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2 Apr

A Hypothesis Is A Wish Your Brain Makes

‘Mommy, I have a hypothesis.’

Emilia is on a science kick right now. ‘What kind of hypothesis, sweetie?’

‘It’s about Disney World.’

‘Okay. Do you want to tell me what it is?’

‘My hypothesis is that Disney World is where dreams come true.’

‘That’s a very interesting hypothesis.’

‘I think it’s a true hypothesis because Tanner wished that we could go to Disney World together and have a family holiday there, and we’re going, and that was his wish.’

‘That is excellent science, sweetie.’

‘But we haven’t actually tested the hypothesis, Mommy, because we aren’t there yet.’ You will have to imagine her exasperated tone here. Clearly, I don’t understand science.

29 Mar

Down The Rabbit Hole (An Excursus On Infinity, The Easter Bunny And Russell Brand)

So I went to Los Angeles the other week. While I was there I hung out with Russell Brand and we talked about mommy bloggers, and also post-structuralism, and infinity.

No, really:

Russell Brand:  ‘Mummy Bloggers’ sounds like a nice saying. What if… it becomes so incorporated into language, so people would just use it normally?  “There’s a Mummy Blogger outside!  For heaven’s sake, help her!”

Me:  Or, in your case… “I was tackled by a horde of Mommy Bloggers!”

Russell Brand:  “I was having a lovely time with some Mummy Bloggers and you’ve ruined a perfectly lovely day.”

Me:  You’re turning it into “mummy,” though.

8 Mar

Mommy Went To Texas And All She Brought Me Was This Essay On Travel In The Age Of Postmodern Motherhood

The other night, I was sitting in a restaurant in San Antonio, sipping a margarita the size of a baby’s head and chatting about balancing motherhood and work and travel with a writer from National Geographic. “It’s hard sometimes,” I said. “I know that my husband finds it challenging when I’m gone one weekend and then again the next weekend and then again the next. But we manage. He does a lot of his work from home.”

“And he doesn’t mind?” she asked.

21 May

Neverland

fortyIt’s my birthday. I’m forty years old today. Forty years old. Isn’t this the birthday where I get canes and bifocals as gag gifts and t-shirts that say things like I’m not old, I’m vintage and at least one coffee mug with the words lordy, lordy look who’s forty printed along the side?

I’m not old enough to be forty. Really, I’m not. It’s not that I fear aging or think that anyone over forty is hideously uncool – it’s that I just cannot believe that I am grown-up enough to have the numbers 4 and 0 apply to me in any context other than grade point averages. I’m not a grown-up; I’m a girl in a state of arrested adolescence. Sure, I have kids, but if anything that has only driven the point home more clearly: ain’t nobody here but us childrens.