DC Metro Mom

I have a feeling this post may go hand-in-hand with an earlier one wherein I claimed to be aging at a rate not unlike Dr. Marcus Brody in Temple of Doom, when he picks a fake Holy Grail and fulfills the ancient prophecy of the wise knight by hopping on the Express Lanes Towards Death (suffering dreadful agony and split ends along the way). Split ends notwithstanding, this scenario is naturally still in the works as Lord knows none of us are getting any younger, especially me. I've discovered yet another nail in the coffin, though, and I'm hoping some of you can relate. Music, people. I speak of beautiful music. The soundtracks of our youth! The stuff we grew up on! That we shaped and formed our lives to with depth and importance and real meaning! The stuff we played as background noise so our parents wouldn't hear us making out in the basement! WHERE did we go wrong...

Please tell me I'm not the only one that's disappointed with the crap that's been slung onto the airwaves lately. And WORSE, what the hell's happened to the world that causes anyone under 24 to have absolutely no recall of truly good music? My husband was at lunch a while back with a buddy from work who happens to be a huge Guns N' Roses fanatic. He was up in arms about the whole Chinese Democracy drama and the fact that it's taken as roughly as long to make as a California Redwood takes to reach its full height (ninety thousand years, give or take a few weeks to decide on cover art). In the middle of their heated discussion, their waitress came by, and, in an apparent attempt to prove that she had either just crawled out from under a rock or was still potty-training, she asked in all seriousness who Axl Rose was. An understandable query, since his band has only sold roughly 100 million albums to date, was listed in Rolling Stone's 100 Greatest Artists Of All Time, and was partly responsible for a huge defining movement away from 80's glam rock and towards 90's grunge. But what the hell do I know...

Call me a geezer, but I feel a sense of longing for the music with actual "staying power". When did people become old farts for listening to stuff like Stevie Ray Vaughan or Clapton or Steve Winwood? I get the whole "but it has a good beat" argument that people use for rap and a lot of the pop dance stuff out right now. I'd be lying if I said there weren't times that I had some seriously embarrassing tunes blasting within the safe confines of my car, or Ipod, or tacky speakers hanging out of my freshman dorm windows onto the streets of Boston. In fact, just to show the kind of sport I am, I present something below that has cost me a good amount of dignity in the past few weeks after I dug it up and had the foolhardy idea to show it to my more merciless friends:

If you squint real hard in the upper right corner.......Ah yes. There it is. I was a huge heavy metal/hair band fan back in the third grade, circa 1988, and although this didn't win me any friends at a time lavish with Debbie Gibson and Michael Jackson (pre-going out of his ever-loving mind), I was stuck on Poison, hence the weird Bret Michaels likeness above. Extra points for the chest hair, people.

I share this with you in the hopes that once you pick yourself off the floor and wipe the tears of laughter away, you'll realize, just as I did while writing this, that I'm just aging myself even further by moaning about how music has changed, probably following suit with my parents, and their parents, etc. etc. My taste for hair bands may have frightened my parents much the same as rap does for me today. And even though I want to complain about those little assholes across the street that come home at midnight with their bass thumping loud enough to crack the drywall in my house, I won't....because I'm a bigger person than that now. I understand that we all have our own special, personal tastes in music. And I can also take comfort in knowing that the crap they're playing is probably a remix of 70's classic rock anyway. See? Who says I can't accept our differences?

Cross posted on http://www.domesticfiction.blogspot.com/.

I would like to know, O dear readers, if there is anyone among us who can truthfully claim a childhood free of bribery, intended either to ward off some outlandish behavior or be the proverbial "carrot" on the arduous stick of our lives. (I would also like to know if you think that would be a terrific name for a soap opera, because I do). I ask this, in part, to uncover our vast similarities and join together as friends, but mostly to make myself feel way better about those few times I extorted silence out of my raging toddler with a threat to skip the visit to Cold Stone.

