mothers on the verge

Expat Mammy inspired me to share my past experiences of depression. Hopefully it will help others who find themselves in the same boat, especially considering that depression is such an isolating experience. One of its key symptoms is that it makes you feel more lonely and disconnected from the world than you'd think possible. My first incidence of feeling depressed - and by this I don't mean being a bit down or kind of sad but properly in-your-face depressed - was in my early 20s. It was most certainly situational depression brought on by the disintegration of my family (the fact that my life was going nowhere at the time didn't help either). There I was, disappointed on so many levels; the foundations that my life had been built on were shattered and I felt completely bereft, lacking the life skills required of an alleged grown up and with zero confidence in myself, my past and my future. I cried a lot. I hid in my room. I spent large amounts of time holed up in be

The only thing worse than emotional pain is emotional paralysis.

Everyday for lunch I make the same sandwich — turkey on toasted oatmeal bread, with cucumber and green pepper. It's a crunchy ritual I look forward to everyday not just because I love my lunch but because I make it for me. I never really got that idea of doing something for yourself everyday until I got sick this year. I'm very used to doing things for the Kid and the Prince but putting me first? Nope. Until this spring. I had to make time between work and home life for physical therapy, rest, exercise. And yes, even making something for my lunch. And it wasn't until I started the lunch routine that I realized how stupid I'd been. Not putting myself first (at least once a day!) meant I expected someone else would do that for me. I spit out a lot of memes on self reliance to my friends. But I forgot to shove the advice down my own throat. No longer. It's 11:30am here in NYC and I'm about to munch my lunch. So. What are you making for yourself today?

Off to London today for a reunion with old friends, a wedding and a visit to my dear ex-Dubai BF The Harpenden Housewife, not to mention a spot of shopping (sorry, but Dubai simply isn't a patch on London for small boutiques packed with delicious things). I'm looking forward to having a beer or two at my old haunt The Builder's Arms , having dinner at one of my favorite Italian restaurants  (nothing fancy but quirky decor and consistently amazing food), lunch with an old GF at the fabulous Spanish tapas joint Dehesa , and of course an indulgent trawl around some great Notting Hill boutiques . Then I'm headed for North Wales on what is essentially a research trip. I've been trying to pull together a story aimed at young adults over the past six months and, finally, it's just starting to come together. Some essential holes in the plot have been filled following a lot of thinking and a bit of what might possibly be divine inspiration. The final step before I c

One very lovely song, two very different versions.

"Why do all these people who live in France have to speak French all the time?" "I love horses. They look really yummy, too. But I do really love them." "Mummy, you're going away and leaving us for a whole week?" *guilty feelings* "Does that mean we get loads of treats and get to stay up late every night?" Firstborn: "Mummy! Baby Belly has my DSi and she won't give it back!" BB (one year old): "Mine." "That was really funny, Mummy. You should put it on your blog."

Live in the moment. Anything else is a distraction.

When I was a kid communicating with the outside world was pretty simple. If a letter came through the door, you wrote a response within the week (if you were polite) on your best notepaper and walked it round to the local Post Office. Phone calls came through that big plastic thing attached to the wall, the one with the dial, and if you were expecting a call then you stayed at home until it rang (although this was torture for teenagers waiting for boys to call, especially if your dad insisted on hovering by the stairs to ensure nothing smutty was being said). Once you left the house you were unreachable unless you chose to drop a shiny ten pence piece into the feed slot of a public telephone. If you dropped round to someone's house and they weren't home, you scribbled a note and pushed it through the letterbox. See? Easy. A limited number of options. These days, it's so much more complicated. Email, mobile, SMS, Facebook, Twitter and a variety of other ways for people

Driving a stick-shift for the first time in years along narrow French lanes with exciting hairpin bends, window open, wind in my hair, alone, blasting out The White Stripes on the car stereo. Who needs therapy?

