Humourless...

My perfect friend Vashi really does not share my sense of humour at all - you realise when I am joking don't you?

OHMYGOD...

I fear I shall be lying down for the rest of the week, I may even seek confession.

Vashi recently described her frustration at how her prized Persian Blue kitty had been spending far too much time in the arms of a frightful neighbour. Apparently this loathsome woman had been gloating regarding the fact that Snookums preferred to dine at number 7! How very dare she? That woman is a minx.

"What am I to do?" wailed my chum. "I am spending a fortune on fresh fish at Moxons, the cat gives me a filthy look if I even dare to dish out Hills Science. It is not the money, clearly - I just feel so damn bullied and betrayed!"

"I wouldn't stand for it a minute more. I would have him put to sleep if I were you," I laughed "and visit a taxidermist with the corpse. I am sure that someone experienced could compose him appropriately. You could position Snookums on your piano stool within view of your evil neighbour - just inside the bi-folding glass doors. She could rattle her damn pots and pans and call the cat to her hearts content - she would soon realise that the relationship was over"...

I WAS JOKING...

Common...

My monster-in-law arrived unannounced for a flying visit this afternoon. The poppets are on their Easter holidays from school and bounded about the house under the supervision of Magda - our new Polish au pair (she cannot speak a word of English and recently bestowed me with an enormous home made sausage and some hand knit socks upon her arrival at Herne Hill train station).

To my delight Granzilla commented on the profusion of award certificates stuck to our minimalist brushed steel American fridge complimenting my darling munchkins on their progress at their selective independent schools, and elaborated about how surprised she was as;

"they learned to walk far too soon. We really never expected that the poor darlings would be bright."

"What are you saying sweetie?" I chirped through gritted teeth...

"Your father-in-law and I have always agreed that walking early is a sign that children are from council housing - well clearly they are pulling themselves up on the furniture which is positioned terribly close together in their frightfully cramped little homes. Walking early is a dreadful sign."

OHMYGOD! That woman is outrageous...

Everyone knows that my home rivals The Tate Modern for square footage. I am beside myself with disgust.

Those socks that Magda gave me look almost Missoni you know - if only her grandma had knit me a cardigan.

Open minded...

For weeks now, my darling boy has been pleading with me to allow him to have an "Intendo DS" computer game - the perfect lamb.

"But diddums," I explained, "I have read that computer games inhibit creative play at a time when you should be learning to negotiate and share under the supervision of a grown up. They encourage fright and flight responses, violent reactions and are responsible for children behaving like hooligans. There is nothing more beneficial for a child than spending time with a grown up. Now go and find yourself a book and get the au pair to read it to you like a good boy..."

I would hate for anyone to consider that James and I neglect our parental duty like some kind of heavy drinking trailer trash. However, as a parent, one must always strive to be open minded and move with the times... (sigh).

Late last week, with the school holidays looming in front of me like an enormous abyss, I noticed this feature on the morning news! Apparently just twenty minutes each day playing with Brain Training on the Nintendo DS can substantially enhance a child's numeracy and literacy skills from the age of three onwards! How much time have we already wasted lost?

I scooted to Brixton on my way home from work (OHMYGOD! The risks that I take with my life for my munchkins) and purchased a petal pink machine for my baby girl, and a black manly machine for my burly boy. I would hate to inhibit my darlings' growth and development.

Lets hope it keeps the poppets happily occupied until the damn schools open up again.

Now, can I pop some ice in that drink for you?

In charge

I am afraid that I have been unable to blog for the last few days (sigh)...

I have been so very distressed indeed, confined to my bed with a migraine so frightfully intense, I was convinced that the end was nigh. We attended our tiny flower's parent teacher meeting on Friday evening, and received a report of her "outstanding insight" into any given situation, her "articulate, expressive and artistic nature"... OHMYGOD! I fled the building, I feared the shame would kill me stone dead! Whatever am I to do (sniff)?

It all seemed to be going so very well to begin with, in the midst of the report my eyes began to wonder about the classroom, searching for evidence of my darling girl's art work. On the wall behind Mrs Darling were sweet child crafted portraits of family groups. Each child had apparently painted a perfect picture of Daddy (the tallest), followed by mummy and a small selection of siblings. I smiled to myself as I reminisced that I had painted such a picture myself in school as a child. My daddy was tall and had wore hat, my mother was smaller and there were four of us tiny sisters and our cat "Snookie."