Realizing that this post and several others (okay, fine, ALL of them) effectively kill my chances at winning Mother Of The Year, I throw my hands up and admit defeat after all those lame promises I made before my children were actually born. Moms, please back me up here...you're huge and pregnant with Baby Number One, tucking away onesies and getting the nursery ready, and silently repeating a vow that you never turn into that wild-eyed vision of your own mother, with a corded phone jammed between ear and shoulder and one hand making a violent pointing motion at you and your siblings to "shut your traps while I'm talking to Aunt Janet, for the love of sweet merciful Jesus," and the other hand on a glass of whatever was chilled enough to drink. Not ringing a bell? No? Fine, you're excused. Go finish your scrapbooks while you enjoy a refreshing Shirley Temple. The rest of you, please join me in my shame. I have turned into my mother (and her mother, and so on, etc.). How does it happen?

Gradually, as I've found out. I was able to keep up the Mary Poppins bit for quite a while, leaning heavily on babysitting skills and a stint at a Montessori school (and for those of you who care, twenty grand a year for your 3-month old DOES NOT guarantee either Harvard admittance or a lenient hand when they set fire to your neighbor's garage. Just an FYI.) I think it started sneaking up on me when I realized I produced a child just like me: sensitive and intuitive, perhaps to a fault. My firstborn can talk up a storm and charm people out of large sums of cash (we hope...Mama needs a new pair of shoes! Roll 'em!), but is unable, at this point in time, to take anything with a grain of salt. He sees and feels everything, and it's personal, all the time. The whining and tantrums are so often that of course I wonder whether it's my fault for giving in just this once (of course it is, you dummy), and now I've essentially had to compensate by becoming a drill sergeant with ovaries which leads us FULL CIRCLE back to our own childhoods (please refer back to above visual, "Mother With Borderline Personality Disorder").

Ahhh. Having little inmates of your own certainly does wonders for your hindsight, if not your ability to learn what responsible parenting choices will come back to bite you in ass. Next time I will not give in! I will have the courage to say "No!" I will thwart all attempts to beg and plead for "just one more cookie!" Next time he's getting a Shirley Temple.

By Anne

I have this theory that for each child you have, your body (and that of your mate) will age about ten years in the span of just one. Since I suck at equations (leave it to the person that majored in their own native language), I will assume that with my oldest being nearly three and youngest about one and a half, let's see.......umm......two kids times so many years........I am roughly twenty-two thousand and four years old right now. Translated into square footage, my ass might be about the same size around too, if I ever worked up the courage to let thine eye wander in a dressing room. Or that horrendous funhouse mirror from hell on What Not To Wear.

Ahem. Back to this awesome theory of mine that everyone else already knows when they have kids. I swear it's the most uncanny thing, but I should start keeping a log with "Before" and "After" pics to prove it because it's gotten worse recently. At first, with my oldest, it wasn't so bad.......you're sapped after a pregnancy, and maybe your mate is a little plump after those sympathy donuts (and beer), but it's not too bad. Then the kid starts walking. And climbing. And poking. And then you have another one. And even if they make you tweak out seventeen times a day and cause several heart attacks in a row when they dash out into the road to chase a flying hairball (apparently I need to vacuum my front lawn), you love these kids to pieces and keep an eagle eye on them every moment to ensure their safety. In fact, I read a while back that your brain chemistry actually changes when you have children, resulting in lesser productivity from the higher-functioning areas that control, say, speech or ability to calculate an appropriate tip for your hairstylist. Apparently those qualities that make us intelligent beings are sacrificed in the name of honing our most primitive instincts to keep the little ones from killing themselves. I would add the link to said article, but that information was stored in the "trash bin" section of my brain and was tossed in favor of my new Spiderman Leap that I acquired after the little guy decided that a flaming hot oven would be the perfect place to crawl into and relax.

Let me preface the following paragraph by stating yet again that I love my kids wholly and to the point that I want to give them belly zorberts until they laugh themselves into a coma...HOWEVER.....I have noticed that the end result of such devotion and aforementioned "primitive tunnel vision" is an extreme version of putting all of one's eggs in a single basket; in short, I have turned into that manic hovering mother. Case in point, my hair began to turn gray last year. At 27. Oh, and that pesky "blood pressure" thing? Mine's bad enough but my husband's is something like three thousand and six over five hundred, thanks also to his stressful job and our dietary habits that should realistically have us talking to Dr. Phil via satellite since we can't fit through the goddamn doorway.

