A Modern Mother

Ever wonder what people say when you leave the room?

I have a board meeting Monday, remember?

Huh? As I flipped on the coffee maker Saturday morning, hubby still in PJs, I stared blankly at the coffee grounds. Erm, no I don’t remember. It really didn’t matter. This was all code of course. He wanted me to occupy the girls for a couple hours while he locked himself in the office.

So ... off we went to Cafe Nero. I let the girls put on whatever they wanted -- which manifested in a rainbow of pink leggings, green and yellow summer dresses and navy jumpers. I pulled on the first thing I could find -- Gap curvy jeans with some sort of splotch on the leg (toothpaste? gravy?) and the gray and pink Laura Ashely jumper I've been living in all winter.

Oh well, it was still early, maybe we wouldn't run into anyone we knew.

I paid for my own wedding (did I tell you my husband is Scottish?)

I paid for my own wedding.

It was a big bash on the bonny banks of Loch Lomond in a five-star country house hotel with salmon and roast lamb for dinner, an 18-piece marching pipe band, several out-of-country guests and several more bottles of French wine.

It was truly the best day of my life.

I never expected my parents to pay for my wedding. You get to a certain age and it really isn’t appropriate. Besides, it was the height of the dot com boom and I was earning obscene amounts of money (don't get the wrong picture, a paper bag could have landed a high paying marketing job in those days.)

I planned the event. The bills came to me. I paid them out of my accounts.

We never talked about who was going to pay for what. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, right?

I should have seen a pattern emerging. Did I tell you my hubby is Scottish?

Grrrrrrr

Dear XX,

You sent me an email today addressed to Suzanne. That is not my name. My name is Susanna. That is why I put it at the bottom of my email (maybe you didn't see it?) It's on my biog too. There is an "a" at the end. No "h". Though if you added an "h" somehow I wouldn't mind as much.

You see Suzanne is French. There is not an ounce of French in me. If you heard me pronounce "monsieur" this would immediately become apparent. Susanna is Italian and Spanish in origin and I have to say I feel pretty comfortable showing off with the occasional "vaminos ala playa" when needed (thanks Dora). 

Proud to be a mum

So now I am supposed to be embarrassed to be a mum?

I admit it -- looking after my children ranks way up there (can you see my hands pointing over my head, like I'm reaching over a peak?). Way above my career, my writing, and all that other stuff I do. I may bitch about it, but I love it, and I'm certainly NOT EMBARRASSED ABOUT IT nor do I think it is the "least respected job out there".

Being a mother consumes much of what I write about at the moment ... from the middle of a broken night’s sleep right through to parent teacher conferences and making sure my kids get something green into their bodies.  I am OK being in the mummy compartment right now. I don't feel uncomfortable or ill-at-ease being called a mummy.  I've been there and done all that other stuff.  I may feel different when I am not so deeply entrenched, but for now I'm first and foremost a mother.

Sorry, just needed to vent.  I am going to leave you now and go back to shaping my children’s world. I’ll probably blog about it too.

Grrrrrrrr.

Photo credit: stina121

Is it just me? Do your kids flush?

OK, is it just me? Everytime I pass the loo in this house, there's, erm, you don't really need to know the details, but I need to flush.  It happens so often that now I have developed AFR (automatic flush response).

Please humour me and take this quick survey.

Do your kids flush?

Click here to take survey

Thanks for indulging. I plan on writing a press release with the results. Am feeling giddy with the headline options.

Photo credit: bookgrl

The blog nightmare

OK, this is proof I need a break.

Last night I woke up around 3 am. The sheets slightly were damp. My heart dancing in my throat. It was all so real.

My worry? I had a blog somewhere that I needed to update. I just couldn't find it. I couldn't remember what clever name I had christened it. Tired Mummies? No. Mummies on the run? No. Mums Need Drugs? No. No. No.

Oh, where was it? I knew it must be in need of a new post and it must be time to respond to comments. Where, where, where?

