Inspiration Station

by Mothership on April 13, 2009

Ah, Monday again and I am adrift in the lukewarm, stuporific soup of my own incompetence, pieces of half-fulfilled ambition bobbing resentfully on the surface like rotting corpses mingling with fatty, yellow globules of fading hope. Occasionally, if stirred, there might be the odd flash of a once-good idea that lurks at the cloudy sedimented bottom, but it remains evasive and obstinately will not allow itself to be captured on the spoon of my feeble intent.

I have just had my attention drawn to the blog of a thirteen year old who calls himself the TimeCommando. He writes tirelessly of how to maximise efficiency, banish procrastination, increase SEO ratings, keep your pecker up (surely not a problem at 13?) , learn that to get what you want you have to work really, really hard and then, if you follow his advice you will become a SUCCESS in life. You are invited to comment, follow him on Twitter, enter beguiling competitions in which the prize is (and I do not jest) a personal coaching session with the Commander of Time himself (either via iPhone or IM).

I have no doubt that by the time he reaches the age of majority he will own the futuristic equivalent of Facebook and be crowned King of the Young Entrepreneurs by Richard Branson who will be 176 by then and will resemble a bronzed prune topped by a thatch of garbled straw affixed to a giant set of gleaming white choppers, much like a walking, talking version of those cartoon caricatures that people have drawn at the seaside in the more downmarket resorts.

I feel a nap coming on. 

The Hollywood Bunny visited yesterday all hopped up (sorry, sorry) on her new exciting job, which is making her Very Busy and Important.
I am extremely happy for her as she has had a rough few years with an unpleasant divorce and a career hiatus that was beginning to make her feel rather anxious. Then she found herself this amazing position – all through her own initiative, I might add – and is suddenly crackling with energy and vigour and a renewed sense of self.
It’s very cheering.
She brought with her an entrepreneur’s magazine for us to look at together although I’m not entirely sure why. The lady who owns the magazine is relentlessly successful in a Time Commando sort of way, (main difference: 40 years, more cash and cosmetic work done).  Each page is filled with a story of a real-life woman who has achieved her business dream through hard graft, clever marketing, pant suits and spiritual thought.
This type of article is supposed to be inspiring but seems to have the opposite effect on me and merely makes me feel haughty, contemptuous and take an obscure pride in my status as elegant wastrel artist.
Dismiss fact that I am mostly harried mother of two.
Also dismiss fact that book not very far along, possibly only still in first chapter, maybe even first page. 
The only content of mild interest was a photo of Angelina Jolie looking very unpolished and rather wrinkled. Hard to believe she’d sanctioned letting that one out for publication.

Hollywood Bunny was prevented from drawing me further into what-type-of-marketing-techniques-were-most-effective kinds of conversations as One was trying to smear Easter egg chocolate all over her nice clothes.

Good boy.

Mummy does not want to use her left brain.

She does not want to work hard.

She only wants the trappings of success in a mild, not terribly convinced sort of way.

But wouldn’t mind getting past page 1 of my book.

I must stop posting on this blog, it’s getting in the way.
I am beginning to suspect there might be only so many words in the day?
But if I stopped posting then nobody would ever comment or write back and I’d be lonely and start talking to the wall again who is not a particularly chatty sort.  Wahhh!

Any solutions out there for this particular conundrum?

* suggestions for Time Commando type exercises will result in sudden death (mine).

 

 

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Easter Frenzy

by Mothership on April 9, 2009

I’m trapped in the house with the tiny terrorists.

They have been torturing me with repetitive choruses of

Here comes a king with a golden crown,donkey riding, donkey riding
Here comes a king with a golden crownriding on a donkey

at every possible pause in conversation since Palm Sunday and I have to say that I am really looking forward to Jesus’ crucifixion because there is a dim possibility that they will SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Or not.  

Perhaps I can conceal from them that He supposedly rose again?
The Easter Bunny may distract?

But enough blasphemy.  
Why not escape the grumblings here and instead head to Bambino Goodies and see what else we’ve been doing in preparation for this chocolatey holiday?

Hope you and yours have a very eggy time (either fertilised or unfertilised, depending on how broody you are)

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An Awfully Big Adventure

by Mothership on April 6, 2009

This weekend we went to a 2 year old’s birthday party which I was dreading.

Not because I don’t like this child – he is perfectly sweet- but because I loathe the kind of party where mothers bore themselves into obesity around the food table by talking competitively about attachment parenting, nap routines and the optimum spacing between siblings and the dads bunch together in a defensive clan desperately clutching a beer from the meagre supply whilst not quite keeping an eye on the toddler they have been charged with.  Older children run around shouting wildly, snatching balls and balloons from smaller ones who wander around aimlessly until they spy a life-threatening opportunity to fall into a stream or pile of sharp rocks in which case they persistently make a beeline for it no matter how many times they are retrieved and admonished.