Me: I would wear it with a bra. It needs a solid bra. Neighbor: I don't know. You're getting too complicated. Me: How is it too complicated? Neighbor: It's just too complicated. Me: Don't understand. Neighbor: You're adding too many variables. Me: It's just a bra. Neighbor: I don't know. It's complicated.

The Maid Slave (MS) is a woman on the verge of desperation. It's summertime so of course the kids are off school and going nuts from boredom and, if that wasn't bad enough, the prospect of going home for a full six weeks without her maid at her side makes her feel a little sick inside. MS isn't sure how some of her friends manage without a live-in maid. A few of them even do their own housework! Her mind boggles when she thinks about how different her life would be without dear Rashida; no long lunches with the girls, no weekly mani-pedi, no spa days, no gym sessions... she shudders. It would be like  Before , that awful time when she had to work and do her own laundry... As it is, MS can barely make it through each Friday when she's forced to give Rashida the day off; MS would secretly like to insist that her maid works a full seven day week - after all, it's not like she does  much on her day off bar a bit of church and hanging out at the park with the local m

Marvellous, an Internet connection... Following a reasonably uneventful journey - or as uneventful as travelling with three children can be, especially when one of them is a one-year-old determined to find excitement at every available opportunity (forget Snakes On A Plane and think Walking Baby On A Plane  - can you see it? Uh-huh) - we are now in Geneva. I like Geneva. Apart from having fond memories of the place due to having lived here for close to three years as a small thing and numerous visits since, it is a very nice place indeed. I can't say I'd ever want to actually live here again - it's a touch too sanitised for my taste - but the combination of Lac Leman and the mountains looming beyond is a pleasing one. In terms of sheer Euro beauty, it delivers on many counts. We're here for the night, staying with a friend, then off via road to France tomorrow. Thank God I remembered to pack the Nintendo DS consoles which hopefully will encourage the older girls t

We're leaving Dubai in the morning (actually, think it is morning already, oops - in a few short hours then) for the summer exodus; flying in to Geneva then driving down to France where I'll be staying until mid-August, with a brief excursion to London in between. I'll be back on the blog as soon as I can.

I live in: a 1960s concrete box in the lower east side of New York City. I was born in:  St. Louis, Mo. If I could live anywhere, it would be:  In a home tucked along the cliff of Big Sur, where I could bike each morning to the Big Sur Bakery for coffee, hike to Pfeiffer Beach  to write, swim and paint, then grab a glass of Syrah and a steak outside at Nepenthe  with The Prince and The Kid. Yes every single day. My favorite escape:   See above. But in New York it's the 42nd Street Library's Rose Reading Room in winter weather, and Bryant Park in Spring. At night? The Pearl Lounge at Beauty & Essex , tucked into a banquette, Emerald Gimlet in hand. 5 things to do before I die:  write (and publish) several books, wear a couture gown to a formal event, learn to surf, watch my daughter grow up happy, sentient and fulfilled, and see the Palio . I most regret:  some things I can't mention here.  Most random experience: Meeting Milton Berle and having him ask me if I

The Met has a remarkable show of designer Alexander McQueen 's most famous (and infamous) work. I had 30 minutes to sneak through last week -- mesmerized by the pieces as much as the videos and installation that accompany the exhibits. A top made of balsa wood that rendered the wearer into a modern angel. (At least on the outside). A dress of shells that nevertheless appeared to flow. Antlers which sprouted from shoulders. Headpieces Cleopatra would have favored. Dark fantasies to be worn. Well worth a trek uptown. (Not a usual practice for this downtown gal.) I shot off a few images from my cell phone which besides being blurry, don't do the clothing -- or the show honestly -- justice at all. The show is up through August 7th. Go.

