A Modern Mother

The longest hour of my life

"Excuse me," a boy around five with brown mousy hair stood in front of me, his blue eyes swimming. Cook must have made spaghetti bolognaise for lunch, because he had the tell-tale greasy red marks around his mouth. "Can I please use the toilet?"

"Of course you can," and I couldn't help smiling to myself. "Don't forget to wash your face -- your lunch is all over it." The boy touched his face, grinned, and went on his way.

I'm not sure why, but the children are meant to ask permission before they leave the playground and walk the few steps to the toilets. I guess it is so we have an idea of where they all are -- though that is impossible. I've surmised that our main purpose is to make sure mayhem doesn't  break out on the playground.

So you really want to know...

It's tag season again. I'm not sure why, but the lovely Bush Mummy, Nappy Valley and Kate Morris all want to know the answers to the following questions.

1. What are your current obsessions?
My iPhone and my veg patch.

2. Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often?
Gap curvy jeans. 

3. What's for dinner?
Orecchiette pasta with sausage (from Tesco), fennel (farm shop) and purple sprouting broccoli (from my veg patch)

I'm losing it...

I must be going through a bad patch. At least I hope that's all it is.

Yesterday I was catching up on the phone with a good friend -- I had the receiver wedged between my shoulder and ear, which forced my head to look down at my boobs. I don't usually do this, but I'm glad I did. Because I saw  a big, greasy, red splat on my crisp, white, NEW Banana Republic T-shirt! Not just one spot, but as I looked closer, I saw a spray of splats, in a sort of constellation. It looked like the aftermath of a baby ant's painting session.

What time is it?

Turning on my side for what seems like the 10th time, I try to wiggle into a comfortable position. But it's no use, I'm not ready to surrender. In my mind I lift my head, peer past the pile of half-read books, and peek at the green neon digits on the clock. It must be well into the night by now. But my eyes are heavy and the connection between mind and movement doesn't happen.

The cold doesn't help. Forced to breathe through my mouth, my lips feel like sticky flannel and there is an undeniable trace of soreness in my throat when I swallow. What time IS it? My head still doesn't move. It stays still on the pillow. Instead my brain makes a running leap out of my body and starts doing laps around the room, bumping into my cream coloured walls and crashing into the walnut dresser.

Don't you just love being a mum

I got tagged this week in the latest meme travelling around blogosphere. To explain to those that have no idea what I'm talking about (especially my mother -- who reads this blog religiously) it's like a game of "tag" -- another blogger makes you "it" and you need to tag someone else. This one is about the five reasons why I love motherhood, so here goes.

1. "Alex. Alex? Wake up. Grandma will give us chocolate for breakfast." (6.30 am at grandma's house after a long haul flight).

You relax honey -- I'll do the washing up

Why is it men don't say what they really mean?

The morning started off so nicely. Both hubby and I do consulting so we have a fair bit of flexibility. We decided at the spur of the moment to honour the sunshine so we dusted off the cobwebs from the bicycles and took them out for a short ride through town.

We got back just in time for lunch -- leeks and fennel from the veg box mixed with some crispy pancetta, a splash of cream and linguine -- and we ate alfresco, with only the tweep tweeps of the baby birds keeping us company.