mothers on the verge

I'm not scared of the things that make a lot of people go a bit wibbly. Spiders? I'll happily scoop them up and toss them outside. Mice? Whatever. Snakes? I wouldn't cuddle a poisonous one but I did once play with a Boa. Heights? I wouldn't bungee jump but otherwise not really bothered. Flying? Bring it on. So it's a bit embarrassing to admit that my one major fear is being submerged in water. Yes, I realise it's completely irrational, especially since I can swim, but what I'm simply terrified of is my head being under water. Whenever it happens I go into panic mode and immediately forget that trying to breathe under water really isn't a smart idea. The only time I can do it - and I've forced myself to go under water in the past to see if I can get over the fear - is if I talk to myself constantly to calm myself down whilst holding my nose, not really very useful when taken by surprise. The last time I panicked and inhaled water was at Dreamland Aq

You can pretty much guarantee that if I dare to go out and party, come home late and wake up with a dire hangover the next day, this is what will happen: 1.  The baby will wake up at 3am and 5am for no apparent reason. Then she'll be raring to go from 6am, demanding to be fed and entertained. She will also choose that day to decide to learn how to go up and down stairs - again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again... 2. If I've managed to negotiate a lie-in the older girls will come in to the bedroom umpteen times, bellow in my ear to wake me up and ask really essential stuff like: "What time is it?", "Where's Daddy?", "Is the Earth really round?" and "Do you think I should wear the pink or the green t-shirt?" Sigh. 3. All three kids will choose to be absolutely hideous, bursting into tears at every available opportunity, arguing about everything possible, moaning about the lack of nice food (i.e. s

I mean, well, gosh...

The Ladies Night Lurker (LNL) is not a classy kind of guy. Old enough to know better, often divorced (or will be as soon as his wife finds out about his obsessive Ladies Night habit), desperation oozes from his pores. You can't spot him by appearance alone - the LNL comes in all shapes, sizes, ages and grades of attractiveness. Tragic clothes aren't much of a marker but he tends to keep in shape - after all, he's been round the block enough times to know that a beer gut isn't going to help him score. But whatever his physical appearance, the LNL can be easily identified by his beady little eyes darting about frantically as he clocks the room for the shortest skirts and the best cleavage. He might be smiling sweetly at the prettiest girls or pretending to have a laugh with the lads, but you can be sure that he's mentally rating the shaggability of each and every female coming through the door and chalking them up in order of preference, preparing his plan of att

Every week it's a major battle to get the kids to do their homework. Anyone else out there with school-age kids will know exactly what this scenario is like and it sure isn't pretty. Sometimes I get an intense urge to throw in the towel and let them face their teachers and explain to them why their homework tasks haven't been completed but when it comes down to it I'm simply too soft/ scared of teacher rage to see it through. So I resort to good old-fashioned bribery instead. Let me tell you, the threat of their Nintendo DS's hibernating on the top of the naughty cupboard is usually enough to get them to finish. But the girls are also masters of The Cr*p Excuse and have a multitude of delaying tactics. As follows: 1) "I can't do homework now. I need a poo!" 2) "I don't need to do my homework. I'm clever enough already." 3) (Whiney voice, teeth instantly on edge) "But MUMMY, I'm too tired/ sick/ sad..." 4) "B

Bit concerned that I may be turning into a Jumeirah Jane (Meadows Milly??) after clocking up two speed shopping sessions at Mall of the Emirates in less than 36 hours. I need to get a grip or before I know it I'll be doing twice-weekly sessions at Tips & Toes and claiming I simply can't live without bi-monthly caviar and pearl facials . I think I need a job. Anybody want to hire me? 13 or so years of cross-sector consumer PR experience with lots of in-house training, mentoring and copywriting under my belt... more than happy to diversify. I'll be available from September. All legal offers considered, email: mothersontheverge@gmail.com.

There's been some debate on this blog and out in the real world as to whether or not I can reasonably claim to be a girl. Yes, I suppose technically I'm no longer a girl... if you were to rely on the following dictionary definition: girl      [ gurl ]     Show IPA –noun 1. a   female   child,   from   birth   to   full   growth. 2. a   young,   immature   woman,   especially   formerly,   an   unmarried  one. 3. a   daughter:   My   wife   and   I   have   two   girls Origin:   1300;   Middle   English   gurle,   girle,   gerle     child,   young   person; compare   Old   English   gyrela,   gi ( e)   rela,     item   of   dress,   apparel  (presumably   worn   by   the   young   in   late   OE   period,   and   hence   used  as   a   metonym) —Can   be   confused:     gal ,  girl,   lady ,  woman   It is true that, to quote from one of my favorite films , that I am indeed "...as old as f*ck" (comparatively speaking) and thus claiming to be a girl might be v

Feeling too disgruntled and moody to blog properly today, sorry (promise I'll get back on form soon) so instead of the usual Thursday Dubai Stereotypes piece, I'd like to share a few tracks from the rather excellent new album from Norah Jones , '...Featuring' . This is Norah as you probably haven't heard her before...