The best thing about my theory is that it's applicable across the generations (and may explain why my father suddenly started losing hair pigment very quickly about the time my sister and I entered middle school). A while back, one of my favorite bloggers, Metrodad, posted a request for people to send in embarrassing childhood memories. Here's what I wrote him:

Hi Metrodad!

I loved reading your post/comments regarding terrible moments from childhood. Very amusing...and although this is kind of a delayed reaction, I have one to add if you decided to do a new post about "Things We Did To Our Parents To Get Them thisclose To Being Arrested":

I was about 10, coming back from my soccer game with a friend in the back of the family van. My dad was driving, and back in the day he did a lot of carpentry, so he had on some scrubby clothes and hadn't really shaved, and the van had a bunch of his tools and equipment in the back. A pretty picture.

So we're coming up to a toll booth on the highway, and he stops to hand the cashier money. All of a sudden, she looks towards the back of the car and her eyes go wide, face aghast with horror. He looks at her like,"what's the problem", and turns around towards us in the backseat........there we were, two little ten year-old girls in soccer uniforms, with our hands behind our backs and duct tape over our mouths, banging our heads against the back window........

He laughs about it now, only because I have two kids of my own and he can't wait for revenge......

My only hope is that my own little angels will spare me the heart-stopping foolishness that I regularly thrust upon my poor parents. Considering I was such an asshat, though, I'd say the best we can do is stock up on Tums and hide the matches. Or, in the very least, the duct tape.

By Anne

Some random questions I've been pondering lately as I attempt to pack up our many mounds of junk for an impending move:

Where did all of this stuff come from?

Seriously.

We have so much crap.

Why the hell would we have ever moved across state lines with junk mail from 2004, old Halloween candy and a fold-out poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger from Muscle & Fitness Magazine especially now that my husband and I have neither muscles or a commitment to fitness? (see crusty candy stash reference above.)

Do all of you remember when your first baby started walking? Well, maybe not walking per se, more like stumbling madly around like Gary Busey on the tail end of a long bender, barking with glee and pawing at people. Sound familiar? Yeah, I had forgotten about that phase. My oldest, at a ripe old two and a half, has long since figured out how to hop down steps and avoid grabbing pots off the stove. He's mastered the no-no spots of the house and is really good at those quick saves before his big melon goes crashing into sharp corners. Most of the time.

So for the past few months I've been thinking, "Okay, sweet, now I can actually hold a mug of hot coffee and drink it. For more than four seconds at a time. Before it turns into arctic sludge." I even got to SIT with it a few times. And oh, what a PERFECT time for the parenting gods to rub their hands together and snicker. How silly of me to relax my neurotic-tension-reflex-o-meter, or whatever the hell is responsible for that mad dash towards disaster we all do to avert the certain ER-visit (despite how fun it is to sit in a waiting room with an injured toddler for two hours).

My liver has officially put in for disability benefits and is calling it quits. Most likely, this is not because it's put in a lot of work lately, with what it's required to do filtering out the occasional glass of wine or bag of Milanos. (Did I say bag? I meant, um, "serving size"). I'm pretty sure, though, that after all the time and effort and damage exerted during my younger years, poor old Bessie has had enough. Or, at least, she's looking to move into the body of someone without two small children, someone who could handle a shot of booze if there were an active champagne cork aimed at her head, unlike yours truly.

Let's be honest, though...like this is a HUGE surprise. You hear it from anybody who's had kids and is not currently sporting an arrest record or hanging with Britney Spears: once those charming spawn come hither, you can kiss your old life goodbye. Hell, once the line on the test stick turns pink, that's your Bat-signal to put on your big girl panties and grow up. (Your mate, however, is still allowed a probationary drinking period and can reap the benefits of having a designated driver for nine months straight, given his ability to maintain a constant flow of ice cream in your house).