For all you Facebook users out there, we've been putting a fair bit of effort into our Mothers on the Verge page . In addition to links to every single one of our blog posts as and when each is published here, you'll also discover lots of extra FB-exclusive stuff such as images, links to cool things ( we think) and regular status updates. Try us and see what you think. And as always, all comments and suggestions welcome. :-)

Any woman who works — particularly in a corporate environment — knows the risk of asking a "girl question." These questions usually are about pregnancy and child care. Questions like: 1. Is maternity leave paid? 2. Can I use a sick day to take my child to the doctor? 3. Is there a private room where I can pump milk? 4. Does anyone notice the spit-up on my pants? (This would be a "girl question" to ask yourself.) A  well-crafted article by Ken Auletta , "A Woman's Place," in this week's issue of The New Yorker looks at the rise of Sheryl Sandberg, the COO of Facebook, mother of two young children, and at questions like those above. Written as a profile, the article quickly morphs into a look at women in the working world and the push by Sandberg, and women in tech to equalize this space. Sandberg appears to be a standard bearer and all the check marks are there: Friends with Gloria Steinem? Check. Commencement speaker at a Seven Sisters?

"I'm hungry!" "Sweetheart, it's only half past eleven, just wait half an hour and we'll have lunch." "It doesn't matter what time it is, for me its half past hungry!" "What's it like for animals after they get married?" "You're the best and wonderfulest and most beautiful mummy in the world, even with those crinkly bits on your face." "Mummy, let me explain something to you. I don't want to go to Kidzania because it's for kids and I'm seven years old, which is much, much bigger than a kid." "I really don't understand how Baby Belly can walk because her feet are so tiny and the rest of her is so so fat." "Is infinity an odd or an even number?"

Once upon a time, in the Land of Long Ago when the Internet was perched on its early frontiers and blogging was something a bit weird that regular folks didn't really see the point of, the hard-core blogging crowd had a passion for the meme . These things circulated at a rate of knots, in numerous formats and on all kinds of themes, often going global. My favorite was the personal meme. I haven't seen one for a while so I thought I'd start one myself in a (possibly futile) attempt to revive a trend. Indulge me, this one is basically a 'get to know you' questions mechanism for bloggers... And I always was horribly nosy. I live in: Dubai, United Arab Emirates I was born in: Manchester, United Kingdom If I could live anywhere, it would be: In a glass and concrete open-plan space perched on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, ideally situated just outside the beautiful Half Moon Bay in California, U.S.A (but if we're talking ideal world scenario then I'd al

Having lived in NYC for a significant chunk of time, I've had my share of intense subway experiences. But nothing at all prepared me for traveling the trains with The Kid. A little girl on the subway is a magnet for all layers of unpleasant behavior unfurled. I'm hardly the only one -- nearly every mother I know in the city with a daughter has their own story to tell. None of them pleasant. (and few unique to NYC.) However, there are ways to thwart at least some of this unwanted attention. For those who live here, or those thinking of visiting, here are my rules cultivated over the past 8 years: * No dresses or skirts on the subway. Sorry, I know that's uncool but so is your 5-year-old playing peak a boo with her hemline and flashing her Thursday underwear at the character across from you. Shorts and pants. Shorts and pants. * When someone starts to hop seats, positioning themselves directly across from you, with a newspaper perfectly poised in the lap, move. Or pull yo

No Dubai Stereotype today. The city seems strangely empty now the summer exodus has started and as a result I'm totally out of inspiration. I'm not complaining though as there are many good things about Dubai emptying out, such as: Getting to summer camp at the girls' school now takes an impressive 14 minutes door to door (broke a new record this morning - and all without having to drive like a total ar*se) Parking couldn't be easier, the only issue is fighting the severe choice paralysis that comes from being faced with too many empty parking spaces Doing the weekly grocery shop is now a breeze: no annoying aisle-blockers, no random rudesters trying to jump queues... *sigh of pure joy* The community pool is an oasis of calm and serenity Getting a last-minute appointment anywhere - doctor, dentist, beauty salon, spa - is now entirely possible... plus you're not made to feel like an insane person by the receptionist when you call up to request this previous

