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 …
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 …
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.
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.
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… …
"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.
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 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.
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