tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50902692252904224002024-03-13T15:55:21.538+01:00Daily MelMotherhood has never been so much funMelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-89366946339736323132015-11-02T14:59:00.000+01:002015-11-02T15:09:40.373+01:00Bitchin'I've discovered a new species of mum at Isabel's roller skating class. The sound of clinking jewellery and stink of privilege in the changing room is almost overpowering. It's only one postcode away from our (very respectable) neighbourhood, but another planet where the mums spend their days organizing exotic holidays and ordering an army of underpaid foreign staff to peel organic kumquats for Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-57358895213049565632015-10-05T12:13:00.000+02:002015-10-05T12:16:23.358+02:00Just sayin'Do you ever worry that your child may grown up to be a serial killer? Me either.
Random Isabel:
'Voglio ammazzare un piccione!' ('I want to slaughter a pigeon!')
Cinderella Isabel: (this came after seeing the latest film, which is impossibly romantic and more sugar-coated than a ball of candy floss dipped in treacle and hundreds and thousands):
'But mummy, if I was Cinderella, I would have Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-63627430398167362782015-10-02T12:42:00.002+02:002015-10-02T12:57:30.022+02:00On keeping calm and carrying on. And doing it with a smile.Let's get personal. Let's tell it how it is.
We've got problems. Genuine, real life, First World problems, mind.
We've got problems like: the only way we can afford to regularly buy the raspberries and blueberries that the kids love to smear around the house is if I cut out my morning coffee habit. And that ain't happening.
We've got problems like: I've got a voucher to go to a day spa, Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-38139239039692469302014-03-06T01:15:00.003+01:002014-03-06T12:21:54.239+01:00Isabel's Golden NuggetsPhilosophical: "I am me"
Rage-filled: "Mummy, you're NOT my friend!"
Pensive: "Old people are gonna be dead"
(shortly followed by)
Worried: "But those ones which are alive, they aren't dead ...?"
Soppy: "Mummy, I love you so much, I want to marry you"
(at the traffic lights)
Curious: "Why has the green man got no clothes on?"
(thankfully in English)
Scathing: "That girl has fat legs"
Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-42945042309980948982014-02-07T12:43:00.001+01:002014-02-07T12:47:15.966+01:00Pass the bucketAh, the delights of the vomiting toddler. He was sick in his bed, on the floor, on three towels, on the sofa (not the one with the washable covers), in our bed, on my pyjamas, on my dressing gown, on my face and in my hair. At one point in the night, desperate and delirious, I mopped it up with the first thing to hand (one of G's t-shirts) and then collapsed asleep on a huge seeping damp patch. Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-23324996677917029992014-01-29T11:13:00.000+01:002014-01-29T11:15:02.221+01:00Charm offensiveSomeone stole my shopping today. Two courgettes, pine nuts, walnuts and a packet of pasta. I was only in the Post Office for 10 minutes - which is a miracle and in itself worthy of an entire paragraph really. In my excitement at seeing there was only one other person there, I shot inside faster than you can say 'don't worry, I have my own pen', stupidly leaving my shopping in my bicycle basket Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-14454591530785437812014-01-15T12:50:00.000+01:002014-01-15T12:50:34.615+01:00What they don't tell you about living in Italy1 You will, sooner or later, become trapped inside a building because you can't find the switch that opens the front door to let you out.
2 Nobody is scared of eating seafood. And nobody has heard of salmonella.
3 Everybody is scared of the rain. And everybody knows the fatal powers of a cold draft.
4 You will feel fat
5 You don't have the right hair. Or shoes. Or bag. If you live here Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-36105476767935264572013-09-25T01:06:00.002+02:002013-09-25T01:11:09.675+02:00Park rulesIt's midnight, but I can't sleep because I'm contemplating stealing a scooter from the playground. It used to be that I couldn't sleep simply because my children had made a secret pact that the sun should never set on the Morozzo family. I can now happily say that we've come a monstrously long way since my last blog post and I'm now the mother to a three year old and an 18 month old who sometimesMelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-35621148105823130702013-01-15T00:00:00.002+01:002013-01-15T00:07:21.687+01:00BathtimeIsabel's drinking bath water from a little pink plastic watering can, Jack's ignoring all the fun bath toys and is chewing on a ratty old shampoo bottle and I've just realised that I've left the pyjamas in the bedroom.
