I'm sitting at the dining room table chatting to Boy #1 whilst he finishes his lunch. In an attempt to divert the conversation away from constant requests to watch Ice Age on dvd in daylight hours, I threw in a bit of a curve-ball...
Me: "Listen to that song on the radio, Boy #1. It's about a girl wishing a boy was her boyfriend. One day you might have a girlfriend..."
Boy #1 stopped eating, put his sandwich down, and looked at me. He raised his left eyebrow (where did he learn that by the way? It's so unfair when your 5 year old can do stuff like that when you can't...)
Boy #1: "Mama. Don't be silly. I don't need a girlfriend. When I grow up I am going to be married!"
Me: "Really? Well, that's good. Who did you have in mind?"
Boy #1: "I am going to marry E."
This was new news. Previous candidates mooted by Boy #1 for his bride to be had been J or R. What happened to them, I wondered? I asked.
Boy #1: "Well, it's obvious Mummy. They don't have the right dvd's. I am going to marry a girl with the right dvd's. J and R just have (sneer) Barbie stuff. Some girls are like that..."
Me: "But not E?"
Boy #1: "Not E. She has grown up dvd's. Like Kung Fu Panda. Please may I get down now?"
He wandered away, leaving me to question why on earth I had never realised that finding a life-partner was so simple...
Monday, 31 August 2009
Sunday, 30 August 2009
British Blogging Mummy of the Week
I'm taking time out this morning from dealing with a 5 year old Power Ranger-crazy Boy #1 who has spotted that if he sends a good enough drawing of one of his heroes to the Power Ranger magazine, he could win - gasp! - a Power Ranger Animorphin Beast Figurine.
Naturally all other activies in the Potty household have been put on hold until a suitable work of art has been created and posted off to the mag. I think he's done a pretty good job, myself. Admittedly there was some help provided by yours truly in sketching the outline, but all the colouring-in was his own work, honest guv... (And to those who accuse me of being an over-protective mummy, I was driven to such supportive lengths only after many - many, many, many - abortive attempts by Boy #1 to do it entirely by himself, which resulted in much frustration, shoutiness, screwed up paper, and our being down to our last sheet of white A4...)
This is a situation which I imagine today's British Blogging Mummy of the Week, Brit in Bosnia, would completely sympathise with, since she writes of herself:
'When I'm not being a Mum to my 2 boys, I am doing a very much part-time PhD on football and reconciliation. There's also the dog to be walked, household admin, trying to work out how to do things in another country and a blog to be written. I have recently discovered that I spend most of my time sounding like a very shrill international rugby referee ('put the ball down' 'leave it!' 'one more time and I'll send you to the naughty step - I mean sin bin'). '
I especially recommend you check out her recent post on postcards - a very good way of letting off steam and an approach that may well appear here before too long if the situation with the gate at the playground in Holland Park doesn't sort itself out soon...
To check out the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (Note: It's called 'Mummy', but Dads can be members too)
Naturally all other activies in the Potty household have been put on hold until a suitable work of art has been created and posted off to the mag. I think he's done a pretty good job, myself. Admittedly there was some help provided by yours truly in sketching the outline, but all the colouring-in was his own work, honest guv... (And to those who accuse me of being an over-protective mummy, I was driven to such supportive lengths only after many - many, many, many - abortive attempts by Boy #1 to do it entirely by himself, which resulted in much frustration, shoutiness, screwed up paper, and our being down to our last sheet of white A4...)
This is a situation which I imagine today's British Blogging Mummy of the Week, Brit in Bosnia, would completely sympathise with, since she writes of herself:
'When I'm not being a Mum to my 2 boys, I am doing a very much part-time PhD on football and reconciliation. There's also the dog to be walked, household admin, trying to work out how to do things in another country and a blog to be written. I have recently discovered that I spend most of my time sounding like a very shrill international rugby referee ('put the ball down' 'leave it!' 'one more time and I'll send you to the naughty step - I mean sin bin'). '
I especially recommend you check out her recent post on postcards - a very good way of letting off steam and an approach that may well appear here before too long if the situation with the gate at the playground in Holland Park doesn't sort itself out soon...
To check out the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (Note: It's called 'Mummy', but Dads can be members too)
Friday, 28 August 2009
Shut the ruddy gate!
It's very sad, really it is. It appears that there is a new and dread disease stalking the streets of Kensington and Chelsea, preying on poor unfortunates. It's an insidious illness, and at first glance you might not think there is anything wrong with those suffering from it. There's no strict template for those it strikes down; you could be young, old, tall, short, male or female, it makes no difference.