"Which picture has my munchkin Freya painted," I purred. Mrs Darling directed us to a composition right behind us in which the mother was the tallest member of the family group (in a stripey cardigan - Missoni, clearly) followed by tiny daddy, big Freya and small Max!!! OHMYGOD! I almost expired.

"Has the child no idea of how very influential indeed her daddy is?" I cried, shocked and horrified (clutching my new Burberry Prorsum The Mason Warrior Bag to my breast).

James then pipped in with his contribution;

"Influential is one thing darling, in-charge is something completely different."

...I may never recover. James and Mrs Darling both laughed out loud. He has stopped laughing now I can tell you, the trouble in the City will keep him busy for at least the rest of the week (and they are still trying to work out who started that rumour!).

Uncle Anthony

When I was a little girl, my uncle Anthony was young and trendy and listened to this on his record player. I thought that he was the coolest man alive...

Can you believe that this was thirty three years ago?

OHMYGOD... I am sooo damn old, and so is Uncle Anthony!

environMENTAL

This morning I came to the obvious conclusion that the current media awareness drive aimed at children regarding environmental issues has gone far too far. My perfect poppet Max has discovered a frightful recycling game on the cbbc website just last Sunday morning and he has become obsessed, taking the protection of the environment to extremes ever since!

Perfect Max has insisted just this morning that he will have water poured on his breakfast cereal instead of milk! Apparently the methane produced by dairy cows is having a detrimental effect on the environment. The munchkin has begged us to turn down the heating and wear more clothes to keep ourselves warm, even asserting that we wash our clothes less often!!! The most outrageous suggestion of my tiny boy's campaign is that he has now insisted that I am to abstain from plugging in my straightening iron - OHMYGOD!

Naturally I do everything I can to support my perfect baby. I have decided that I will have my hair chemically straightened (what the darling does not know will not hurt him) - apparently it will save hours from my personal grooming routine each week, and perhaps the chemicals the hairdresser shall use will cause the atmosphere to heat up so significantly that our homes will all be warmer ...sigh.

Wet Wet Wet

Giving birth under forty is sooo last millenium! The fact that I have the skin of a fourteen year old has always been a source of great pride to me, but of late, appearing to be a young mother in this locality could cost a girl her position and social standing! Ladies of Dulwich are keen to reach the heady heights of extreme career success before putting down a perfectly pedicured foot and insisting on commitment and family life...

Why is it then, that so many of these high achieving ladies appear to be so absolutely wet when then they become mothers?

Sitting in Cafe Rouge yesterday afternoon, I overheard two mature, articulate mothers conversing about the conundrum that is motherhood - as they simultaneously breastfed three children between the two of them (well it stands to reason that if they leave reproduction to the eleventh hour that mass production may be called for).

"Rufus has just started to sleep through... and before we know it they seem to think that they are putting the clocks back!"

"OHMYGOD!!! The early morning light will cause Hugo and Florence to wake and disturb their rhythm, no, it cannot be true! Can't Gina Ford intervene? Can't we launch some sort of public awareness campaign about this issue? Are we too late for a petition??"

WHAT ARE THEY LIKE?

They had more baggage around that table than I took to Cornwall for a two week holiday last summer.

When did being a mature parent begin to mean that mothers became so bloody wet?

I know, I apologise, I am not my usual happy go lucky self today. Weekends are so damn stressful, well, the au pair is off until Monday, isn't she...

NOTE TO SELF: Tell the housekeeper to ensure that the blackout blinds are in full working order on the nursery windows, and order online from Majestic Wine.

Nightmare...

Since finding this hilarious wedding invitation online, I have been tortured by recurring nightmares. In one version I am the sobbing mother, and some minx is making off with my golden son, in another frightful hallucination - I am the bride (my monster-in-law hates me you know)!!!



This dear friends, is Dulwichmum's complete and utter ultimate nightmare scenario - after all of my hard work!

I never do anything at all in half measures you know. I always endeavour to be the best at everything, in this case - I am trying to afford my munchkins the best possible opportunities in life (I have been plying them with Omega 3 rich fish oils since birth).

In an effort to ensure that the poppets gain places at the right universities, I am already bearing their future UCAS (university) application forms in mind...

I encourage my darling boy to engage in outdoor sports; rugby, football, cricket and martial arts (I will ensure that Max is perceived as an asset to any university team) - but what if instead of gaining the title of Captain of the Rugby/Cricket Team and completing his Gold Duke of Edinburgh Gold award by 17, darling Max decides to be a martial arts instructor or an orienteering coach? OHMYGOD!