In truth, I love my kids to pieces. My husband does, too. But if you had sat us down three years ago and presented us with a picture of our lives today, we would have laughed heartily before inviting you to come along to Happy Hour for cocktails and free jalapeno poppers. Life was different then, you see. We spent a lot of time at the bar. We met in a bar. We expected a certain amount of upheaval after having kids, but it was always assumed that our Sid and Nancy alter-egos would return once we got a handle on the whole "baby" thing. (Mind you, this idea was hatched before Irish Twin #2 showed up on the scene.) So much for best-laid plans, eh? (Bada-bum-bum-bum).

Most of our recent attempts at not being lame have proven fruitless debacles. Take, for instance, one weekend recently when my "fun cousin" was visiting and we were meeting up with friends in the city. Everyone was feeling great, plus, we had an actual babysitter that didn't show any outward signs of bipolar disorder. All the ingredients for a good time, right? Naturally, we all ended up stinking drunk with a $500 bar tab and a Hall Of Fame hangover that made me want to peel the scalp off my head if only it would have dulled the throbbing pain. Our boys were gracious enough, however, to wake us for the 6AM shows on Nickelodeon lest we miss the fun of Blue's Clues (except this particular morning Blue had developed a freaky doppelganger since my eyes were unable to focus as they pulsed out of their sockets and onto the area rug). My husband came through like a champ, however, getting up right away and giving the baby his bottle. That morning, I came to see him with even more respect and almost felt sorry for my friends who complained that their husbands were not quite as "with it" as mine....that is, until I found that he had snuck off, baby in swing, and was curled up in a cozy ball sleeping on the kitchen floor. Face-down. I wish I were kidding.

I've decided, though, that being a total pansy is a blessing in disguise. It's not like any of us old married farts are out to flirt anymore, and the binge-drink aftermath is almost as bad as being in labor: it's painful, you want to throw up the whole time and it lasts for HOURS. And then, just when you're certain you can't take any more and swear up and down your pledge to recoil in the face of liquor from here on in....somebody poops. A lot. And it will be green. And assuming your husband is not the culprit, you will finally resolve that it's just way too much work to have that kind of fun anymore when there are small people depending on you. And you may find that actually, it's okay to move on and find new ways of amusing yourself. I certainly have. My liver will thank me, once it returns.

I realized the other day that perhaps my flair in the kitchen has taken a nosedive, and I don't doubt that it's the inevitable result of the "customers" that take up residence at the table. My house is basically a humorous short-order diner that serves wee little patrons with finicky appetites and anger management issues. All this is well and good as my former weekend gig as a bar wench in Boston has me well-equipped for this kind of madness and drink-throwing, but despite my endearing nostalgia for drunk Irish guys (we all love 'em), I can't shake the conviction that we really are what we eat, and eventually all four of us will turn into semi-burned chicken nuggets and buttered noodles. Not a picture the in-laws would appreciate on next year's Christmas cards, mind you.

When I had my first baby I swore up and down that I would try to be one of those moms they feature in those do-gooder parenting magazines that make you feel like you suck at your job if you don't make cute animal-shaped carrot shavings (with little grape feet and peas for eyes) with lunch. Disregarding the ungodly amount of time and patience those things would require (either of which I would sell a kidney for nowadays), I still aspire to feed my family the good stuff. I ATTEMPT to do so. I think a lot of parents do. And I still make an effort now and again to weasel a few chunks of some fetid organic thing into the mac and cheese, when I'm feeling especially sprightly. This is the same woman who, in pre-baby times, planned an elaborate Valentine's Day dinner for my (now) husband featuring a reduced sauce cooked over many hours, hand-julienned vegetables and big ol' sea scallops fashioned into heart shapes. Seriously.

And I actually still enjoy cooking....well, here I should specify WITHOUT at least one kid clinging to my pant leg, moaning wistfully, and another rummaging through the utensil drawer for a cheese grater to drag over his brother's forehead like a monkey with a paintbrush. Somehow (and stop me if this sounds crazy), all this action underfoot makes it a little difficult to swing several gallons of boiling hot pasta water from the stove over to the sink. It certainly makes it all the more dreadful an experience as far as creating something, as opposed to throwing together as much of the food pyramid as you can, topped, of course, with ketchup. And yes, it counts as a vegetable. Maybe a fruit, too, if you consider that whole "tomato" argument. (Which is so silly. Any well-informed food critic who's had a Bloody Mary will tell you, with the utmost certainty, that they don't give a rat's ass one way or another. Generally this happens after consumption of said beverage, sized large.)