Wednesday night we kidnapped The Kid. Before adrenaline rushes through your body  -- we took her to Harry Potter land.       Yes, I flew to Orlando.  I am not a theme park opposed person in general. But Orlando? Honestly scared me. SCARED me. Parks crushing with families, in supreme heat, tremendous lack of gluten-free options, hyper imposed "FUN" everywhere. So when The Kid asked a year ago to go to the Harry Potter park (technically part of Universal Orlando ) I said, "Not ever in my lifetime, my love."  But Wednesday night we turned to her, told her to grab her favorite stuffed animal and hauled pre-packed suitcases from the closet. We wouldn't tell her where we were going but (here's where us as reporters kicks in) : she could ask anyone she wanted. Her first query? The TSA agent -- Did he knew where she was going? Quick second of me wondering if The Prince and I would be swept into closed rooms. He flicked her an eye, me an eye, and handed our passpo

Baby Belly: one year old today. As you stand poised on the threshold of your life on those wobbly fat little legs, here's what I wish for you: Wit and wisdom Courage and determination A strong work ethic Lots of laughter and a well-developed sense of the ridiculous Luck and good fortune The ability to love with your whole heart... and to feel with certainty that you are truly loved in return A strong and positive self-image Happy birthday baby girl. 

Me:  I'm grumpy The Neighbor: You think? Me: (raises eyebrow) The Neighbor: I need to get really big ice cubes. I had this one big ice cube in Paris that kept my Old Fashioned cold and the ice didn't melt. It didn't water down my drink. Me: Can't you just freeze water in a big glass? The Neighbor: No you can't. The drink will overflow. Anyway, it's a big thing. Me: In Paris? The Neighbor: In New York. It's what all the Williamsburg hipsters are doing. Me; Oh then definitely do it. Be a hipster. Do it. The Neighbor: Okay. Like right now, I would like it in my Pimm's Cup. (burp) Excuse me.

My girlfriends have always been very important to me, way back as far as I can remember. I count myself very fortunate to have met a number of great women who have become good friends over the years. Some live over the seas and far away, some live moments from my front door. Regardless of how often we see each other in person, email or speak on the phone, all these friendships are nurturing, warm, full of laughter and to be relied upon when times are hard. My friends are all very different (it seems that when it comes to women, I don't have a 'type'): some are the life and soul of the party while others are more shy and reflective; some have kids and some don't (indeed, some don't want any, ever, but that may be due to long-term over-exposure to my motley crew); some are hard-core career girls while others are happy to be stay-at-home mums; some have a dry wit while others fall over at the slightest scent of slapstick. What they do all have in common, however,

As well as party food and endless games of Twister, the end of term generally means the annual school report. When I was a kid I always viewed this yearly milestone with a certain amount of fear - was this the year that the teachers would be really mean and tell the unadulterated truth about my general perfidy and fecklessness? You've got to remember that my school days took place way back in the dark ages of the 1980's, when whacking a badly-behaved backside with a wooden ruler seemed a perfectly reasonable response from the teaching profession and rarely resulted in legal action being taken out by outraged parents. Teachers also didn't have to to focus on the more positive aspects of their students' characters, as I believe they are compelled to do in these more enlightened times, so if a child spent the school year behaving like a little sh*t you could be reasonably sure that their parents would be left under no illusions about their offspring's shortcomings co

So, here we are at the Golden Tulip hotel in Dibba. As always, the journey here from Dubai was nothing if not eventful, but I'm holding my tongue regarding the finer details in order to save Alpha from extreme public embarrassment. Let's just say that the poor lamb has been a bit busy at work recently and somewhat distracted, which may explain the mix-up... Obviously I was the image of wifely patience - just call me 'Saint Kate' - and refused to give in to the all too easy temptation of thoroughly taking the p*iss. An exhibition of unwarranted kindness and understanding which was bloody tricky to pull off; I'm ashamed to admit that a few snorts of intense amusement sneaked out on our somewhat circuitous journey, which may explain the muttered curses and tight lipped demeanor of my dear husband as we followed the signs to our final destination. Things improved upon arrival at the hotel. Greeted by the very charming and solicitous hotel manager, Mr Elie, we were whisk