A Modern Mother

Mummy power!

I've always been good at my own PR. As the fourth child of five, I had to be. Otherwise I wouldn't get another piece of carrot cake or a new pair of shoess (instead of my sister's hand-me-downs).

Seems like mummy blogging is on the rise in the UK, you can read all about it in the FT and Times. And my little British mummy blogger network has caught the public eye as well.

I reckon we're a force to be dealt with. What do you think ladies?

Here's to mummy power!

PS -- if you're in PR and want to approach a mummy blogger, PLEASE read this first.

Photo credit: alef

Friends forever

HM, my four-year-old, was sitting on my lap last night; a snuggly warm bundle, still glowing from her bath. Her straw yellow hair had the faint smell of summer.

"Mummy," she said looking at me intently with her father's blue eyes, "I used to be best friends with Madison, and now I hardly see her." She paused waiting patiently for my mummy-knows-everything answer.

It's true. Madison left at the beginning of term to go to another school. We had a playdate with her yesterday, which is probably what prompted her comment. Some friendships are like butterflies, flitting in and out of your life. But how do you explain this to a four-year-old that just wants the comfort of colouring in with an old friend?

Day three of half term. Just shoot me.

I knew when the phone rang it would be bad news.

It's half term. The girls are home 24 by 7. After a morning of noughts and crosses and making everyone we knew a birthday card, I needed a break. I told them to play amongst themselves while mummy washed her hair. I pointed at the toy box and then locked the front door to make sure no one escaped.

After five minutes in the shower (OK, more like ten), and another five drying, I emerged refreshed and ready to face the rest of half term. But my just-blown hair wilted when I saw the war zone living room: Operation parts mixed with puzzle pieces; Twister with unusal Mr. Potato Head constructions in each coloured circle; a pile of pick-up sticks and an entire box of dominoes. Oh, aren't my little darlings creative. No worries, I'll clean it up while they are at tennis camp.

And now let's pause for a public service announcement...

There's a great game to go with it too.

My favourite day of the year: summer!

 

Have you heard? It's here. Summer. Very exciting news. 

The standards are slipping...

I could feel the murmur making its way down the reception queue this morning, the more keen mums reminding the late comers.

"Don't forget, cake sale day today."

Ah, cake sale day. The day we all dash down to Waitrose and spend at least £6 on essentials like cake mix, butter, icing sugar, smarties, and other decorations. Then we go home and spend half the morning slaving in the kitchen baking fairy cakes. We spend the other half of the morning washing up. The afternoon is filled with the task of decorating the 24 fairy cakes that will sell for 25p each, bringing in a grand total of £6 to the PTA coffers...

I decided this morning I really didn't have time for all that, and went to Tesco and bought 16 donuts (on sale).

As I said, the standards are slipping...

He is rubbish

I don't remember actually defining our domestic roles, they just sort of evolved; I do everything related to food, and hubby is responsible for rubbish.

My first clue that food would fall under my realm was early on in our relationship when I asked him to make coffee. Keen to impress, he said yes without hesitation and shuffled off to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later and there was still no sign of coffee, just a slightly warm plastic odour. Getting antsy for my morning dose of caffeine, I peeked at the machine and noticed that it was on, but there was no water. Hhhmm, either this was calculated or he was really trying to navigate un-chartered waters.

The dry spell

I suffered a dry spell after our second child. A major one. One I imagine the Sahara Desert to be like. Long. Flat. Never ending.

I just didn't feel like it anymore. I was too tired. It didn't hold my attention. I would crawl into bed after a day of wiping drippy noses and picking cheerios off the floor and I would just stare at them. I finally put them away in a box. I didn't want to be reminded.

Apparently this is common to mothers of young children.

Now I can't get enough. I have all kinds at my bedside - historical, period, chic lit, classics. I read whatever I can get my hands on. Though I'm still not much of a fan of suspense.

Have you ever had a dry spell? ;-)

Photo credit: Hamed

Mother denied all access to children; this is really scary

I read in the Sunday Times yesterday about the ex-wife of a rich city financier that was banned from seeing her young children for three years. She was found to have been turning them against their father. The woman was so distraught that she has continually tried to keep contact with her boys (she was arrested for telling her son she loved him) and even posted a video on the internet about her plight. She is due in court because of that too.

I know that where there is smoke there is fire, and that woman probably needs to attend a few parenting classes to say the least.

My daughter didn't speak! How we beat selective mutism

I'm a planner. I write lists. I think ahead. I try to deal with the unexpected. But when we moved back to the UK two years ago, I didn't anticipate that my five-year-old daughter would not speak for three months.

She would talk in the comfort of our home, but she would not utter a word in public. Not to her teachers, the other students, the GP, the dinner ladies, no one. She would clam up any public situation. Not really an ideal position to be in.

We came back to the UK in 2007 because we had a reception place at our very popular local school.  If we didn't accept the spot, we would lose it and most likely not get back in again. So we left our beach house in La Jolla (I can hear you moaning) to resume life in the Chilterns.

Break out the champagne

My dear friend, the credit-crunched NixdMinx, has bestowed a fab award on A Modern Mother. Thank you I am honoured.

I don't get to keep it long, but pass it on five other fab bloggers. So here goes, please accept this humble award Potty Mummy, Samantha Smythe's Modern Family Journal, Ramblings of a Fab Brunette, Maternal Tales, More Than Just a Mother and Single Parent Dad. I'd give it to Alpha Mummy too, but it I doubt Times Online would appreciate the humour.

Listen to my advice

Back into our routine after three days off, I was walking back from coffee this morning with HM, my four-year-old. She was in the push chair and I was contemplative in a post Bank Holiday sort of way.

"When I'm a mummy I'm going to walk like this," and she got behind the stroller and started to push -- her tiny head just able to peer past my Orla Kieley bag. She pushed on, and the stroller kept veering to the right -- and running into the brick pillars of the Edwardian homes that line this popular road near town. I could tell this was going to take a while, but I didn't hurry her. We had time. The two older girls were in school. It wasn't raining. It was just me and HM. And her imagination.

Miracles do happen

  

I made these myself. Really. I'm not joking.

Thanks to Betty Crocker's Devil's Food cake mix and Waitrose for the sprinkles.

Now excuse me while I go back into the kitchen and practise some more of my new-found Susie Homemaker skills...