It’s simultaneously incredibly stressful and horribly boring and I feel as if I have been to this same exact party at least 500 times in the last five years which is probably not much of an exaggeration.  I have become rather ruthless in terms of turning down these types of invitations of late, but this one was our very good friend and neighbour so it would have been enormously rude not to go. 

One, predictably, was one of the deathwish toddlers so considerable energy was spent trying to keep him from his Maker. I took the first shift,which at least meant I could avoid the Maternal Confab of Vapid Exchanges even if I was on a small circuit between Suicide Point and the playground:

NO! We do not jump off the bridge! Let’s play with the others..

Here’s the slide- it’s fun! Wait! Where are you going? Come back!

After an hour or so it was time to switch children – Husband had easily had the better part of the deal thus far as Four had palled up with a neighbourhood girl she knows and they were happily playing croquet on the grass in plain view so he could suck on his beer and chat to the birthday boy’s father about manly things that might distract them from the emasculating experience of spending Saturday afternoon eating cupcakes.

Once I’d confirmed that Husband actually was watching One (he has been known to agree to do this and then sort of forget) I turned my attention back to the girls. They were sidling off to the edge of the park where a storm drain led up a grassy, steep hill with trees and houses dotted high about the top.

Like the good girls they are, they called out to ask me if they could climb the hill. At first, feeling a bit lazy and having just run after a toddler for an hour, I said no.

Why not? Four asked, perfectly reasonably. 

Why not indeed? I couldn’t actually answer that.What kind of an old spoilsport was I anyway?

I changed my mind.

Ok, I said, where did they want to go?
They pointed out their route, up the hill, along the drain, halfway up, and back down the other side of the park. I’d be able to see them through the trees along the whole route and I made them promise that whenever I called out to them, they’d call back.
So, off they went, quite thrilled with themselves, waving and shouting from time to time, and then suddenly appearing down the other side of the park a bit dusty and with grass in their hair. Emboldened ,they asked if they could go again and this time I said yes straight away.

Just as they were about to set off, Four turned around and said

Hey Mom, wanna come with us? It’s really FUN!

I was about to demur on autopilot and say I’d just watch, but suddenly realised that I really did want to go.

I needed to go.

I needed to wake up the part of me that is still willing to have an adventure and not care whether I have the right shoes on or if anyone is watching me or if it’s appropriate to my age and station in life.

Yes, I’m coming!! Wait for me!

So off we went, clambering up the drain at a fair clip, and this time Four kept on going higher and higher towards the houses with us hard on her heels, scuffing our fancy shoes behind her. When we got to the top we saw the party far below us, the people so tiny and unreal, so inconsequential to where real life was, here on the hill with the breeze in our tangled hair. Four suggested we walk along the top drain past the houses and peek in the gardens which was quite terrifically daring and naughty of her so I immediately agreed.
We surprised several people having a quiet sit in their yards and alarmed not a few dogs who strained at their leashes and barked at us alarmingly loudly. This caused equal parts scandalised hilarity and genuine terror on our parts and we raced along the path, stumbling and squealing like snickering piglets. When we came to the downhill part on the other side, the drain this time was very steep and partially filled with water. It had no slowing effect on my daughter who plunked her bum right into it and slid, wincingly, straight down, shrieking with glee at high velocity. After a moment’s hesitation we followed suit. Towards the bottom we stopped ourselves on the downwards trajectory by bumping into the railings of a tennis court and then climbed our way along the chain link fence, like monkeys, until we found the entrance to the park again where the party was being held.

It was utterly fantastic stuff. Quite the best adventure I have had in years and years, possibly since I was a small girl myself and used to jump up on the interconnected back wall of our garden behind the blackberry bushes and walk along it through the neighbourhood, peeking into other people’s lives, following cats, playing imaginary detective games and meeting friends in their back yards without ever going out into the street or our parents knowing. Days of delight and discovery I feared would never come again and yet here my small girl had offered me the rare privilege of accompanying her on one of her own capers, not as her mother, but as a partner in crime.

Moving beyond words.

We returned to the celebrations with hair dirty, clothes wet, shoes ruined, hair full of burrs, neighbours scandalised and dogs apoplectic.

I was able to tell the hostess with utter integrity that it was the most amazing party I had been to all year and best of all, we were still in time for cake.

The moral of this story is:

You may put the girl in Stepford, but you may not put Stepford in the girl.

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We Will We Will ROCK You (boo hoo)

by Mothership on April 2, 2009

As previously advertised, here is the story of Grown Man Crying. 