It seems that the victims can outwardly live a perfectly normal life. They can get up in the morning, they can dress themselves, they can care for their families. But the moment that they enter a gated enclosed play area for their children, the sickness strikes.
They are incapable of closing the gate behind them.
And it drives me blxxdy crazy. I mean, they've got to be ill, surely? Because otherwise, you would be forced to think that a person who walks into a playground full of babies, toddlers and young children and leaves the gate open behind them so that the little angels can wander off into the great unknown, must just be criminally stupid.
Fortunately for them, yesterday in Holland Park there was an increasingly flustered mother who kept an eye on the gate and when it was left open marched over to it, closing it with a emphatic clang and making terse remarks to the miscreant who left it open.
So if you were one of them and recall passing a harrassed looking woman muttering obscenities under her breath as she closed the gate behind you, don't worry, there was no need to say thankyou (which is lucky, since none of you did).
Just shut the frigging gate yourself next time...
It seems that the victims can outwardly live a perfectly normal life. They can get up in the morning, they can dress themselves, they can care for their families. But the moment that they enter a gated enclosed play area for their children, the sickness strikes.
They are incapable of closing the gate behind them.
And it drives me blxxdy crazy. I mean, they've got to be ill, surely? Because otherwise, you would be forced to think that a person who walks into a playground full of babies, toddlers and young children and leaves the gate open behind them so that the little angels can wander off into the great unknown, must just be criminally stupid.
Fortunately for them, yesterday in Holland Park there was an increasingly flustered mother who kept an eye on the gate and when it was left open marched over to it, closing it with a emphatic clang and making terse remarks to the miscreant who left it open.
So if you were one of them and recall passing a harrassed looking woman muttering obscenities under her breath as she closed the gate behind you, don't worry, there was no need to say thankyou (which is lucky, since none of you did).
Just shut the frigging gate yourself next time...
Thursday, 27 August 2009
But are they HAPPY?
Contemplating a 'big' move is always a tricky thing to do, not least because you fret and worry about how it's going to affect your children. Will they cope? Will they make friends? Will they be ignored in the playground? How will they cope with an entirely different curriculum / bedroom / language? What it really comes down to though, what you worry about most, is will they be happy?
I know that some of our friends think we're crazy, moving to Moscow with the children. And as some of them live there already, I suppose they should know what they're talking about. I have to admit that there are times when I whole-heartedly agree with them, especially when I contemplate Russia's freezing winter temperatures and the fact that if the thermometer dips below around 11 deg C my fingers can go white and numb because I have such poor circulation. This makes the prosect of -25 degC rather daunting, and I expect that you'll be able to spot me at school drop-off time in January because I'll be the one wearing the comedy gloves the size of a small country in an attempt to keep my fingers moving. (I'm not proud when it comes to staying warm...)
Despite things like this, however, I have to say that I'm starting to feel a sneaking sense of excitement at the prospect of our adventure. Last week's trip has added to that rather than diminished it in any way. Admittedly, there was the minor irritation that whilst the UK baked in up to 30 degC sunshine last week we were shivering in our inadequate summer togs in a grey-skied and chilly 13 degC, which doesn't fill me with confidence about the afore-mentioned finger situation, but overall it was great to be together as a family and see my Boys reacting so well to the numerous new situations we put them in.
I think though that what really made me feel more comfortable with this choice was the way that the locals reacted to our children. Russians are not, on the whole, the most accomodating of people. Oh, they're warm and open when you get to know them, certainly, but don't get in their way if they're in a hurry, and don't expect strangers to go out of their way to assist you. The 'service culture' - as we understand the term, any way - is not so... widespread in Moscow. I mean, obviously they'll club a fish to death for you to stop the bag rustling as you pay for your shopping in the supermarket, but opening doors, offering helpful information, or telling the full story about how to validate your visa in a way that will ensure you don't waste hours trekking about the city in a fruitless exercise that ends up with a heated debate with your significant other in a deserted carpark somewhere, are not their strong points.
So my jaw practically hit the floor as I witnessed unprompted acts of kindness towards our children every single day we were there. Never mind that I had palpitations every time an eldery lady pressed sweets into the Boys' hands (I don't yet know how to check an ingredients list for the words 'contains nuts' in Russian, you see), the fact remains that these ladies clearly didn't have too many of those sweets left for themselves.
