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Wow, the air is thick with meme-awards. Can't you just hear them speeding around cybersphere. Click. Click. You're. It.
They come in all shapes and sizes: happy, honest, lovely, and close. Charming, dramatic, admirable and most.
I can't keep up with them all. So what's a Modern Mother to do? I've made up my own meme, except it's a memo, to myself, about all these damned memes.
Although I didn't know it at the time, my obsession started with an old black trunk that sat abandonded in the corner of the attic.
"Is that yours," I asked my future husband, who had the business acumen to buy this large Edwardian house in a popular market town in the Chilterns before the boom and before he had the family to fill it. I pointed to a worn metal trunk that rested on part of the attic that had no floorboards, only bare beams. A cat could easily scamper over to it and take a lazy nap, and obviously so could a spider. It was thick with dust and webs.
"No, that was there when I moved in," he said, humphing another one of my empty suitcases into place. I had just traded in my single San Francisco life for one with this man in this house. "I'll have to get a board from Jewson's to get over there," he quickly offered, already able to read my mind.
I love my Scottish husband. I would do anything for him. Give up my career, spend my days wiping dirty bottoms, make endless meals from morning 'till night.
But I absolutely, resolutely refuse to eat haggis.
Never will a forkful of that oatmeal/lamb innards mixture pass my lips. I don't care if it is a national dish. Or if my marriage depends on it. The thought of it makes my tummy turn.
I know this is not fair. I know that many people relish haggis, enjoy it even. Especially on the 25th of January, Burns Night, the birth date of the beloved Scottish poet Robbie Burns.
I hate Fridays.
Those that regularly read my rants also know I don't like Thursdays. No, I don't despise every day of the week. It's just on Fridays I've seem to have developed a child intolerance. Especially in the morning. I wake up with a severe aversion to those cute little girls who turn into cunning little gargoyles in the whole breakfast/getting dressed/get to school debacle.
Mondays are fine. We keep the weekends fairly open (though there always seems to be a birthday present to wrap and party to go to). But mainly it is appointment free. So by Monday I again have the patience of a nursery school teacher. Yes darling, I can make porridge for breakfast. No darling, how about we do that after we eat and get dressed. Please don't poke your sister in the eye with a pencil, sweetie pie, you'll blind her for life.
Where were you when President Barack Hussein Obama was inaugurated?
I was four when Neil Armstrong first set his human foot on the moon. That July day in California was also my youngest brother's baptism and my parents had invited several people over to celebrate. My dad put the television outside because of the heat and every chair we owned was around it, full of relatives and friends marveling over the thought of capturing the moon.
I was snuggled on my dad's brother's lap when Armstrong's broken voice articulated those famous words, "one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."
"You'll remember this day," my uncle whispered in my ear," and he gave me a squeeze.
How many shoes does a child need?!
This is not a trick question. It's a plea for sanity.
A pair for school, a pair for parties. A pair of trainers (that's tennis shoes for you yanks). Slippers. Oh yeah, and wellies. Sandals for the summer. That should just about cover it. Tops six pairs of footware per child.
I have three children. So why the heck do I have 82 PAIRS of shoes in the children's wardrobe? This doesn't count the 13 pairs of "in use" shoes that clutter our entry way. And I won't even go into how many I have, though this does make me curious and I might go count them.
Alexandra's teacher, a woman that has been at the school longer than the school gate itself, pulled me aside yesterday after she had delivered all the children to their rightful owners.
Her grey eyes locked with mine and she quietly but sternly asked if we could please encourage Alexandra to use another word instead of potty.
"Some of the other children are starting to notice," she said, "and they are starting to say things."
Even though it was an almost freezing +1C, I could feel my whole body get hot, and my new wooly purple knit scarf I got in the sales felt like a noose around my neck.
Continue reading "I had an embarassing moment at the school gate yesterday..." »
I've been thinking about eating a lot recently. I mean, I've been thinking a lot recently about eating, as in what my children eat and the amount of time I spend preparing food. I'm on a mission to stop cooking two different meals (i.e. a kids meal and an adults meal) and have us all eat one dish, together, as a family.
Hubby does consulting and he is home most meal times, so the being together part is easy. It's the eating the same thing that we need to work on.
Elizabeth, our six-year-old, is the most adventurous eater. She will at least try most things, including escargot and frogs legs on a trip to France. If she doesn't like something she'll usually eat it anyway if she thinks it is good for her. Can't ask for anything better really.
Alisa at Project Happily Ever After set the mommy blogger community a challenge: How do you deal with balancing the all-consuming job of being mummy with the rest of your life?
Good question. This should be easy. The first thing you should do is, er, ummm, oh forget it, all I can think of is examples of how I DON'T get the balance right.
So, I have my list below. But I'm not sure it's exactly what Alisa had in mind...
By the way, if you haven't seen her blog yet, check it out. It's full of all kinds of practical advice on how to live "happily ever after". I'm an avid reader, one can always live in hope.
When I was dating future Scottish hubby, he took me on this walk.
I was in the UK on a quick weekend stop over between Boston and San Francisco.
I'm sure we must have slept late, then gone out for the papers to read with our frothed coffees and buttered toast. I had already half moved in and purchased a Krupp's cappuccino maker, and future hubby was just starting to realize how important the black drug was to me.
That was more than 10 years ago, and I remember taking a photo of the manor home of Lord and Lady Camoys, and later, when I was back in my office in Marin Country, I shared it with my colleagues.