It’s not actually that sensational, in that it’s less about me being terrifying and intimidating (I think) than it is about the man in question being particularly pusillanimous and peculiar. It’s all very Spinal Tap  in a preschool kind of way.
Domestic Engineer and Jessica, you in particular have requested this tale. If it proves to be horribly disappointing I can only apologise and promise that some of the other (stories for another day) are much juicier and gossip-worthy, and their subjects (me excepted) less pathetic.

You can also head over to Bambino Goodies today where there is an incredibly self-congratulatory post on last week’s parent-teacher meetings. Oh? I didn’t sell you on that? Really?

******************************************************************************

When I was pregnant with One I was afflicted with the same sense of futility and ennui that has gripped me intermittently since my move to Stepford and I felt a terrible longing for some kind of change (other than the obvious nausea, fat arse/belly combo and parasite growing within).

I was browsing through a local parent’s website looking for things to do with Four (then two) and my eye was caught by an ad for a local band who played rock music for kids.  They were advertising for a female singer.  Now normally I would not consider this type of thing as

a) I am not a rock chick 

b) Local bands are SO not me, and 

c) I hate ‘kid’ music

But despite what you might have assumed about me given my rather caustic conversational tone, I am actually quite open to any old thing happening as long as it’s a laugh, and right around that point I was having major sense of humour failure.

So I wrote to them, they wrote to me.  I forgot about it, they prompted me.  I forgot about it again, they prompted me again with a funny email and eventually I went along for an ‘audition’ which I found rather endearing in my incredibly snooty and superior way because, and I have to keep on mentioning this because I am danger of forgetting it due to excessive motherhood, I am a professional musician and singer who has filled stadiums, sold albums and thrown Spinal Tap wobblies in dressing rooms.

I am not a garage commando.

They, on the other hand, were a bunch of dads who drank beer, had learned a few chords, banged out some nursery rhymes on electric guitar with a distortion pedal and were in a band that played rock music for kids because it was the only kind of bands their wives would let them be in.

But I liked them! They were an improvement on the Tupperware Moms I had met thus far and I could smell pot in the room, which boded well for the distant future when I would not be pregnant or breastfeeding.

The bass player, who we shall call Fotherington Thomas, (not his real name) hailed originally from England although I did not discover this for at least a year. He had come to the US at 17 and assimilated so thoroughly that even I could not detect an accent or any trace of irony/humour in the man. I should, however, have spotted the puppyish adoration and desperation to ingratiate himself with me and perhaps questioned its authenticity and origin, but to be perfectly honest I didn’t really notice it that much. I have quite often found myself, particularly in the past,  in the somewhat strange position of people going a bit funny around me and it’s often kinder for all concerned, (myself included), just to ignore it. The drummer and guitarist, who we shall call Sticks and Strings, were a pair of slightly seedy ageing rockers; a Shakespearean comedy duo. One tall and skinny, one short and rotund with six children between them but still trying to slip off to bars to chat up girls, smoke weed in the cab of Strings’ truck  and talk about ‘making it big’ as if this was something that might still seriously happen when they were discovered by a cigar-smoking agent in a big white Cadillac.

Anyway, I ended up joining the band which was comically appropriate as I got huger and huger with One, but it was a reasonably entertaining way of spending a Thursday evening,  and once we started doing gigs for children I actually started to enjoy myself. There is something so satisfying and immediate about performing for little kids. They absolutely loved the music and would cheer and clap and run up to hug me after the shows, telling me all about themselves and asking me to be their friends. I have to say that in all the years I have been performing as a musician, I have NEVER had such a loving appreciative audience as a group of toddlers. They  love you authentically, in the same way as they love their family, friends and pets. Very touching.
Here’s an odd thing: As I get more unwieldy, Fotherington Thomas becomes more and more helpful and attentive – carrying things for me, bringing items to the house, phoning all the time, offering assistance, always having water and snacks on hand. Again, I think he is just being nice. Sticks and Strings are always sloping off for a smoke break or advocating ending rehearsal early and going to a bar which is no fun for a giant preggo lady so FT and I thrown together a great deal..

At some point One is born, I take a month or two off and then come back. I start to lose the baby blubber and my pregnancy induced apathy fairly quickly and within four or five months I am beginning to look and feel like myself again. Then I start sloping off to bars with Sticks and Strings after rehearsals, (not to pick up girls, you understand, but just to have a beer) but puzzlingly, FT won’t join us. He also won’t come outside and chat during breaks in rehearsals but sits inside fiddling with the gear on his own while the rest of us sit outside shooting the breeze. It’s almost as if he is..sulking? Could he have preferred me as a giant hippo with no personality?

