mothers on the verge

Did Dinosaur art part 2 today. I still don't like dinosaurs but I do like teaching 7-year-olds. They're just so appreciative. I was treated with an embarrassing reverence all because my drawing skills don't totally suck (but let me get this straight, I'm no Picasso). I tell you, it's almost enough to go to a girl's head; if I was a teeny bit more insecure I'd be enrolling myself into teacher training college double quick. Apart from acting as an unpaid art slave at school I've been sleeping (the dreaded pregnancy narcolepsy strikes again) and working my way through the Twilight series for the second time. I love it even more on second reading, which is why you've barely heard from me in the past week - I've had my head buried in VampireLoveLand. Now, it has crossed my mind that I shouldn't really be reading books about vampires. After all, the Twilight series is kind of meant for teenagers (or at least, I assume this to be the case since...

Managed to squeeze in two parties, a long lunch and a visit to a friend this weekend, plus all the usual chore stuff, and am now prone on the sofa, so tired I'm having trouble lifting glass of wine to lips. How did I get so old ?

My mother used to say that once she had me, the red swollen bumps on her face disappeared. While not an impetus to my getting pregnant, I did look forward to a pimple-free life as an extra perk that would come along with The Rabbit. So why — more than 5 years later — do I still get break-outs? And not little nubby things. Nope. We're talking about the ones where even my daughter stares worryingly before belting out, "Oh Mama! Does that hurt?!?!?" (Oh honey, just you wait.) So here's the thing. Either my mother's a liar (no comment) or else I'm the exception to the rule. Because Mama is trying to imagine how this plays out in say 10 years when we're both warring over the benzoyl peroxide for relief.