Presidential Parenting

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, November 2008.

Since the birth of our nation, American parents have dreamed of a better, more auspicious future for their children and in a patchwork country of immigrants the ultimate patriotic symbol of success has always been the same: “You can be anything when you grow up.  Even President of the United States!”

But does this offer come with a responsibility to make that dream possible?  Obviously wanting it, believing it, is not enough.  In order for your child to have a real shot at Commander-in-Chief, there must be some presidential parenting happening in your house.  Or you may be your child’s biggest obstacle in the road to the White House.

I think we can agree that Barack Obama’s mother didn’t have her eye on the Presidential Seal when she signed him up for Muslim daycare in Jakarta.  I mean, did she even check to see if they were accredited?

On top of peanut butter, DEET, and child snatchers I now find myself concerned about The Boy’s political future.  Should I be starting a grassroots campaign now? (Note to self: ask daycare when The Boy becomes eligible to run for student government.  Also, check syllabus for extreme radicalism of any sort.)
As we ramp up to the election I’ve taken a step back and asked myself if I’m raising The Boy to exhibit behavior becoming to a President.  Considering that The Husband and I have money riding on which unprintable word will punctuate The Boy’s first sentence, that I get my news from The Daily Show, and approach violent hostility when anyone mistakes The Boy for a girl, I would have to say no.  Not so much.

Whether you believe parental influence comes from nature or nurture, The Boy’s crazy mother is not an asset.  Guy Raised by Crazy Mother = Loose Cannon with access to The Button.

The Boy hasn’t even dusted off Youth and Government yet, and my life choices are already endangering his political trajectory.  Should The Boy decide to run for office he’ll have to chain me in the attic like Mr. Rochester’s crazy wife; assign handlers to feed and bathe me, and ensure I never see the news, because if my maternal fury were incited I’d go all nutty like Dumbo’s mom and my handler’s ropes and cages would be futile as I sought to avenge his honor.  Down would go the Big Top.

Over the past year we’ve flipped through the papers, perused the inflammatory emails, and surfed through news reports and invasive exposes:

“She’s an arms-selling hermaphrodite with a secret clubfoot, a meth lab and communist sympathies!”

“He’s a kitten-torturing cannibal with a hunger for world domination and he drives an SUV!”

“He voted in favor of mandatory sex licenses and uterine registration for all Americans intending to breed!”

“If elected President, her first order of business will be to sell Ohio to the Scientologists and coronate TomKat King and Queen!”

As I sift through all the freshly raked muck, the single thought that eats at my heart and twists my intestines is this: What if that were The Boy.  What if, one day, in his big, bright future, he gets the honor of being vetted by the same septic social system?

All this digging into his flaws and foibles and felonies, for an arduous, thankless job that will make at least 45 percent of America hate him.  And from an admittedly selfish perspective, I don’t want to sit by and watch people tear apart my baby, or hear unsolicited feedback on how I could’ve been a better presidential parent.

I still wish great things for The Boy and will strive to infuse him with the same sense of optimistic, stick-to-it-ive-ness and confidence that has transformed the meek and humble into millionaires and humanitarians.

Just the other night The Boy and I had our first important talk about career goals.  Over a jar of sweet potato chicken, I extolled to him the merits of being an elected official, and the importance of serving our brothers and sisters in humanity.  I did close with a hard sell on the emotional, mental and, possibly even physical, damage that can be done to the presidentially afflicted.  As I wiped away the orange mush smeared across his cheek, I cupped his sweet face in my hands I told him, “You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up.  Anything.  Except President.”

Best Take-Out Ever

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, October 2008.

I’d seen them on the playground before, trawling for unhappy babysitters in hopes of luring them away from their current employers; Moms on the Make.  I had always told myself that, if The Boy’s sitter ever left us, I would never become one of those circling maternal sharks.

My proclamation was tested right around The Boy’s half-birthday, when our sitter informed me she was moving to Rehoboth.  I contemplated picking up stakes and following her.  The Husband said, no.

While I managed to steer clear of the branded herd of nannies in the Marion Park playground paddock, I found myself cruising the Hill for single women with their days free, like some sort of salivating letch.  If I happened upon a specimen of this rare breed, and she returned my desperate smile or shot The Boy a flirty wave, my invasive interrogation would begin:

“I see you’re good with dogs.  How do you feel about kids?”