It is around this point that I realise that the band has been together for 8 months and we still play less than an album’s worth of material fairly badly so I begin to push for some improvement. Apart from anything else, it’s getting boring to bash through the same old bollocks again and again and none of them are audibly getting any better.  This does not stop Fotherington Thomas from trying to book multiple gigs for the increasingly popular group, which is all well and good, but it becomes apparent that he is willing to play at the opening of a crisp packet, and possibly even pay for the privilege. However, it seems he has forgotten to consult with the rest of us about willingness and availability. Sticks and Strings don’t mind this as they will do anything to get out of the house and away from their families but I’m not in quite the same position with a baby and a toddler to care for. So after booking me for three crappy gigs three weekends in a row where we might have an audience of 25 people in a whistlingly empty parking lot I point out to FT that I am not really willing to spend my free time in this way and that only gigs that are profitable, fun or both are worth my time and effort. He is furious with me and says that it is no effort on my part as I don’t lug any of the equipment to the shows. I explain nicely that I am a SINGER, not a roadie and that my job, and the effort entailed, is to entertain people by singing to them.

He considers this a state of emergency and calls a band meeting.

To my surprise the band confronts me on my ‘bad attitude’ and tells me I should view unattended gigs as ‘open air rehearsals and paying my dues’ which makes me laugh out loud.

Oy Vey! It was like being 21 again! One way to get my youth back, eh? 

I gently point out that they aren’t really open air rehearsals, they are humiliating, second rate gigs that I, as the singer, have to carry the rest of them through, and the answer is just plain NO, I am done with dues paying at this stage of my career, thanks very much.

Sticks and Strings come around to understanding my position but something has irrevocably turned in Fotherington Thomas.  

From then on he started behaving peculiarly. He would not return phonecalls, he missed rehearsals, he would make bitchy comments, he would snarl and turn his back to the rest of us while playing and as a consequence miss notes and play out of time. It was excruciatingly boring, but rather difficult to walk away from as by then we had lots of gigs lined up and little kids looking forward to seeing us. We kept on trying to cheer him up and get through to him but to no effect. The result was denial followed by more snarling, bitching and appalling playing (even worse than before, hard to believe though that was). Eventually I told Sticks and Strings that an intervention was necessary or else I was going to have to leave the band as this type of sandwich-throwing behaviour was unacceptable under any circumstances, and for a kiddie amateur outfit it was simply risible, not to mention rather unpleasant.

So. Another band meeting was called after a pre-school concert. Sticks, Strings, Fotherington Thomas and myself, accompanied by a crawling, dirt-eating, 6-month old One went to the park to talk things through. We told FT that we were concerned about tensions in the band and that he was unhappy and asked if there was anything he wanted to talk about.

Denial.

We asked if he was sure

Sure, he said, put on his sunglasses and crossed his arms, defensively.

I asked FT why he wouldn’t return my phonecalls and kept on avoiding my invitations to lunch/coffee to talk things through.

He came back at me, guns blazing, shouting that he had

TWO jobs to go to, had a family to attend to, a start-up he was trying to get off the ground and he hadn’t had the time.

Ok, I said, but that didn’t explain why he was so angry and hostile or why he kept on missing practice and generally behaving in a peculiar manner.

Shrug.

Was it that he was disappointed that we were not doing all the gigs he wanted?

Intense studying of ground

Was he mad that I wanted us to play a wider repertoire and improve the standard of musicianship?

No response

Did he want to say anything?

Yes. He did. It was his band and he had been in it longer than any of us.

Strings objected to this and said he’d joined at the same time as FT so how did he figure it was his band?

Did not!

Did 

Did not!

Did!  (they went back and forth on this for a bit)

Finally I interrupted them and asked if there was ANY WAY that a group of ADULTS who were in an AMATEUR  LOCAL band that played music for THREE YEAR OLDS might just be able to suck up their differences and strum through a few nursery rhymes once a week without having any major meltdowns. Surely it couldn’t be that hard? Having been in bands, big and small, for the best part of 20 years and seen my fair share of dramas, there really didn’t seem to be that much to get worked up about here.

At this, the grown man, aged 43 (yes, folks, you read it FORTY THREE, not four, not three) who is married, has two children, two jobs, as we have been told, and owns property in this million dollar town, BURST INTO TEARS, shouted

“FUCK YOU, BITCH” and ran away.

 

Rock and Roll!

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A bit of a Domestic, just not ours..

by Mothership on March 31, 2009

I am posting briefly to let you know that Bagpurrito has come back after his exciting adventure under the deck and, while he is completely disgustingly filthy, is being much fussed over and cuddled on the bed between Husband and myself.

 

The neighborhood is very quiet tonight which is as it usually is. However last night Husband and I heard a couple arguing quite vociferously at about 10.30pm to the point where we each got up from where we were (me in bed, him at the dining room table) and wandered around the house trying to ascertain from which direction it came. At some point the noise stopped and we shrugged and went back to our respective computers.