And whilst in London, if a small child has a seat to themselves on the tube, they are expected to get up and offer it to an older person if necessary, in Moscow the reverse is true. I don't think my sons had to stand on a single tube journey in the week we were over there. There are clear practical reasons for this altruism, admittedly. The Moscow Metro, whilst a thing of great splendour, incredibly long escalators, wonderful art-deco and communist decoration, and a punctuality that would make Boris Johnson weep (there is never more than 1 minute 30 seconds between trains, except on a Sunday, when you might have to wait 2 minutes 30 if you're very unlucky), is also a bit of a speed demon. It's hard enough to hold on effectively if you're an adult, but if you're 3 years old then standing up can get quite... exciting. Best not to try it unless you want your child to turn into a human pinball, but still, the good citizens of Moscow didn't have to think about our Boys' welfare in the way that they so generously did.
Of course, I still have concerns about whether my children will be happy in Moscow. But, luckily for us, it appears that they are in fact very cheap dates. Their initial feedback to our (OK, my) unsubtle questions about what they thought about the city has been that anywhere they get given Macdonalds for dinner the first night they arrive (bad mother, PM), handed sweets out of blue (even if the treats do get vetted by their bodyguard mother before they're allowed to eat them), and where they get to sit down in pasha-like splendour whilst the grown-ups have to stand, is OK with them...
I know that some of our friends think we're crazy, moving to Moscow with the children. And as some of them live there already, I suppose they should know what they're talking about. I have to admit that there are times when I whole-heartedly agree with them, especially when I contemplate Russia's freezing winter temperatures and the fact that if the thermometer dips below around 11 deg C my fingers can go white and numb because I have such poor circulation. This makes the prosect of -25 degC rather daunting, and I expect that you'll be able to spot me at school drop-off time in January because I'll be the one wearing the comedy gloves the size of a small country in an attempt to keep my fingers moving. (I'm not proud when it comes to staying warm...)
Despite things like this, however, I have to say that I'm starting to feel a sneaking sense of excitement at the prospect of our adventure. Last week's trip has added to that rather than diminished it in any way. Admittedly, there was the minor irritation that whilst the UK baked in up to 30 degC sunshine last week we were shivering in our inadequate summer togs in a grey-skied and chilly 13 degC, which doesn't fill me with confidence about the afore-mentioned finger situation, but overall it was great to be together as a family and see my Boys reacting so well to the numerous new situations we put them in.
I think though that what really made me feel more comfortable with this choice was the way that the locals reacted to our children. Russians are not, on the whole, the most accomodating of people. Oh, they're warm and open when you get to know them, certainly, but don't get in their way if they're in a hurry, and don't expect strangers to go out of their way to assist you. The 'service culture' - as we understand the term, any way - is not so... widespread in Moscow. I mean, obviously they'll club a fish to death for you to stop the bag rustling as you pay for your shopping in the supermarket, but opening doors, offering helpful information, or telling the full story about how to validate your visa in a way that will ensure you don't waste hours trekking about the city in a fruitless exercise that ends up with a heated debate with your significant other in a deserted carpark somewhere, are not their strong points.
So my jaw practically hit the floor as I witnessed unprompted acts of kindness towards our children every single day we were there. Never mind that I had palpitations every time an eldery lady pressed sweets into the Boys' hands (I don't yet know how to check an ingredients list for the words 'contains nuts' in Russian, you see), the fact remains that these ladies clearly didn't have too many of those sweets left for themselves.
And whilst in London, if a small child has a seat to themselves on the tube, they are expected to get up and offer it to an older person if necessary, in Moscow the reverse is true. I don't think my sons had to stand on a single tube journey in the week we were over there. There are clear practical reasons for this altruism, admittedly. The Moscow Metro, whilst a thing of great splendour, incredibly long escalators, wonderful art-deco and communist decoration, and a punctuality that would make Boris Johnson weep (there is never more than 1 minute 30 seconds between trains, except on a Sunday, when you might have to wait 2 minutes 30 if you're very unlucky), is also a bit of a speed demon. It's hard enough to hold on effectively if you're an adult, but if you're 3 years old then standing up can get quite... exciting. Best not to try it unless you want your child to turn into a human pinball, but still, the good citizens of Moscow didn't have to think about our Boys' welfare in the way that they so generously did.