Me: 'Oh, sugar ..'
Isabel: 'Oh, fuck it.'
Me: (Quick, what would Super Nanny do? Decide to ignore it, just like the bath water drinking - despite the fact that at least one of Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-79127708527080124552012-11-15T23:34:00.000+01:002012-11-15T23:37:48.433+01:00You'll never walk aloneI'm so freaking tired that the other day I forgot I live in Italy. I was walking down the street and was surprised to hear a woman talking on the phone in Italian. Seriously. I thought I was in England. Of course, I say I was 'walking down the street' and you imagine me strolling down a sunny Corso Vercelli, perhaps pausing to admire some simple yet glamorous scarf in a shop window. Think again. Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-52718507084620458702012-10-05T22:37:00.001+02:002012-10-05T22:43:16.632+02:00The Playground WarsI've absolutely had it with the other mums at the park. Today my daughter tried to join a group of kids doodling on the ground and they instinctively closed ranks, snatching up their measly little stubs of chalk to stop her from joining in. Apparently, this kind of cliquey behavior extends well beyond the age of five. Some mums are in and some of us would definitely be the last ones chosen for Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-20735401467187081212012-09-27T22:22:00.002+02:002012-09-27T22:29:52.529+02:00An ordinary afternoonLittle Man is a film star at the tender age of 4.5 months! The other day I took both kids on A Big Adventure to the centre of town (more of which later..) where G was filming a promo video for the Milan Bicycle Film Festival. I'm officially a Bicycle Film Festival widow, by the way. Thanks to the BFF, G and I have spent approx 7.5 mins together since Little Man was born. The BFF is responsible Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-58506998026326503422012-08-29T23:28:00.002+02:002012-08-29T23:32:52.940+02:00Wakey wakey, rise and whine!So my kids are in training for the Babylympics. Their strongest event is the Wakey Mummy Relay. They pass the Wakey Wakey baton back and forth all night sometimes. They have perfected the smoothest of change-overs. Goodness, I'm so proud of them. The Terrible Toddler is also in training for the Whine-athon, at times she manages to keep it up all day - and that takes some skill.
Honestly, I Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-32857406884254795932012-08-04T12:36:00.000+02:002012-08-04T12:45:57.668+02:00I wanted a bicycleJust to clarify, this post has nothing to do with cycling. In fact, I'm so sick of playing second fiddle to a load of Bromptons, Pendletons and pelotons (G pedals in his sleep*) that I really don't care for bicycles at all any more. No, the title of this post refers to something my neighbour recently said to me. It was 8.30am, I'm outside trying to wrestle the Terrible Toddler into the pushchair.Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-15717484208552174502012-06-11T11:56:00.000+02:002012-06-11T12:00:26.737+02:00Double troubleIgnore the hype, having two kids is awesome. Mainly because it makes looking after just one of them a walk in the playground. When you've got both of them hanging off your boob/demanding the Pooh Bear sippy cup or I'm-going-to-cry-so-loud-they'll-hear-me-in-Azerbaijan/pooping with such a force that they're practically propelled across the floor and out the door (delete as appropriate), then it Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-47070076715584306232012-06-03T10:25:00.000+02:002012-06-03T10:25:51.555+02:00Mars and VenusHaving kids has made me twice the woman I used to be. According to the bathroom scales that is. Note to hormonal mothers of titchy tiny newborn babies: do NOT attempt to weigh yourself again EVER. Banish the scales to the bottom of the dirty washing basket or some other place you never see. As my not-so-titchy-tiny newborn is gaining weight at the monstrous rate of about 500g a week, I was hopingMelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-44018093944750917142012-05-04T09:50:00.004+02:002012-05-04T09:52:09.771+02:00Jack Morozzo