Then, about ½ an hour later when I was nearly asleep, there was a loud knocking at the door. I sent Husband to answer it and it was the police! They asked us if we’d had an argument. We were astonished. We said no, but we’d heard one coming from somewhere. They asked us who else lived with us and we told them our children and the bad cat. Then they asked several more times if we’d had a fight and we kept saying no. I felt like pointing out to them that I hardly ever get a chance to TALK to Husband, let alone provoke the-man-who-will-not-raise- his-voice into an actual ARGUMENT with me, let them live with someone trying to get tenure, but I didn’t.

 

See, I’m good at conflict resolution.

 

Then they asked us if anyone else lived on the property and we pointed out our new neighbour and said yes, a single mom and her son who were clearly asleep as the lights were off.

They said they had to investigate because someone had called 911 on us!

Can you believe it?
At least, prank caller, have the intelligence to pick the house of someone who shouts in my accent!

 

There is nothing much more to say about this other than the fighters remain a mystery as does the reporter, but on the good side, I suppose we know that the law will turnup swiftly if we should really need them.

 

Tomorrow, I promise you the tale of Grown Man Crying with a side of Cat Purring Fatly on the Bed.

 

 

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Not that kind of Playmate

by Mothership on March 29, 2009

I’m going to have a grizzle now.

I am feeling rather sorry for myself in a nihilistic, existentially angsty sort of way.

For starters, and I feel quite justified in complaining about this, Bagpurrito did a runner outside earlier on and is now (I hope) sitting somewhere under the deck refusing to come back in despite being lured with tempting food and street cred ruining cries of “Here kitty kitty, come on my little diddums ookum sweetie puddy tat” etc.

We did spot him around dusk near the barbeque, eyeing us contemptuously, but he has since vanished and now I can hear the coyotes baying up in the mountains at the crescent moon. Worrying.

But this, upsetting though it is, does not really get at the core of my troubles.

I have been trying over a period of some time (weeks? Months? possibly even a couple of years?)  to identify exactly what it is that is so very unsatisfactory about my current life and I think that yesterday I cracked a very important aspect of it.

I don’t have anybody to play with.

I remember visiting the zoo in Barcelona some years ago (oh, what a trip! When we could stay up late, drink endless cava, dance, make love and sleep all afternoon in fabulous boutique hotels that did not have any high chairs in evidence) and seeing Snowflake, the albino gorilla, sitting amongst a band of ordinary black ones. He looked so incredibly sad, lonely and out of place that I burst into hysterical tears and had to be taken home immediately. I didn’t know why I felt such a kinship for the giant primate back then.

Now I do.

Today I am Snowflake and Stepford is my cage.

You might well ask how I could possibly be unhappy in this incredibly beautiful town that has no crime, no rubbish, plenty of cultural activity, a thriving university which provides many intellectual inhabitants (supposedly) plenty of money floating around (not actually any of it mine, though), perfect weather, friendly, well meaning people and good schools?

It could be that I’m a churlish ingrate.

Yes, well, there is that.

It could be that I am homesick – I long for my culture and my tribe. It’s been a long exile in the land of happy meals, you know.

It could also be that I live in a vacuum of any kind of interesting creative thought. Most of the people I come across in real life are so very literal and earnest, so reluctant to take whimsical flights of fancy for no particular reason other than a moment’s amusment. They’re all focused on making money, or being good citizens, or attaining some kind of invisible rank which will enable them to measure themselves against the next winner-takes-all in the sweepstakes of life.

It’s very tiring and incredibly dull.

Nobody wants to be seriously silly. I sometimes think that I might be able to foster this kind of thing in One – he is a natural giggler – but I’ll be working against Husband and Four’s furrowed brows and distrust of things that do not ‘make sense’ or conform to a rational explanation.

Yesterday I was lamenting my lack of playmates to Husband and his solution to this was to  suggest I ‘go on a course’ which would both retrain me for a second career and also find me some nice friends. You might think this a sensible idea, it probably is for any normal person but we are not dealing with normal persons we are dealing with me, and as such this was both the funniest and the most tragic thing I had ever heard him say.

Me? A COURSE?

Listen, I am the girl who famously attended no fewer than  15 schools and failed to come away with a single qualification except a slightly shabby US high school diploma and an art A level. I didn’t quite finish Art School because I was busy being an aspiring musician and having a tempestuous relationship with my first husband, and every single other ‘course’ I have ever taken in my entire life (which was usually something like ‘car mechanics for beginners’ or ‘childbirth for expectant parents’) I have dropped out of almost immediately.

Remember the German classes? I made it to one. ONE!

So, the odds of me going to a class are pretty slim, in the first place. And furthermore, let’s think about a job I’d like to do. Hmm. Well, Um. Ah yes. Uh. Ok, Hm.