“Are you often at the park alone on weekdays, say, from ten to four?  What if I told you that you could get paid to do that?”

“Just out of prison, you say?  Tell your parole officer to call me.”

After receiving a serious talking-to from The Husband, I backed off.  But, of course, my busy mama-brain continued to work on the case.  Then, one fine evening in March, The Husband, The Boy and I schlepped up to our favorite restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue and were pleased when our favorite waitress (who we liked to call, “Our Waitress”) appeared at our table, all smiles and loveliness.

As a family we had a definitive crush on Our Waitress; she managed to flirt with each of us in a personal manner without disenfranchising anyone or demonstrating any kind of favoritism.  We asked her for an update on the activities of her life and she informed us she was planning on returning to school in the fall and was saving every penny she could.

We were halfway home from the restaurant when it occurred to me: “What about Our Waitress?” I asked my husband.  It was as if I had suggested we leave The Boy on the Metro all day in his car seat, or drop him off at Dog-Ma with The Hound.  “You can’t do that,” he sputtered, “You can’t just ask someone to watch The Boy out of the blue.”

“Why not?” I wanted to know.  At worst, she’s flattered that I’d leave The Boy with her, but turns me down.  At best, she’s flattered and says, “Yes!”  And then, The Boy has a sitter until September.

I decided we must have her.

When I arrived at her place of work, she wasn’t there, but her boyfriend (also a server there) was at the bar.  I sidled over and slipped him my digits.  “The Husband and I have a proposition for Our Waitress.  Tell her to give me a call,” I whispered.

It wasn’t until I arrived home that I realized I probably should’ve specified that it was a business proposition and not a sad married couple’s attempt to spice up their post-baby life with a little hot three-way action.

Despite my enigmatic approach, he passed on the number.  And thank god he did because she said, “Yes!”

Our childcare affair was a heavenly six months.  It was light, lovely and low-maintenance.  She showed up on time, always arrived in a lovely mood and adored her time with The Boy.   It was an affair to remember.

So, here we are in September.  The Boy has started daycare and Our Waitress has gone back to school.  I miss her.  Our Waitress was my link to the outside world of DC hipness, she supplied me with gossip, shared the occasional secret cigarette with me during naptime and after a craptstic day, when The Boy was in bed and The Husband had relocated to Sports Center, I’d pop into the restaurant for a chat and a glass of wine to clear my jumbled head before the start of another unpredictable day.

For The Boy, it was an exciting tryst.  There will be other magical women in his life.  But for me, I think it was love.  Okay, maybe not love, but the roots of a genuine friendship.

Our Waitress and I have a coffee date later this week.  It’ll be our first rendezvous without a money exchange or a diaper change.  No matter where our relationship goes from here, I’ll always remember her as the best take-out I ever ordered.

The Momfia

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, September 2008.

On the day of The Boy’s birth, right behind the placenta came a lifelong dues-free membership to the world’s oldest sorority: The Motherhood. This intimidated me, because the only sororities I had ever heard about came with horror stories of seniors lining up pledges in their underwear and circling their fat parts with sharpie pens. Or marching them out on the quad to sing “I Touch Myself” with tightie-whities on their heads.

Pleasantly, I found that the Capitol Hill chapter of The Sorority of Motherhood is a loving, generous and insightful collection of moms who have saved me, my sanity and my family, a little bit every day since I was inducted. They’ve saved me by holding The Boy when The Hound refuses to come to me when it’s time to leave Marion Park. They’ve saved me with loans of vacation gear when we traveled with The Boy for the first time. The Sisters have made us meals-on-wheels, given my rapidly expanding son hand-me-downs sized for babies twice his age, and whenever I have a question they somehow can’t answer, they can put me in touch with a specialist. Some of the Sisters I have only talked to on the phone, or through email. Some I have never met. But they help me anyway because they are mothers and I am a mother and we are in it together.

But just as I was getting comfortable with my motherness and feeling like I really had the choreography down, I began to notice something amiss. After one stolen babysitter (“It’s a competitive marketplace”), a couple instances of known exposure to contagious diseases at birthday parties (“They’re all going to get chicken pox eventually”), and a ton of passive-aggressive evilness (“Don’t you think your husband would like it if you put in some effort?”) I realized not all moms are Sisters. In fact, there seems to be quite a mélange of mean mommies right here in our Hilly midst. I realized that I had stumbled onto a great anthropological revelation. There was a division in The Motherhood! A rogue splinter group had broken away from the peaceful sorority of mothers to form the Momfia.