Of course, I still have concerns about whether my children will be happy in Moscow. But, luckily for us, it appears that they are in fact very cheap dates. Their initial feedback to our (OK, my) unsubtle questions about what they thought about the city has been that anywhere they get given Macdonalds for dinner the first night they arrive (bad mother, PM), handed sweets out of blue (even if the treats do get vetted by their bodyguard mother before they're allowed to eat them), and where they get to sit down in pasha-like splendour whilst the grown-ups have to stand, is OK with them...
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
How to Make Friends...
At Boy #1's new school open morning last week I took the chance to try and get the local perspective from a couple of mums on the Parent Teacher Organisation. The conversation moved onto where we were looking to live once we finally (finally...) relocate to Moscow...
Me: "Well, we're looking at X, Y, and Z areas at the moment. Although I think X might be a little far from the school and with the traffic being so bad... Which areas do you both live in?"
Mummy 1: "Oh, we live in Y (5 minutes walk from the school). It's perfect, although houses there are scarce. Of course there's always A. Have you thought of looking there?"
Me: "No, we definitely won't be living there. A is just so far away - I can't believe it can work, it must take hours to get here. And where do you live?" (To Mummy 2)
Mummy 2 (fixed grin on her face): "We live in A."
Perfect.
Me: "Well, we're looking at X, Y, and Z areas at the moment. Although I think X might be a little far from the school and with the traffic being so bad... Which areas do you both live in?"
Mummy 1: "Oh, we live in Y (5 minutes walk from the school). It's perfect, although houses there are scarce. Of course there's always A. Have you thought of looking there?"
Me: "No, we definitely won't be living there. A is just so far away - I can't believe it can work, it must take hours to get here. And where do you live?" (To Mummy 2)
Mummy 2 (fixed grin on her face): "We live in A."
Perfect.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Eco-Worrier at the Supermarket
It's a mine-field doing the weekly shop nowadays, don't you think? All those choices on which products to buy. Should you go organic, free-range, freedom-food, barn-raised, or value? And that's just the eggs. And you know that every choice you make can - even if minutely - impact directly on your environment. So it's nonsense time here again on the Potty Diaries. Here's a fable I came up with one day whilst musing on ethical shopping. It's been malingering in my files for a while. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
Once upon a now, in a land just down the road and around the corner, there lived an Eco-Worrier, called Rose.
Rose was an average sort of woman who lived a moderate sort of life, with a family, a home and a job to juggle. She was generally a happy little flower, but every now and again she worried about the impact her existence was having on The Environment...
One day, on looking into her empty cupboard, Rose decided it was time to visit the supermarket. She wrote a list, packed up her recycled carrier bags, and set off in her Toyota Prius. Just as she was pulling into the carpark however, a tangle-haired pea-coloured imp appeared and sat on the bonnet. It was Environmenta, the Green Imp, curse of all women trying to live a moderate life...
Rose ignored her in the hope she would turn her attentions to the owner of the petrol-guzzling 4x4 parked in the next space, but Environmenta, smelling noisomly of damp clothes that had never seen the inside of a tumble drier, followed Rose into the supermarket.
“Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble” she cackled. “You’re on my turf now, little flower! Are you up to the challenge?”
“Oh yes, Environmenta. I think I’m ready...” replied Rose, hefting her recycled bags and waving them threateningly at her pursuer. Catching the imp off-guard, she knocked her over with a nifty swing of her trolley, and made haste for the vegetable section, hoping to lose her pursuer in the crowd of elderly ladies perusing the gondola end display of buy-one-get-one free offers on un-ripe strawberries and out of season hot cross buns.
Our heroine made it to the fruit aisle, and started to pick out some locally grown Braeburns. But as she reached for a plastic bag to put them in, Environmenta skidded round the corner and knocked them out of her hand.
“Oh, I don’t think so, my little Worrier! Think of the extra packaging! Think of the damage to... the ENVIRONMENT!”
Unphased, Rose reached into her Magic Handbag, grabbed a handful of extra-strong Common Sense Powder, and threw it at the imp. “Bollocks!” she replied. “I don’t want my apples bruised by the bottom of the trolley.”
“Fair point” replied the imp, still under the influence of the powder, and disappeared. But moments later, as Rose reached for a packet of dwarf beans from Tanzania, Environmenta surfaced again.
“Aha! Excessive Food Miles! And when you could buy this delicious locally grown swede instead!” She snatched the pack of beans from Rose’s hand and hovered triumphantly a foot above the ground. Rose thought for a split second, and then pulled her List of Planned Meals out of the pocket of her Cardigan of Invincibility, raising it like a shield and advancing on the imp.