At the risk of earning a rep as Sloth Mom of the Year (or just simply sounding bitter), I would like to admit that I do indeed take shortcuts preparing my kids' food sometimes. I give them chicken nuggets with lunch. They get chocolate Teddy Grahams for a snack, on occasion. And holy hell, if I could count the times my one year-old has vacuumed stray Cheerios off the floor with his mouth...

But come on, people. All of you who are responsible for feeding your darling rugrats. All of you who, like myself, actually do go out of their way to include a good spread of healthy stuff, and who absolutely do care about their kid's health. All of you who have to prioritize what time they have during the day, sometimes at the expense of the "little things." And especially those of you who've faced the onslaught of the Munchie Police, who cause you to question whether you're being a good enough parent judged solely on the quality of your kid's snacks. You, above all, should copy and print the following paragraph to thrust at the vegan clown that gives you the stink eye next time you're at Chick Fil 'A at the mall:

So right now I am sitting at the computer typing away. It is 8:45 A.M. I have been up for three hours, plus or minus those several baby awakenings last night for A) nightmares, B) new teeth breaking through, C) bink recovery squad, D) hunger, or E) husband snoring, mouth agape a la Elephant Man. At this point I am resisting the temptation to grab a couple toothpicks from the kitchen and prop open my eyelids like flaps on a camping tent (or maybe just stab my eyes out completely to save for later practical jokes and cheap parlor tricks). Yes, folks, it's the starting gun at the Babies Who Get Up Way Too *&#@ Early Marathon! I am a superstar competitor, after about four cups of coffee.

Okay, yes, this comes with having children. I get it. I hereby state that now I KNOW, before someone who shall remain nameless decides to call and remind me that millions of people have had babies and I should have known this before I decided to get knocked up so I should shut my cakehole and do I remember what we had to do when you were young and your father was working three jobs.......*cough*. Ahem. The point is, yes, I realize now what kind of sleep you get with small kids (none), and believe me, I wouldn't trade my sweet, grubby-handed boys for anything. In fact, right now is not even as bad as when they were newborns. Despite how tiny and pink and harmless they looked, I have never come so close to setting my hair on fire and locking myself in the linen closet to cry on the dust ruffles. At least then I could have been admitted to the sanitarium with the rest of the dips and I wouldn't have to worry about what to make for dinner.

All this, as you can imagine, has led to some serious caffeine binging and only because I truly want to enjoy the time I have with the little darlings before they grow up and learn the applicable uses of profanity. It might be getting to the point where I will start mainlining the stuff and my husband will find me hiding in the bathroom, sweating and trying to hide the track marks. In fact, my doctor asked me the other day, during a physical, if I thought I drank too much coffee. After I stopped laughing, I answered "well....gee I don't know. I don't think so." Of course this was after his, uh, "internal" exam wherein I made some crude comment about him owing me "dinner and a movie after that glove comes off." Seeing as how this was the military care facility that the President himself attends, I think my credibility was a little shot after that so he probably didn't believe me anyway.

I have to imagine there are better ways to energize yourself than loading your bloodstream with caffeine. I know someone who has for years gotten up at some God-awful hour (maybe 3 A.M.) to run, every morning, more miles than I may have logged during my entire four years of high school in the wretched purgatory of Phys. Ed. Of course he's in astounding shape but there's no way I would be able to pull off that routine without ingesting something with a way higher street value (although a raspberry-mocha cocaine latte would be a HUGE hit at Starbucks. Perhaps a soy Methaccino? Note to self: formulate proposal).

