mothers on the verge

Having had no babies in our house for half a decade Alpha and I are in dire need of a refresher course before the arrival of Peanut this summer. So we've been hanging out with as many small babies as possible in an effort to ease ourselves back in gently prior to the Big Event. This is what we've figured out: Babies are really cute. Especially when they smile. And they smell really good. Plus they feel nice to cuddle. And persuading a baby to fall asleep with minimal screeching feels a bit like winning the lottery. But all this is only really great in the context of other people's babies. Because then you can hand them back when they shout or if they've done one of those really nasty up-the-back-of-the-babygro yellow poos. Or if you want to do something nice and solitary, like go for a wee. This is because babies are tiny dictators. Their weapons of choice are noise pollution, sleep deprivation and projectile poo - and they have no moral qualms about launching the

We've been a bit concerned over the past couple of days here at Chateau On The Verge. Large numbers of strange animal droppings have been sighted in tidy heaps behind the barn. Could we have foxes? Wild dogs maybe? It's been quite a puzzle. We mused on the problem over several glasses of wine. Set up a watch at night to catch the culprits. All to no avail. Not a whisper, not a sighting of a bushy fox tail or anything else except the usual squeaking of bats and rustlings of hedgehogs. Not a whisper, that is, until I walked around the barn in search of the feral child pack to discover the two smaller ones with their pants off, squatting, fresh loo roll on the grass between them. When asked why they were committing such a heinous act, they responded, "Because we're dogs, of course." Dogs? Using loo paper? The world must surely be coming to an end.

It being half-term in good Ol ' Blighty , Alpha, the rugrats and myself have escaped the rat-race for a week to sloth out and consume large amounts of croissants/ chocolate/ alcoholic beverages chez The In-Laws. The In-Laws, who are delightful (I am a fortunate Mummy indeed) live in Geneva, which is a marvellous thing indeed apart from the fact that it forces us to experience the rancid charms of the Easyjet cabin crew. Why these orange-clad muppets act as if they are doing us a favour I have so far failed to understand. Added to this annoyance, flying with two children under the age of five is on par with being shut in a small box in the company of a pair of rabid baboons. I am selflessly considering offering my darlings to Her Majesty's Secret Service as a powerful weapon for the War Against Terrorism. The loud and tuneless singing of the three lines they know from High School Musical; the repetitive kicking of the seat in front of them; the endless demands for juice/ c