Environmenta, cowering wimpishly in the Holy Light of the Truly Organised which fell from the List and illuminated the shop, covered her eyes. “Stop it! Stop it!” she begged. “I concur! Nothing else will go with the organic ethically farmed salmon and Fair Trade couscous you have planned for tomorrow night’s dinner! You win this round...” and she slunk, sobbing piteously, around the corner to hide in a display of over-ripe bananas.
This was not the last Rose was to see of the troublesome imp, however. As she approached the fish counter, Environmenta was waiting slimily for her amongst the squid and smoked haddock. “Ha!” she shouted obnoxiously. “Thought you’d won, didn’t you! Well, answer me this, Eco Worrier! Why are you buying ethically farmed salmon and not.... WILD ALASKAN???!!!! I’ve got you now! You are miiiiiinnnnneeee! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Rose stopped, thinking feverishly. Was this really the end? Had she miscalculated? Was this an opportunity to be both Green and moderate that she had somehow missed? But no. Breathing a sigh of relief, once more she reached into her Magic Handbag, this time pulling out her Double-Edged Sword of Generally Useless Information (otherwise known as a Blackberry). She clicked triumphantly on her preferred news website button, and spoke the following spell...
“Abracadabra, riddle the notion,
There’s a vast plastic island afloat in the Ocean.
It’s made up of bottles, biddle-de-dish,
Which when they breakdown in water pollute all the fish!
And this is the reason, if it’s from open sea,
That truly organic, fish never can be!”
There was clap of thunder. “Curses!” shouted Environmenta. “Don’t think this is an end to it! I’ll get you yet, my pretty!” and she disappeared in a puff of evil BeanFeast scented smoke.
Rose finished her shopping in peace. As she reversed out of the ‘parents and child only’ parking space she had inadvertently parked in when being harassed by Environmenta on arrival, she took a sip from her Fair Trade coffee to go and decided that next time, she would definitely do the weekly shop on-line...
Once upon a now, in a land just down the road and around the corner, there lived an Eco-Worrier, called Rose.
Rose was an average sort of woman who lived a moderate sort of life, with a family, a home and a job to juggle. She was generally a happy little flower, but every now and again she worried about the impact her existence was having on The Environment...
One day, on looking into her empty cupboard, Rose decided it was time to visit the supermarket. She wrote a list, packed up her recycled carrier bags, and set off in her Toyota Prius. Just as she was pulling into the carpark however, a tangle-haired pea-coloured imp appeared and sat on the bonnet. It was Environmenta, the Green Imp, curse of all women trying to live a moderate life...
Rose ignored her in the hope she would turn her attentions to the owner of the petrol-guzzling 4x4 parked in the next space, but Environmenta, smelling noisomly of damp clothes that had never seen the inside of a tumble drier, followed Rose into the supermarket.
“Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble” she cackled. “You’re on my turf now, little flower! Are you up to the challenge?”
“Oh yes, Environmenta. I think I’m ready...” replied Rose, hefting her recycled bags and waving them threateningly at her pursuer. Catching the imp off-guard, she knocked her over with a nifty swing of her trolley, and made haste for the vegetable section, hoping to lose her pursuer in the crowd of elderly ladies perusing the gondola end display of buy-one-get-one free offers on un-ripe strawberries and out of season hot cross buns.
Our heroine made it to the fruit aisle, and started to pick out some locally grown Braeburns. But as she reached for a plastic bag to put them in, Environmenta skidded round the corner and knocked them out of her hand.
“Oh, I don’t think so, my little Worrier! Think of the extra packaging! Think of the damage to... the ENVIRONMENT!”
Unphased, Rose reached into her Magic Handbag, grabbed a handful of extra-strong Common Sense Powder, and threw it at the imp. “Bollocks!” she replied. “I don’t want my apples bruised by the bottom of the trolley.”
“Fair point” replied the imp, still under the influence of the powder, and disappeared. But moments later, as Rose reached for a packet of dwarf beans from Tanzania, Environmenta surfaced again.
“Aha! Excessive Food Miles! And when you could buy this delicious locally grown swede instead!” She snatched the pack of beans from Rose’s hand and hovered triumphantly a foot above the ground. Rose thought for a split second, and then pulled her List of Planned Meals out of the pocket of her Cardigan of Invincibility, raising it like a shield and advancing on the imp.