My favourite posts of 2009

The end of the year is a time to reflect; 365 days, 600 packed lunches, 183 blog posts. Here's a list of some of my favourites...

1. The dry spell: Have you ever had one? Come on, admit it. I'm sure you have...

2. I woke up one morning and realised: OHMYGOD -- I'm Scottish.

3. The fleeting moment ... or just mummy rot? Someone told me once that you lose 10 percent of your brain cells with the birth of each child. I had three in quick succession, you do the math.

Dear dog walker

Dear dog walker,

Thank you for not cleaning up after your dog this morning.

My four-year-old, wearing her new Mary Janes, stepped in the big blob just as we got to the schoolgate. It got all over her tights, and her book bag. Then it got all over my tights, and my book bag. It kept spreading. That was one big blob. Do you mind if I ask what you feed your dog?

We decided it would be best to detox the four-year-old at home. She was a bit distressed, as this would make her late for the register. I wanted to send a note explaining why four-year-old was late, but she would have nothing of it. She was too embarrassed.

Thanks again,

Your eternally grateful neighbour

Photo credit

Playdate nightmares: When getting together with a friend goes wrong

We've all had them: the playdate that goes horribly wrong. Mine was when the girls were small. I thought it would be fun to invite two little girls from preschool over to play. That's two little girls, plus the three I already had. FIVE. Under five. It would have been fine but one of the little girls didn't like what I made for dinner (fish sticks, usually a good choice, but obviously not in this case). I offered her macaroni and cheese. No thank you. Plain pasta? No, my mother always makes chicken sandwiches. Sorry I don't have any chicken. How about ham? My mother says it has too much salt. Your mum's right, but that's all I have. Uugghhh.  So ladies (and the two dads that read this blog), what's your worst playdate nightmare?

Photo credit

I look forward to the day when...

I look forward to the day when hubby says he will do the washing up, and he actually washes ALL the dishes including the greasy cast iron frying pan and the one with oatmeal bits on the bottom...

I look forward to the day when I can pass the toilet in the hall and not have to flush it...

I look forward to the day when I don't have to get on all fours twice a day and clean soggy cheerios and milk from under the dining room table...

I look forward to the day when the girls don't argue over who was first, or who gets to wear the pink Hannah Montana shirt first, or who gets to take a bath first...

I look forward to the day when we can all go to a restaurant and not get downgraded to the noisy "kid" section...

What do you look forward to?

Photo credit

My name is Susanna (not Suzanne, not Susie and certainly not Sue!)

Dear PR person,

You sent me an email today addressed to Suzanne. That is not my name. My name is Susanna. That is why I put it at the bottom of my email (maybe you didn't read it?) It's on my biog too. There is an "a" at the end. No "h". Though if you added an "h" somehow I wouldn't mind as much.

You see Suzanne is French. There is not an ounce of French in me. If you heard me pronounce "monsieur" this would immediately become apparent. Susanna is Italian and Spanish in origin and I have to say I feel pretty comfortable showing off with the occasional "vaminos ala playa" when needed (thanks Dora). 

And another thing (!)

I have been thinking more my parental role and how it evolved. Actually, more like dwelling on all the things I do, which I don't really remember actually agreeing to do. I just do them, because someone has to.

Warning: this is a bit of a rant.

Parties. Everything to do with children's parties falls under my remit: putting the date in the diary, buying and wrapping the present, getting the girls to make a card. Often this includes getting them there and back. Last week when I told hubby it was time to get our 7-year-old from the fairy cooking party she was attending, he announced it was time to take a shower.

And exactly when did I agree to this?

I seem to have an unspoken agreement with hubby that I watch the kids at all times. I say unspoken because I don't remember agreeing to be on a heightened sense of alert at all hours, in all places.  I tell the girls that I have eyes on the back of my head, so maybe that's where he got the idea.

On Sunday we decided last minute to drive down to Regatta. It was about 11 am, and the crowds were just starting to arrive.