Here's a night for anyone who likes to get their glam on and isn't too bothered about the lines of ladies night lurkers there just to check out the chicks. Oh yes, Oneo  at the Westin is a meat market for sure - single ladies, be aware that while the quality of the girls is of the fillet mignon variety, the male lurkers are more Big Mac than where it's at (note to the man wearing tight white jeans with white patent pointy loafers - wtf??!), so the single girls accompanying the Mommy Posse last night were a little disappointed with the lack of manly eye candy on display... Although I felt somewhat overdressed due to the fact that my skirt was long enough to cover my pants (knee-length, if you must know), unlike many of the laydees hanging out last night, Oneo offers up a seriously lively night with three free drinks for girls between 6-9pm and danceable tunes. It's not somewhere you'd want to go for serious conversation, it's way too noisy and packed for tha

Despite my initial trepidation yesterday's shoot turned out to be a lot of fun - the VIVA girls are just lovely, as were the other ladies I was photographed with. Then some of the Mummy Posse showed up for their photos just as I'd finished so we ended up hanging out for most of the morning, sneaking peeks at the fashion samples ( serious shoe envy) and generally having a laugh. So pleased I'm a girl. I've promised Jo, the very glam VIVA editor, that I won't give too much away about the feature as she's keen to keep it under wraps until the mag comes out in June, but you can see some behind the scenes shots on VIVAs Facebook page  as well as these images taken by Jo and I while on the shoot (using my new iPhone Hipstamatic app, which is simply brilliant), featuring two of my beautiful GFs.

The worst thing about the run-up to the hot, hot, hot Dubai summer is the hungry mozzie invasion. These bitey little pests can become mighty annoying - especially if, like me, you're partial to sitting outside in the evening for a glass of something relaxing accompanied by a naughty blast of nicotine. I've always hated mosquitoes. Unfortunately the feeling isn't mutual - mozzies think I'm delicious. Even coated with thick layers of industrial strength repellent, the little buggers somehow get through. I once spent the night in a very basic cabana in Mexico under a mosquito net, taking the precaution of wearing full length pyjama bottoms tucked into socks with a long sleeved t-shirt and a liberal application of DEET; I woke up in the morning with 53 bites on various parts of my body, including my bum. How? I'm still baffled. It wouldn't be such a problem, vanity aside, if it wasn't for the fact that I'm allergic to mosquito stings (and most insect bit

I got back in one piece to Dubai on Tuesday night and squeezed the kids as promised. Since then I've been seriously jet-lagged - that 24-hour travel time plus the 11-hour time difference has proven to be a bit tricky to shake off - hence the no-show on the blog. Apologies, but a brain like porridge just doesn't blog too well. Actually, a brain like porridge doesn't do anything well. So far, I've managed to act even more like a dork than usual, inadvertently offend at least three people, waffle like a fool at all and sundry, sideswipe myself on umpteen door frames, scrape both shins (now sporting scabs, v attractive), nearly get wiped out on the Sheik Zayed Road twice, drop things constantly and shout in an unreasonable manner at the kids about 93 times. Not bad for a mere four days, eh? The upside is that I quite like waking up at 3am every morning. It's amazing how much stuff you can get done when everyone else is safely tucked up in bed. The only way to get

Happy Mother's Day to all of you out there in the world who are celebrating today. We're having a family party - my grandfather, my two aunts and uncles, and myself. Three mothers but none of us will have our children with us today. That will seem a little strange. But we have a feast planned, the cake we always have at special family events has been ordered and the beer is on ice. My aunts and I are guaranteed to fall over with helpless laughter about something incredibly silly that nobody else will be able to comprehend, there will be at least one family-style disagreement with eyes rolling and lots of huffing and puffing, a lot of reminiscing and a touch of sadness as we tell stories of  my grandmother, who was always the life and soul of any party. And, of course, we'll be making the most of Grandad still being here with us. It's my last day here in Fresno as I have to take the early train to San Francisco tomorrow morning. It always makes me sad to leave my f

It's a difficult thing, watching someone you love near the end of their life. My grandfather, who is and always has been very special to me, has Parkinson's, Alzheimer's and cancer, and is going downhill fast. He's achieved an impressive 92 years on this planet but now he's had enough, he's ready to go. And while on an intellectual level I understand this, agree with it, admire him for his determination to refuse any treatment that might prolong his life - after all, why would anyone want to extend a life that has become painful, frustrating and so much less than it was? - on an emotional level I never want to let him go. The bratty child in me is having a silent tantrum, wants to cling on and keep him with us by sheer force of will, which is nothing to do with what's good for him and is all about me. But I keep these selfish feelings to myself. I bite them back and I bury them deep. Because all my grandfather needs now is a quiet and tender farewell fro

Having a few technical/ connectivity issues so this blog post is being typed out (painfully slowly) on my iPhone. Which means this post is going to be very very short. Hopefully normal service will be resumed soon...

Off to San Francisco in the morning to see my Grandpa and the rest of my lovely American family. It's a 16 hour flight, then a long-ish train journey to Fresno , most famous for... well... not sure really, but it's the birthplace of a 1,000 happy childhood memories for me and also where I was conceived (too much information? Sorry). I'll try to blog when I get there. In the meantime I'll be enjoying back-to-back movies and quiet time on the flight over in between desperately missing my kids and Alpha, and worrying about all the things that might possibly (but probably won't) go wrong. 'Speak' soon.