Environmenta, cowering wimpishly in the Holy Light of the Truly Organised which fell from the List and illuminated the shop, covered her eyes. “Stop it! Stop it!” she begged. “I concur! Nothing else will go with the organic ethically farmed salmon and Fair Trade couscous you have planned for tomorrow night’s dinner! You win this round...” and she slunk, sobbing piteously, around the corner to hide in a display of over-ripe bananas.
This was not the last Rose was to see of the troublesome imp, however. As she approached the fish counter, Environmenta was waiting slimily for her amongst the squid and smoked haddock. “Ha!” she shouted obnoxiously. “Thought you’d won, didn’t you! Well, answer me this, Eco Worrier! Why are you buying ethically farmed salmon and not.... WILD ALASKAN???!!!! I’ve got you now! You are miiiiiinnnnneeee! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Rose stopped, thinking feverishly. Was this really the end? Had she miscalculated? Was this an opportunity to be both Green and moderate that she had somehow missed? But no. Breathing a sigh of relief, once more she reached into her Magic Handbag, this time pulling out her Double-Edged Sword of Generally Useless Information (otherwise known as a Blackberry). She clicked triumphantly on her preferred news website button, and spoke the following spell...
“Abracadabra, riddle the notion,
There’s a vast plastic island afloat in the Ocean.
It’s made up of bottles, biddle-de-dish,
Which when they breakdown in water pollute all the fish!
And this is the reason, if it’s from open sea,
That truly organic, fish never can be!”
There was clap of thunder. “Curses!” shouted Environmenta. “Don’t think this is an end to it! I’ll get you yet, my pretty!” and she disappeared in a puff of evil BeanFeast scented smoke.
Rose finished her shopping in peace. As she reversed out of the ‘parents and child only’ parking space she had inadvertently parked in when being harassed by Environmenta on arrival, she took a sip from her Fair Trade coffee to go and decided that next time, she would definitely do the weekly shop on-line...
Monday, 24 August 2009
The regrettably delayed British Blogging Mummy of the Week
So, we're home. And I would just like to say that I hope there is a special type of hell reserved for those who allocate planes to flights and who scheduled a particular flight between Moscow and London NOT to have seat-back tv screens. And then decided that the most suitable film to show on the overhead screens should have 'adult' content. In addition to a feature-length version of Doctor Who (now renamed 'Dr Cool' by Boy #1), who up until this point hadn't seen it but who is now probably having nightmares about cybermen as we speak. Nice. Thanks a lot, Mr Scheduler.
But therein lies another post...
In the meantime, however, I'm late - again - with this week's British Blogging Mummy of the Week. So sorry... But I hope you'll forgive me if you get the chance to read this week's pick. I waffle, I know it, so when I find a blogger who is trained to write and is able to be short and to the point, using only 3 paragraphs when I would need 10 to do the same job, I'm a fan.
This week's blogger, Susie Mesure at Babies Who Brunch, writes of herself:
'I'm a budding newspup trying to carve out my own little niche in the blogosphere. I'm just back from living in DC for six months where I had fun blogging about history as it happened. After the excitement of Obama's victory, Gordon Brown's tribulations just aren't doing it for me so I'm giving politics a miss for a while. Luckily there is plenty more to write about.'
I particularly liked her confession of how she found herself becoming one of 'those' mums. You know. The competitive ones that we all diss until we find ourselves doing it too...
To check out the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (Note: It's called 'Mummy', but Dads can be members too)
But therein lies another post...
In the meantime, however, I'm late - again - with this week's British Blogging Mummy of the Week. So sorry... But I hope you'll forgive me if you get the chance to read this week's pick. I waffle, I know it, so when I find a blogger who is trained to write and is able to be short and to the point, using only 3 paragraphs when I would need 10 to do the same job, I'm a fan.
This week's blogger, Susie Mesure at Babies Who Brunch, writes of herself:
'I'm a budding newspup trying to carve out my own little niche in the blogosphere. I'm just back from living in DC for six months where I had fun blogging about history as it happened. After the excitement of Obama's victory, Gordon Brown's tribulations just aren't doing it for me so I'm giving politics a miss for a while. Luckily there is plenty more to write about.'
I particularly liked her confession of how she found herself becoming one of 'those' mums. You know. The competitive ones that we all diss until we find ourselves doing it too...
To check out the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (Note: It's called 'Mummy', but Dads can be members too)
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