What kind of job is there for a reclusive composer who does not like to be around other people for longer than an hour at most, dislikes being told what to do and is only available intermittently when not attending to the needs of two demanding terrorists under 5?

Really? Not many in this economy? You do surprise me.

Husband, brow furrowed, pointed out that I was being negative (true) and said I didn’t HAVE to go on a course, it was just an idea, why didn’t I think about what I might want to do and then slowly build it up, I had a good 30 odd years left to work (fun!), so why not take it at my own pace, I could do anything I wanted.

This was very sweet of him to say, but I couldn’t resist interjecting playfully that perhaps it might be a bit late to be a ballerina, or a Playboy bunny.

To this he knitted the eyebrows even closer together and said yes, too late for a ballerina and as for Playboy, he would hope that I would be above that kind of thing by now.

BY NOW?? WTF?!? *

I am not making xenophobic references about senses of humour, or lack thereof. I am not.

*(For the record: I have never been a centerfold, nor has it ever been my ambition to be one or anything of that nature. )

 

At this point I would normally have rushed off to ring one of my mates so we could have fallen about laughing.  But they were all asleep 6000 miles away and anyway I haven’t spoken to them for ages, the time difference and the children are always in the way.

I tried to laugh to myself, but it didn’t work.

So instead, I wandered off to the bedroom, shut the door, lay on the bed without the disloyal Bagpurrito and started slowly to cry.

Like I said, what I really miss is having someone to play with.

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Friday Night/Saturday Morning

by Mothership on March 27, 2009

Failed horribly to write anything of note.
It was Cesar Chavez day here and thus no school.
Have you heard of him?

No?

Really?

How uncomradely of you.
The fact that I hadn’t either until I moved here and then only really because about 50 streets and a public holiday are named after him is of no relevance and I sit in mild, superior judgement of your ignorance.  

I was not really aware of this public holiday having crept up on me or its full implication  (ie preschool is closed) until yesterday at 2pm when we went for the children’s parent-teacher conferences that I will post about at some later point because

a) They were slightly surreal.
and
b) I can’t resist boasting about my children, especially if I can pass it off as something someone else said.

However, you’ll be relieved to know that  I won’t do it now because I am too exhausted from supervising Four and One-who-thinks-he’s-two (judging from the high-level-on-the-Richter-scale tantrums thrown approximately every 23 seconds).

For those who are missing my literary accomplishments (all me of you) there is a new post by me over at Bambino Goodies. It’s a reflective piece about our recent “holiday” in Colorado and it also gives some insight into some of the fine dining establishments we toured while there in case you want any recommendations. Mmmm!  

Coming very soon:
The Scintillating Tale of the Parent-Teacher Conference

Also, next week I faithfully promise to throw in one of the previously advertised

(stories for another day).

Which one and when, you ask?  Tune in every day or Subscribe and see!

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Going to the Sto’

by Mothership on March 25, 2009

Home again, home again, jiggety jog.

Ahhh, that’s better. Back in bed the office with Bagpurrito again, trusty teapot by my side, computer reliably connected to the internet and a day sans enfants stretching ahead of me. What bliss.

I am slightly sticking my head in the sand vis a vis various unpleasant tasks I have to perform today which include preparing the tax return (surely not more than 10mins?), making comparison calls to  lower our car insurance (zzzzz) and hiring a hit man to assassinate the owner of the Cat House Hotel who put a tape collar on poor Bagpurrito which left him with a giant bald patch and a sore on his neck. I am taking recommendations so please feel free to leave one in the comments.

And other less than pleasing news is that the wonderful new nursery I had lined up to send One to when Two (did you like reading that? 1 2 1 2. It’s my little joke..) is already turning out not to be so wonderful and he’s not even attending yet.
I had a letter from them yesterday saying that the teacher I had requested – the big draw to this place for me – had left because he was unhappy with working “part time”. This seems rather suspect as I was never told he was part time in the first place.
Also they announced the ‘exciting news’ that they would also be operating the nursery school as a ‘drop in center’ in addition to their regular curriculum and please tell our friends with children aged 2 -6 that they could have ad-hoc child care at the nursery.
Uh, WHAT? I am not paying top whack to have my precious child go to a place which is going to be a glorified babysitting service for anyone who wants to go out for a couple of hours. That is a great service to have in and of itself, I wouldn’t mind using it from time to time, but not really at the place where I want my darling little tot to be learning his shapes, continuity, group socialisation and getting individual attention from his teacher in a small ratio.
I could, of course,  keep him where he is – it’s a lovely place, but it’s quite a drive away near Husband’s work, whereas Four’s school is a short walk from home(as was the new nursery). And as for getting him into another nice one near home:

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Yes, if I’d put him down on the waiting list before I’d had Four, I could have done that.

