like it. These are the reasons why: Women have the extraordinary ability to discuss the state of their vaginas - usually in a post-childbirth context - with other females (often whom they've only just met) without any qualms or embarrassment whatsover. Have you ever overheard men talking about their equipment in such a way (sorry chaps but boastful lies about size/ conquests do NOT count)? Me thinks not. Women can have a good old cry without aspersions being cast re their sexual leanings. Added to the fact that A Good Old Cry is, in most cases, much more effective than therapy (not to mention cheaper and more time effective).  Women can immerse themselves in the wearing of make-up, dresses, hairpieces, complicated undergarments and chicken fillet boobs without being teased by her mates or punched by a hairy bigot. Some men also like

Someone called Chen has kindly offered me riches beyond my wildest dreams via email; the subject says '100% legal', a great relief as obviously I was slightly concerned as to its validity. I'll let you know how I get on, shall I?

Pity party is officially over, hurrah, but been a bit busy with visitors etc, not to mention the looming excitement of the school Spring Fayre. This annual extravaganza has had all the resident schoolie alpha mums in a right old twitter (the old fashioned kind, not the Ashton-n-Demi kind) and there's been a fair few cases of flying feathers due to PTA heavy-handedness. Some of those mothers must have been CEOs or dictators in their previous lives -  lethal scary ballbreaking behaviour has been witnessed at Dubai Dreams Primary in the past few weeks and there are physical and mental scars to show for it. (Not mine, I hasten to add). There's a lot to be said for being Up The Duff in terms of skiving off from one's existing maternal duties (always searching out a silver lining, that's me oh yes siree). I've offered a bit of bunting and half an hour each on the Year 1 Hoopla and the Year 3 Decorate A Cookie stands, said offers being delivered with a bit of back rubb