I should have known when hubby stopped at the Telegraph stand and picked up a paper and an umbrella as a free gift.

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.

Am I the only one who struggles with a shopping trolley?

After lazing around with friends this morning downing frothy skinny cappuccinos and discussing the spring-like weather, I stopped by Waitrose to pick up a few essentials. I like shopping there, despite the fact I spend on average £20 more each visit than Tesco. It's an experience.

It all started out nicely. Ooohhhh, what's that? Patatas bravas? And a quesadilla? My mind started to wander to summer holidays in Spain, free flowing tapas, children content in the sand, sunshine on tap...

Who the hell is HSBC giving my details to?

Warning -- this is a rant.

I got a phone call today from a young chap who sounded like he was in a call centre based in the Midlands. I could hear others talking in the background.

"This is HSBC, is this a good time to talk?"

No, it's half-term you idiot. "Not really."

"I just need to confirm some details with you."

Huh? You called me.

He went on to give me the first three characters of my post code, and asked me for the rest. Then he gave me my birth month, and wanted me to fill in the blanks.

On haggis and Burns Night

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.

Zero tolerance Fridays

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.

Shoe management

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.

How to annoy a modern mother

It is only now that I am sitting down with a giant Kath Kidston mug of fresh ground Lavazza coffee with lots of steaming milk can I write about this. I can feel the stress levels lower with each sip.

Big picture, think picture.

About ten minutes ago I could have torn apart anything that was in my path, including my poor husband, who was going about his own business quietly.

It was a particularly hectic morning, the girls were still suffering from PNPS (Post Nativity Play Syndrome) -- similar to PMS, but for kids, and only during Christmas.

Advent calendars and the real meaning of Christmas

It's December 1st which means that on the way home from school today Emily asked why she didn't have an Advent calendar.

But you do honey, I said. California Grandma sent us a nice one with Baby Jesus, Joseph and Mary, the three wise men, the whole cast from the nativity play. You opened it this morning.

No, I mean a CHOCOLATE one.

Oh, good question, as chocolate Advent calendars are as ubiquitous in December as a runny nose. I meant to pick onethree up over the weekend, but all they had at Tesco was High School Musical, Hannah Montana and Barbie.

I don’t like Thursdays!

I should have had a clue when I spotted Emily’s favourite sweatshirt crumpled and damp on the bottom of the dirty clothes pile. Darn! I forgot to do the washing.

I don’t like Thursdays. On Thursdays I have to wake the kids, feed the kids, dress the kids, make packed lunches for the kids and get the kids to school before they lock the school gate. And we need to do this all 15 minutes ahead of schedule.

(Apologies to my English readers for my use of the word kids – but the term really fits, my children are more like bleating animals than little people.)

Is there anything the Scots didn’t invent?

This post is written for anyone who is fortunate enough to be married to a Scotsman.

I suppose it is relevant if you are married to a Scotswoman, but I have to say I have never heard a Scottish woman brag that television was invented by a fellow countryman.

Or that Tarmac was invented by a Scot. And the steam engine. Flush toilets. The bicycle. Penicillin. Radar. Motion pictures. The list goes on.

It’s a guy thing.

I think there is a class that all Scottish lads take when they are about to leave school. It is titled: Famous Scottish inventors: How to woo young foreign women.” To a Scotsman, "foreign" means born outside of Scotland, and that includes England, Wales and Northern Ireland.

Shopping carts -- does it need to be this hard?

I've been living in the UK on and off since 1990. I have a British passport. My children were born here. I can make a roast that can compete with the best of them.

Why the heck can't I steer a British shopping cart?

I am resigned to the fact that "things are harder here". When I first opened a bank account 20 years ago, I went to the branch where I lived. Bad move. On a lunch break one day, when I needed to withdraw more money than allowed by the ATM, I had to travel 40 minutes from my work place in order to complete the transaction. The systems were not "connected".