As I have been told by those older and wiser, there will come a time when the children grow up and learn to fend for themselves, when we will be able to reclaim our former lives and savor that feeling of watching what responsible adults they have become. Just kidding...actually I don't remember exactly what was said...something about a driver's license and ulcers...or maybe the police and juvy hall. Hmm. It will come to me soon. In the meantime, I will plan to make another pot of coffee, enjoy the time I have with my little guys, and await that juicy check from Starbucks.

It occurred to me the other day that despite my wonderful marriage to a responsible, committed husband (who has been pre-beaten and molded by a military academy, for my convenience), I might be in imminent danger of losing him to a "girlfriend" on the side. And not some bar skank with a grown-out perm and numerous STDs that I could easily take in a fight with my Jersey heels and some large friends. Oh no...this one poses a real threat. She lives in my house, for Chrissakes. And I hate to admit it...but she's a pretty piece of you-know-what.

I speak, of course, of the 1971 Dodge Dart that's lying in the garage in pieces, like an autopsy. This is the second of what will no doubt be many cars into which my husband will pour his efforts. He's one of those muscle car junkies whose idea of heaven is a big stinky garage and a project car. Call me neurotic, but somehow I find it hard to muster excitement over the rusted metal parts and flat tires that take up the garage. Both sides. Every. Square. Inch. Of my parking spot. Note below (despite how pretty and shiny the engine looks) the complete lack of space to walk anywhere:

Not only does this whole project force me to cross the street in front of our house with two small kids to get to the visitor lot that holds my car, but it steals my husband away for hours at a time. He returns eventually, glowing with excitement and reeking of whatever it was he had been playing around with. The handyman's version of lipstick on the collar. And then there's me, watching House Hunters by myself with a glass of Pinot (and by the way, this is no fun whatsoever if there's nobody there to commiserate on how irritating it is that the women always make boneheaded complaints about paint color. How hard is it to pick up an effing roller? Seriously).

It's right around then that my personal Mope-a-palooza begins. I'm not a jealous person by any means, and I abhor needless drama in our house, but this personal hobby has started to morph and take on a life of its own, sucking time (and more importantly, money) out of our little "nest." My mother-in-law tells me similar stories about my husband's father and his golf addiction (insert witty comment here about "apples" and "falling from trees"). Thankfully I am able to glean from her many years of experience, and she is tremendously helpful despite the fact that I am complaining about her son.

Without even picking up my old college psych textbooks, I can tell you that if honesty prevailed, I would admit that a lot of this stems from the fact that right now I can't think of any passion that makes me twinkle the way he does when he works on his cars. Or at least not within the constraints we have to work with. Anybody with kids and a budget can tell you that. Given buckets of money and an au pair, I would be in a cooking class in Tuscany right now. But I'm NOT. I'm HERE, writing because my kids are both sleeping and this is free.

If you are anything like me, you have been justifying your weekly wine consumption by touting some fuzzy facts about antioxidants and heart health, or the ever-popular "at least it's not a vodka tonic." Well, my friend, your energies have not been wasted (although you may have to adjust your version of "moderate intake" down from "an entire bottle"). Yes, I was disappointed too!

Columnist Debra Gordon of Health Magazine explains, the benefits are many. The blood vessels strengthened by a couple of glasses of Pinot improve your heart function, as we knew, and also memory and cognitive function well into your golden years. Turns out my 95 year-old neighbor with the recycling bin full of bottles is onto something. Wine will also encourage your body to burn calories long after you've finished your glass, PLUS guard against H. pylori and salmonella infections of the gut, which may explain how I managed to stay alive after eating some form of undisclosed meat product for a week in Jamaica during Spring Break. Even more astounding, Australian researchers found that one glass of wine a day reduced the risk of ovarian cancer by as much as 50%, a finding supported by a University of Michigan study where ovarian cancer cells were actually killed off by a red wine compound. This sweet nectar (red, white or "other") is also responsible for preventing the very bone loss us girls have been warned against for years, and lessening the likelihood of developing Type-2 diabetes, according to Gordon.

Yes, I will admit: Mother was right: everything in moderation. These findings are valid for a couple glasses a day, max. But hey, sip slowly and repeat after me: A glass a day keeps the coronary specialist away. To hell with apples....