My ideal birth scenario never really included (a) my waters breaking while home alone giving Isabel her evening bath, or (b) not being able to locate my other half for an increasingly panicky and contraction-filled 2 hours. Just so you know, G's iPhone is like Isabel's blanky - he can't function without it. If he accidentally goes out of the house without it, I have to find a paper bag for him Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-59543138797834066112012-04-23T14:01:00.000+02:002012-04-24T13:12:33.383+02:00Bring on the elephants39 weeks pregnant. Enough. Any suggestions to bring on labour welcome. Can't sleep, can't even roll over in bed without first alerting the fire brigade and getting them to come over with a reinforced winch and pulley system. How much more nesting do I have to do? There's only so many times I can clean the bathroom before I lose my mind. I've stockpiled enough pasta, rice and fish fingers to feed Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-1530769484390721222012-03-16T21:05:00.005+01:002012-03-16T22:13:54.569+01:00Dirty foreignerYou don't get a cough in Italy, you get bronchitis. My daughter and I didn't just share a delightful 24 hr tummy bug, oh no, we had gastroenteritis. This is a nation seemingly doomed to suffer horrific illnesses with complex-sounding Latin roots. You know when you get a slight cold but your other half gets pneumonia? Well, this is man-flu on a national scale. If an Italian wants to commit suicideMelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-29882747356697732402012-02-25T09:18:00.004+01:002012-02-25T10:13:51.737+01:00The scoopAlternative title to this post: 'Things you never dreamed you'd do before you became a parent'. Home alone, giving little one her bath one night. It's a scene of quiet maternal bliss. Toddler is splashing playfully and - stop the press - even attempting to wash various bits of herself. Actually, she's mainly washing her favourite bit of herself: her doo-dah (sorry, this is the best name we could Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-89523036301196991372012-02-08T11:44:00.003+01:002012-02-09T16:14:11.264+01:00More snow, vicar?It's so cold in our flat that when I shake my head it feels like my teeth are rattling. The Esselunga guy just delivered my supermarket shopping and asked me if I'm wearing a scarf in the house because I have a cold. Don't tell G, but I just caved and put the heating on. A couple of days ago, we got a gas bill for the last quarter and he still isn't talking to me. Consequently, I'm making an Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-66045251090313924982012-02-04T00:16:00.002+01:002012-02-04T00:38:38.416+01:00Hell is...1) a teething toddler2) a teething toddler with a temperature 3) a teething, sneezing toddler who's simply desperate to spend time with mummy between 4am and 7am4) a teething, sneezing, non-sleeping toddler who gives mummy their cold. Not what I had in mind as a parent when I talked about hoping to instil a sense of generosity5) looking after said teething, sneezing, non-sleeping toddler with a Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-8894145413395606812012-01-27T09:44:00.008+01:002012-01-27T12:55:09.757+01:00HeffalumpDoctor: 'Can you just jump on the scales for me then?'Me: 'No problem' (Ha, I've never worried about my weight in my life, ever.. pah.) Doctor: 'Hmmm. 72kg. Hmmm.'Me: 'Is that, umm, not good?' (This was my weight at 9 months pregnant with Isabel. I'm now less than 6 months pregnant. Gulp.)Doctor: 'I'm going to refer you to a dietician who specialises in pregnancy.'Me: Silence. I'm too busy dying Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-22066944691774643692012-01-16T14:56:00.002+01:002012-01-16T15:18:08.712+01:00Forking hellI'm more or less resigned to the fact that constantly worrying about being a good enough mum goes with the territory - along with enough guilt to fill a year's worth of maxi nappies and an overpowering fear that I may be raising the next Adolf Hitler. Sometimes, however, I do something so monumentally stupid that even I wonder if I shouldn't just call Childline myself and have Isabel taken far Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-11020481869411680202011-12-13T01:03:00.002+01:002011-12-13T01:04:54.015+01:00Attila the HoneyYou know you ought to start worrying when you discover that your daughter's nursery school teachers have nicknamed her la peste (the pest/plague), la tempesta (the storm) and Attila (umm, that one's just plain embarrassing). 'Do you think she was just born that way?' I hesitantly asked them one day, 'or have I done something to make her slightly, um, livelier than the others?'. I don't know if Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2