mothers on the verge

Me: What do you want to be when you grow up? Firstborn: (after a long pause) I want to be God. Me: (stifled mirth) Hmmmph. Maybe going to Catholic school wasn't such a good idea for Firstborn after all.

More from the Birthday Front: So as you know, I turned (bleep) last week on my birthday and had a surprise bigger than the fact my eyebrows appear to be graying. The Prince suggested I have a small party at our house that night and order some pizza and he would try and get home before it was over from work and grab a cake from the grocery. Surely you know me well enough now to know....I left many raging messages on my friend's voice mail and let him know what a negligent heinous man he was. My birthday came, we had pizza, he came home with a small bakery cake, and it left. Then he decided, "Hey. I'm a huge loser with a luscious wife. I need to invite a few people out for Saturday night and take her to some lame chain restaurant for her birthday." So he asked me to hire the babysitter. And told me not to dress up too much -- it wasn't that fancy of a place. Would you have divorced him yet? In the cab on the way to the restaurant (and we're late, by the way for ...

Well, another birthday hit last week - all I will say is that when asked how old I am I now answer: "I haven't decided yet." Lest anyone think that's an attempt to hide the fact I've headed over into the land of 40s, it is not. But I am truly trying to prepare myself for when that odometer ticks over. And yes, I don't have many more years to go. "Jeez," many of you will say. "What a lam-o MM is. Who CARES how old you are??" Uh, that would be narcissistic me. There are times when age is important. Getting a driver's license. Being able to marry someone without your parents permission. Buying a margarita (which I seriously need right now.) But I wish we just stopped counting. Because I can see over the hill (yes, pun intended) and I don't think it's going to be that pretty. I can smell ageism just ahead. And please, yes, it exists. So, I am going to stop counting. And given my penchant for forgetting people's names, I am hopin...

I was sent this recently and it made me chuckle. Enjoy. Are you ready for children? Why didn't anybody warn us? Follow these simple tests before you decide to have children... Test 1 Women: To prepare for maternity, put on a dressing gown and stick a beanbag down the front. Leave it there for 9 months. After 9 months remove 10% of the beans. Men: To prepare for paternity, go to local chemist, tip the contents of your wallet onto the counter and tell the pharmacist to help himself. Then go to the supermarket. Arrange to have your salary paid directly to their head office. Go home. Pick up the newspaper and read it for the last time. Test 2 Find a couple who are already parents and berate them about their methods of discipline, lack of patience, appallingly low tolerance levels and how they have allowed their children to run wild. Suggest ways in which they might improve their child's sleeping habits, toilet training, table manners and overall behaviour. Enjoy it. It will be the ...

Well, I have heard from some of you -- and from YLM -- that I have been lame in not writing for nearly a month. And I agree. All I can tell you is that, well, I basically did one of my disappearing acts which when I was in my 20s would cause me to unplug my phone and not return calls for a week. My friends would think something had happened to me, and I would sit in my apartment and try to de-stress. I did the equivalent, except that when you're married, and you have a child and full-time work that it's almost impossible to do that. But clearly I managed to avoid here. Can't say that I have shed my stress coat, but I promise to at least and write more often. Nothing's lamer than a blogger who doesn't blog. I think I almost lost my membership.

Going out is something I don't do well anymore. I don't mean just venturing out of the house -I can manage that quite well if it's a jaunt to work, the school run or the shops - it's the proper going-out-in-the-evening-necessitating-dressing-up-a-bit-and-expecting-to-have-fun sort of going out I have a problem with. You know, the sort of thing you did a number of nights a week B.C. (Before Children) without any apparent difficulty. In those days staying in was something you had to do from time to time out of medical necessity and to avoid bankrupcy. Now staying in is the status quo and going out is fraught with issues. The first thing is that I'm too damned tired/ lazy to haul my behind off the sofa most evenings. I like the coziness of staying in with a movie and Alpha Male primed to cook dinner. I like the fact that the sofa has a dent in it that almost exactly matches the shape of my rear. I like being able to wear my nastiest clothes and not care (after all Alph...

It's official. It's winter. The winter coat has made an appearance, I can't be bothered to shave my legs and I'm already starting to suffer the annoyance of tights (or hose for our American readers). Is is just me or is it a universal complaint that the crotch on a pair of tights always ends up halfway down the thighs by midday? And there's nothing less attractive than a thirty-something woman stopping in the street to hoist up their gusset. I don't suit winter. I don't suit summer much either (mozzie bites, sunburn, heat rash, frizzy hair) but winter is definately the worst. My face is a mottled grey and the skin on my body has dandruff, partly a loud protest about the shock of central heating and partly because I'm too tired to exfoliate. At least I can cover up from neck to toe. I'm always jealous of women who have lovely smooth skin all year round. The type that actively embraces the Christmas party season with a tiny black sleeveless dress and n...