Maybe Husband could take and drop him off? (And monkeys might fly out my butt?)

Maybe could teach One to drive himself?

Maybe I could home pre-school One?
And get double dose of meds from Doc?
For us both?
And the cat?

I see it’s time for elevenses. Paddington’s favourite time of day. I don’t have a bun but I am sure I can dig something out to eat. Excuse me while I replenish the teapot..

..I’m back.

Ok, WHY IS IT that I went to the supermarket last night, spent over $300 and there is still no food in the house?

Potty Mummy wrote a post recently about how she planned a weeks’ meals and then did the shopping for those meals and saved money in the process.

How did she do that? 

Mrs. Trefusis? You boast of being clairvoyant.
How the hell does one know what one will want to eat? Or what one’s offspring will deign to consume at any given time?
Or what one will be able to bear to make for them when one feels like running off to dance class and pretending one is not their mother, feeding them is the babysitter’s job?

Could it be that I missed some vital home economic lessons due to parental inattention and the fact that my school did not offer home economics.
Or perhaps they did but I was…not there very much (Roy Rogers in Georgetown, you have much to answer for).

I am not very good at lists – I get writer’s block when Husband suggests we write a one prior to going to the store and I get the same sense of sinking doom when I enter the doors of Trader Joe’s until I reach the fancy bread or chocolate aisles. That part is easy but then my guilt will not allow me to buy the delicious things I actually want to eat so I come back with a bag of carrots that slowly go bendy in the fridge, some milk and a small packet of frozen peas.
Cost: $317.25 

I need some assistance from you experienced shoppers.

How do you combat meal planning failure and supermarket ennui?

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Stories for Another Day

by Mothership on March 22, 2009

I have noticed a little theme creeping in to my posts of late, related to my own inimitable style, which is, shall we call it – ahem – stream of consciousness or, perhaps, being unable to stick to any given subject for more than half a sentence. 
The theme to which I refer is the repeated allusion to tantalising tales from my lurid past followed by:
(a story for another day).

It has been pointed out to me that I have yet to deliver any of these stories and some people are even beginning to think that I am telling porky pies.

But I am not.

It is merely symptomatic of my disorganised brain that I interject these little snippets of memory, and if you were to meet me in person and be subjected to one of my lengthy monologues (poor you!) this is exactly the way I would Ancient Mariner you into a coma while you were just trying to get directions to the corner shop.

Funnily enough I have found that it is the very act of retelling the daily bulletins of my currently not very unusual existence as a mother of two small children, which suddenly recalls the rather outlandish ways in which I used to spend my time prior to this endeavour.

Am I wistful for the times when I would slip out of my large London house, in which I lived blissfully alone, with just a key and a few pounds in my pocket, a hazy idea that I was going to meet some friends somewhere or other and that I might come back either in a couple of hours or a couple of days depending on what happened next?

Perhaps.

I often think I would like to take a two-week holiday back into my former life (including my former body!) and then return to my loving family, kind husband, delightful, delicious, much longed for children.
I was terribly anxious back then that I might never end up as I am now: Married-with-children, living a respectable life with fresh vegetables in the fridge and a calendar full of comforting appointments like the children’s’ dentist checkups or trips to the theatre booked well in advance.

I had a rather tumultuous time of it from the tender age of 17 when I left home, travelling 3000 miles back to London from the USA where my father was based,  ostensibly to further my education, but actually to go to nightclubs and pore through the ads in the back of Melody Maker. From then on it was pretty much a rabbit-hole adventure through a succession of weird jobs, friendships with other slightly unstable persons of a creative bent, unsuitable lovers of all descriptions, trips to inadvisable destinations, an on-again-off-again relationship with the DSS (this last I regarded as a state scholarship) and music, music, music. 

Sometimes it was fantastic. Sometimes it was terrifying.

It was rarely dull.

I’m sure I’d have had more fun back then if I’d known that my current life was waiting at the end of it. Not worried so much about being left on the shelf, if my career would work out, of whether the lack of convention in my life was preparing me for an old age of penury and eccentric loneliness where I would mutter to myself all day, eat out of dustbins and keep several hundred cats. Of course this may still come, but at the moment it’s looking less likely.

I have been keeping a vague note in the back of my head to go back and fulfill all my promises of (stories for another day) and was delighted to hear via Twitter yesterday that there is an amazing software program out there called DevonThink that will help people like me organise their random thoughts by cross referencing words in documents via some immensely clever algorithm and then, Bob’s your Uncle!, I will have my entire life written out in chronological order, or an even more pleasing arrangement and I then can publish it and adjust my memory accordingly, spending my twilight years reminiscing about a past with the boring bits edited out (I don’t ever need to remember getting the plunger out after someone else has used the loo or similar).