I am focused on ensuring that my poppet will play both a stringed and brass musical instrument to Grade 8 (it looks so darned "well rounded" on an application form for university, he can play in their brass band or orchestra) but what if my little man decides to join a band or ever OHMYGOD - play the oboe for a living???

My baby boy has been bombarded with Muzzy French and Mandarin (the business language of the future) since birth - enjoying after school mandarin lessons so very much indeed (I had to put the darling's name down on the waiting list at conception for this one, sigh) - but what if he decides that he actually wants to live in France or China or be a language teacher???

I am tortured. How can a mother ever feel secure that she is making the right choices for her perfect son?

I shall teach Freya everything I know. My darling four year old flower is already equipped with her own orange sticks and pushes back her cuticles regularly - I can rest assured that I am getting it right with one of my offspring...sigh.

She who laughs last...

My darling man really is such a super powerful person... at work.

Clearly there is a strict hierarchy in place in our home, the munchkins (with their outdoor voices and tiny tantrumettes) reign supreme, closely followed by our housekeeper (upset Albena and the entire apple cart will topple) and after that there is the au pair to keep happy (the school run would be impossible without my little Polish sidekick), and last but not least come James and myself (in no particular order you understand).

Last night James arrived home from work with his obnoxious work colleague Martin, they were full of their own importance, James was feeling incredibly brave. He often finds his own sense of humour terribly entertaining when in the company of a minion, oh how he laughs...

"Things have gone down hill dramatically since they gave women the vote," he guffawed,

"well, when we allowed them to wear shoes, all hope was lost."

OHMYGOD!

Does he really consider himself superior to me in the great scheme of things?

I enjoy my shoes, I must say. Take these for example. I bought them today with James' own credit card, online. James could have a good guess at much I spent on them, and even then he would have to add a zero. Oh the satisfaction that is owning a pair of Giuseppe Zanotti Swarovski embellished sandals!

I shall use them to walk all over my man (sigh)!

A mothers love...

My darling boy was blubbing on the top stair as I tripped up to bed last night. The poor lamb had been listening to the horrors on the news! We really must be so very careful indeed, little ears hear everything...

"Oh Mummy, why were the children in a special home in Jersey," he sobbed," and how could anyone be cruel to children with no mummy and daddy to protect them at all," he sobbed.

"I know my darling little man," I consoled, a lump in my throat and tears flowing down my perfect cheeks (I have amazing skin for a woman of my age and could actually pass for a girl of just 25).

I took my munchkin to his room and tucked him into bed before lying on the bed beside him.

"Mummy will always be here to protect you my tiny baby, I will always believe you, defend you and put you first sweetie. If anyone should ever hurt you, or touch you in a way that makes you feel unhappy, you can always tell Mummy," I assured my innocent child as we lay embracing on the bed. "Never be afraid to tell me anything my sweet boy, if anyone touches you at all, Javier (the gardener) the Parish Priest, your father, Grandpa Charles - Mummy will believe you. Just tell mummy... I will always put you first."

Then my perfect cub uttered words that every mother dreads. The skin on my face became cold and numb, I felt nauseated and confused.

"Well actually Mummy, daddy has touched me in the way you say... a way I did not like."

OHMYGOD!!! Pass the Rescue Remedy!

I scrambled off the bed, fell to the floor and reached across the room to flick my poppet's bedroom door closed with my foot. The realisation that my perfect marriage was surely over took hold and I knew I needed to protect my golden boy...

"Tell Mummy, my darling child. I shall toss the cad out on the street. Your father will never ever lay a hand on you again. I shall call the police and summon in the lawyers, you are safe dear heart - tell me all, Mummy can take it."

"Well Mummy, Papa noticed that I had used your new lipstick to draw on the floor tiles in your en suite bathroom and he slapped my bottom - I didn't like it at all. He was wrong."

"REALLY?" I replied. "Those limestone tiles are from Fired Earth and cost a fortune sweetie. They have not even been sealed yet - will the stains ever come out? And OHMYGOD - my new lipstick!!! If you ever touch my make-up bag again I shall send you to an institution called Winchester."

I really have the perfect family after all...(sigh).

I'm sooo broody!

It's official, I just can't help myself.

You will be too...(sigh)