Apart from providing me with hard evidence that I am definitely a city girl and a motorway sissy to boot, this week has also reminded me that children are extremely hard work. Firstborn is much easier than the Small(er) One due to the fact that she is four, and so can be reasoned with 80% of the time or at least brought to heel by the threat of a stint on the 'thinking step' (a punishment worse than a week without Smarties, Firstborn's drug of choice). The Small(er) One, on the other hand, is a chubby ball of rage and stubbornness with a penchant for mind-numbing repetition. She enjoys asking the same question 33,000 times, especially if it is of a stunningly mundane nature. Her favorite word is "NO!" (delivered at full volume, often emphasised by falling on the floor and screaming so loud her face turns puce). She takes an obvious pleasure in disagreeing with everything anyone says and is a natural rebel. On principle, she refuses to get dressed in anything prac...

Ten major problems with the Cornish countryside in Autumn: 1. Trees and fields are all very well, but after a few days the thrill most certainly wears off. Especially when there's nothing else to do and you're limited to admiring nature from indoors, because... 2. It rains. All the bloody time. 3. The food around these parts is terrible. Wall to wall Tesco and not a Waitrose for 20 miles, let alone shops selling local produce. It's easier to get hold of a proper muddy carrot in central London than it is in the countryside when you're surrounded by fields jammed full of vegetables. 4. Dining options are limited to the Cornish pasty shop, the fish and chip shop, the Chicken Lickin' takeaway, and a pub filled with grumpy old bastards. All the food is beige (except for the mushy peas at the chippie). 5. The locals are most definitely not friendly. 6. The best clothes shop in town is crowded with oldies stocking up on nylon knickers and support hose. 7. The local swimmin...

It's half term and I have uprooted my two city kids from their two-bed apartment in the middle of London to go stay with my mother and step-father in their eight-bedroom pile in the middle of Cornwall. Firstborn and the Small(er) One don't know what's hit them. The abundance of greenery and wide expanse of space has had the kids running around in a frenzy - the sort of frenzy you only usually see after a sugar-laden birthday party lash-up. Although the fact that my mother has a well-stocked biscuit tin and an unusual amount of generosity might also be a contributary factor. Added to this heady mix is a TV the size of a cinema screen, hefty furniture that can cope with acrobatic children, two cats to torment, lots of stairs to absail down, and last but definately not least, an adoring granny who doesn't bellow at them for grevious lapses in manners/ pulling the cat's tail/ wiping their grimy hands on the curtains/ weeing on the upholstery/ etc. First-born and the Sma...

Not that there was any doubt, but I think it's official now. How do I know? My best friend (who is not a mother, so what does she know! --that was in case she's actually reading this...) told me I am a stress case. So there you go. So here's my question: WHAT MOTHER OUT THERE IS NOT A STRESS CASE?!?!?! Seriously. Because if someone out there has some secret, I really want to know. For so long I have been on boil. Long past medium simmer. My top blew a long time ago. And I don't know how to bring it down. Because anger is not exactly the most fun friend to carry around. She's a one-noter, and frankly a real drag. But honestly, there's so much to be angry at. I don't want to go into the huge laundry list (because truthfully I started typing it and it looked lame to me...) but basically, it seems like the font is never empty. So, other than pharmaceutical suggestions: I am all ears.

Firstborn is starting to complain about my working status. It started as a plaintive, "I wish you could pick me up from school, Mummy," and is currently at the stage of "Why do you have to work Mummy? Lots of other mummies don't go to work and that means they come to all the parent assemblies and sports days and concerts and bake sales." Hands up, I have missed out on school events (although Alpha hasn't yet managed to attend one of these momentous occasions which is pleasing only in that it makes me feel properly smug in comparison). It's not because I haven't wanted to go along - one of my fondest memories is seeing Firstborn dressed as an angel for her first nursery nativity play - but because business and school seem to have different ideas on what constitutes a decent notice period. Schools think a week or two is sufficient (or in one case, the day before) while my work diary fills up at least two weeks in advance. And sod's law, it always s...

Poor Rabbit. I feel for you, MM, I really do. The smaller they are, the louder the heart breaks. The letter worked a treat. Teacher was on the phone by 9.30am Monday morning reporting that she had spoken to Firstborn at length, and had then taken all the offending children on one side and prophesied many hours spent languishing in disgrace in the school secretary's office if the behaviour didn't stop immediately. She also picked out a couple of little girls to 'look after' Firstborn, which seems to be all that was needed to form a friendship - Firstborn has been talking about these girls non-stop all week, to the point that we are now embarking on a brave new world of out-of-school playdates. Let's face it, school sucks. And I suspect it's only going to get worse. I think I too need to dust off the boxing gloves and teach Firstborn how to land an effective right-hook.

I know I planned on telling The Rabbit's teacher all about the infractions being splayed upon her. So I took her to school this morning and saw this in the classroom: She walked in and began joyfully playing hopscotch on a rug with a little boy who she says has hit her and tells her he can't play with her. The main girl bully was being coaxed out of a cubby and then sat sulking in a chair, refusing to take part in morning activities. The second girl bully was tattling on some other boys to her teacher, whining that they said they were the boss. Of course, yes, I know that it is these very acts of anti-social behavior that could be leading these creatures to go after my cheerful, smiling Rabbit. But I also realized that she seemed to be able to still walk into the classroom happy and cheerful -- despite the problems she's having. And that, frankly, she seemed more well adjusted than these other kids. We also spent 20 minutes last night role-playing with her before she went t...