So, with that in mind, I am going to continue interjecting these teasers as they come with the full confidence that I will be able to come through on the whole story in the fullness of time.

Here are some sneak previews of several more scurrilous (stories for another day) that came to mind just as I was writing this post alone. 

  • The time I was forced to eat at McDonalds in Paris by a lover (who at that very moment became an ex-lover)
  • The time I nicked Madonna’s boyfriend (true! But it was done unwittingly)
  •  The weekend spent at Longleat with Lord Bath as a guest of one of his wifelets. That was CRAZY. And on the way back, Husband (then new boyfriend) had to direct us home via telephone from France where he was living. It was not terribly practical or cheap, but we would never have gotten back without him.
  •  The time I was duped into performing as a ‘wandering minstrel’ on a boat on the Thames singing Beatles songs for 100 Japanese tourists. I do not know any Beatles songs. It was hell. I am amazed they paid us.

Please let me know if any of them are of particular interest, or, indeed, if you were part of that story and have a perspective to add. You know who you are, people. Speak up.

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I wanna be your sled mamma

by Mothership on March 20, 2009

Today Husband took us all sledding down the one piece of local land that has not been annexed by some giant hospitality corporation and still belongs to the National Forest. It was just a few minutes drive from the house and we gamely dressed ourselves in 4billion layers, packed a thermos of hot chocolate and essential snacks and headed off for a morning of slippery fun.

It was actually a very beautiful place, not like the enlarged Butlins style feel of the ski resorts (which I loathe). Quiet, remote, a few well-trodden paths and quite a bit of virgin snow.

And an incredible amount of dogshit.

I couldn’t believe how much was in evidence. Every few steps we would have to avoid stepping in a mammoth pile of canine excrement, each at a different layer of the melt.

Coming from California, where people religiously pick up all their doggie-do, this was a bit of a shocker. I don’t think One had ever seen a turd not of his own making before (he was quite curious and had to be held back from poking at it with his finger). Husband pointed out that over the winter individual deposits had probably been buried in various consecutive snowdrifts and weren’t that noticeable at the time, but now that it was spring, the full horror of the poochie poo was revealed by millions of horrible brown circles in the snow which we were forced to dodge in a crazy slalom as we slid down the hill.

Fortunately, Husband is in charge of the care and maintenance of all outdoor gear – a deal we struck up when we first met:

Wholesome Alpine outdoorsy mountaineer man who loves hiking, biking, climbing, bouldering, long walks, camping in sub-zero conditions etc. meets urban cellar-dweller, rarely seen outside during daylight hours, prefers windowless rooms containing machines that make strange, loud noises and establishments which do not serve produce unless fermented or distilled.


Ergo, if former wishes to persuade latter to sample unfamiliar and foreign territory (i.e. go outside) he must go to great lengths to minimise any kind of discomfort or inconvenience which means packing and carrying everything, including delicious and incentivizing food, give constant praise and encouragement including compliments on appearance, and clean and put away equipment at the end of the outing while others rest and take well deserved hot baths.
He’s actually been pretty successful with this approach and I, who had never set foot in anything wilder than Hyde Park prior to our relationship, have become relatively hardy in the face of the elements.
In fact, emboldened by my experiences with him, I qualified as a game ranger and lived in the bush in Africa for a month in a tent facing down lions and terrifying insects (story for another day).
But when we’re together out-of-doors we go back to the default position of
‘he does everything and I go a bit stupid’.

It works for us.

We get along really well that way and I always feel a little bit madly in love with him again after one of these adventures.

On this occasion it has worked out very well for Husband – he is going to spend all of tomorrow skiing without being hampered by the rest of us and is doing so with my blessing – my hero who saved me from the dogshit!

The children and I shall remain behind vandalising the house although we have planned an exciting trip to Denny’s to eat more alien pancakes in a bid to stuff as much sugar and fat into our systems in one sitting as possible.

I’ve got to fill up the day somehow without actually going into real outside.  I have spotted a few Christian children’s DVD’s lying around the living room which I might put on for them. That way I can tick off religious education and guarantee a couple of hours peace all in one go.  Seems like I can’t lose, really?

Given that I grew up in the Secular house of Atheist Leftwing Radicalism with a slice of culturally alienated Jew and a dash of rejected Christianity, I’m a bit hazy on my bible stories and totally out to lunch on what Jesus is hipping the kids to these days.

I’ve got a choice of:

Noah (rainy, but lots of animals, right?), Hermie (that caterpillar again, not so keen on him) The Real Woolly Bible (sheep on cover, WTF?) and the Veggie Tales doing bible stories. There are more, but I am running out of steam here.

Any ideas, people? The house of God is at risk here..

I look forward to your suggestions

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