Sorry for the absence. I wish it was for a yummy holiday, but truth is it's been a rough patch with the Rabbit. Boy do I know where you are coming from YLM. Like Firstborn, all the Rabbit has been telling us about school is that she eats lunch. Nothing else. And her teachers are barely forthcoming with any details. One is out right rude to me. To my face. Not quite nasty, but it's on the fence. Tonight, too, it came out. Not that The Prince and I haven't seen it coming. Especially me. On the playground after school there are a few girls who won't play with The Rabbit. One girl in particular is a choice bully who often tells The Rabbit she can't play. Another treats her like a baby and I suspect it's rubbing off on the other kids. I've literally heard her say it to the other kids: "[The Rabbit] is a baby. She's not even four yet." The Rabbit is the youngest in her class -- and at times does act young. Not babyish, but young. But tonight she let ...

Manhattan Mama and the Rabbit have already been there (on the other side of the Pond) and now it's Firstborn's turn to be bullied. And there I was thinking that kind of thing wouldn't happen in a nice pious Church school - guess I was wrong. Firstborn has always been a really extroverted and confident little girl but since she started at this school last month she's become shy and withdrawn. The most marked change has been at birthday parties at the weekend - whereas she used to dive into the melee with glee, the past three parties (two this weekend, gahhhh) have been marked with tears and a refusal to be parted from me for even a second. Firstborn has also been having nightmares, major tantrums and being extremely contrary -she's no angel but this is all unusual behaviour for her. Alpha and I have been getting concerned and suspected that all was not well at school, but when questioned Firstborn has been unusually reticent, only wanting to talk about what she'...

Finally, we have broadband access again - no thanks to Tiscali, which never did get its act together and reconnect us since their huge technical boo-boo, despite almost daily assurances that our service would be back up in five working days. Yeah, and the cheque's in the post... Right now, I'm curled up with the laptop, our squeaky new ntl broadband, and CSI on the telly. Alpha has gone out to a party and the kids are fast asleep. I would be in total bliss if I hadn't finished all the ice-cream in the freezer earlier in the week and if it wasn't for the fact that people keep buzzing our flat looking for the brothel/crack den that has recently opened for business in our building. Fortunately the offending entrepreneurs are three floors above us but unfortunately our flat is next to the fire exit which the pimp has taken to leaving open to ensure easy access for his customers after midnight (before which time Alpha and I keep closing it). Strange men roving around our bui...

I know that there are much more important things to worry about, such as war and global warming, but since my recent birthday I have found myself fretting somewhat about my age, and more specifically, the negative effect time is having on my appearance. Yes, I am aware that vanity is not an appealing characteristic, but that’s for me to live with and you to judge me on. The sad fact is that I am now most definitely a ‘thirty-something’, and no amount of pretence and artifice is going to change that. So I have decided to become a high maintenance woman. Now, I must make it clear that high-maintenance is not something that I have had more than a passing acquaintance with. For me, going to a salon is a twice yearly event and one of those trips usually involves no more than a request for a trim (inevitably followed by tears on the way home. Why is it that a simple request for “two inches off the ends please” is interpreted as “give me a buzz cut and why not throw in a few ginger highlights...

Here's what I think: Cliques start at age 3. Sorry that would be 4 -- because that is the age of the girls who told the rabbit that she couldn't play with them on the playground at school today because she was 3. How do I know? Because she came home and told me how excited she was that she would be 4 soon and could play with her friends again. That's the pause for me trying to remember to breathe. Then another little girl told her mom that the rabbit pushed her during class. (The mom thoughtfully delivered this info to me by e-mail.) The rabbit handles aggression by whining. Still. At age 3. When she gets mad she either bursts into tears, or sits in a corner alone. And maybe happily waits until she is 4. I suppose it's possible the rabbit has started to use physical violence when I, the Prince, our friends, her three babysitters and aunt are not around. Anything is possible. I could wake up tomorrow morning the Publisher's Clearing House winner. Anything can happen....

It’s been a really hard week, both emotionally and physically. Firstborn started school on Tuesday, a big milestone by any measure. I hadn’t quite prepared myself for quite how much of an upheaval it would be. Firstborn and the Small(er) One have been at a full-time nursery since January which has worked out brilliantly; the staff are great, the location is convenient and the facilities are good. It’s not ideal – they have a long day and I always seem to be rushing from one place to another – but on the whole it’s worked out really well. But this week, things changed…big time. I arranged to work from home for the week on flexitime to fit in with Firstborn’s new school hours, which involved a major juggle for Alpha Male and I, dropping children off in two different places (at opposite ends of the Borough) then me picking them up at different times and starting to work again once they went to bad. Tricky and tiring, but not impossible. The first fly in the ointment came when Alpha Male c...