The Momfia is a large and intoxicating organization. Its members throw good parties. Better than yours. They wear chic clothes. Nicer than yours. They drive a better car, push a better stroller and lead you to believe they shag their husband regularly. They are always smiling. Their kids are taking immersion Spanish and modeling on the side. A Momfia Mom thinks she is better than you, and wants you to agree.

Sisters want you to know that they are exactly like you in so many ways, especially in the ways you can feel buried and overwhelmed and in desperate need of a pedicure. They feel you. They’re there for you. And it’s that sisterly sameness that the pulls us close to one another, that causes us to cook for one another, hold each other’s children and pour the wine of friendship into your glass when your cup is empty and your hands are unsteady.

This kind of community division is not unprecedented. During her studies in Africa in the seventies Jane Goodall noticed a peculiar shift in the community of Gombe chimpanzees she was observing. Hostility began to grow among the chimps, and Jane was astounded when they split into two separate social groups.  A violent war broke out.

“Now, why would a harmonious group of primates, so adept at communal living, turn on one another?” Jane must have wondered. Here on the Hill, the potential explanations are myriad. Furberizers vs. family bed. Northeast vs. Southeast. Ergo vs. Bjorn. Cloth vs. disposable. Sugar-high vs. sugar-buh-bye. I won’t even get into the fact that this is an election year.

Ultimately, I can’t pretend I have the answers, because unlike Jane, I don’t have the luxury of a tiny private tent outside the perimeter from which I can observe the mom melee with a sterile curiosity. Also, unlike Jane, I look horrible in khaki shorts and I don’t have a PhD. I am one of the chimps, a member of the fractured tribe. And I have chosen sides. I am a Sister. At least I hope I’m exhibiting sisterly behavior to other moms on The Hill.

Perhaps that’s a question we should ask ourselves: Am I sharing the sisterly love with the Motherhood, or am I muscling them Momfia-style?  We’ve all got plenty to do on our own turf, there’s no reason to swing the club of insecurity at one another.

Momfia thugs, if you’re reading this, play nice with your Sisters.  As powerful as you get, we are much greater in number and there are more of us every day.

Leader of the Pack

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, July 2008.

Before sperm and egg collided in commuter traffic to create The Boy, The Hound was our baby.  I’m not implying we knit him sweaters, or snuck him into movies.  We didn’t set him a place at the table.  However, we did buy him Christmas presents and supply him with the voice he’d use if given the gift of speech:  inquisitive, sullen, and kind of devious.

Despite mockery from our Breeder Friends, we made travel plans according to whether The Hound could be included.  We set his crate up next to the pack ‘n’ plays and emptied out his “baby bag” of toys, blankies and treats.  When it came time to brag, we were as disinterested in their children’s potty training successes as they were in The Hound’s ability to poop on command.

In short, we were Dog People.   During our first adventure at the local dog park after moving to the Hill, I felt like we had died and gone to heaven.  But we were alive.  At a cemetery.  We took up with a woman walking a beautiful golden retriever pup.  When I mentioned my address she smiled with recognition.
“We’re part of a play group that meets right down the street from you.”  I couldn’t believe my luck!  “Really?” I exclaimed, “Can anyone join?” “Sure,” she replied.  “How old is your toddler?”

Suddenly I noticed she was pushing a stroller.  With a baby in it.  Had he been there the whole time?  I was disappointed.  Not in myself, but that her “playgroup” was unfairly human-centric.

After we parted company, it occurred to me she might have thought me a freak.  But, no, she couldn’t have.  She had a dog too.  It’s not like you cease to be a Dog Person just because you have a baby.  Or is it?

One evening, not long after The Boy’s earthly debut, I found The Husband sitting on the couch staring down at The Hound, curled up sleeping on his bed.  “The Hound does nothing to contribute,” he proclaimed.
“Have I missed something?” I asked.   “Has The Boy started a paper route?  Or day-trading?”  “The Boy contributes,” he replied. ” He’s cute.  He’s sweet.  He doesn’t eat entire sticks of butter or think the house is under siege by evil delivery people.”

As The Husband’s patience grew shorter, so did The Hound’s walks.  Pillow talk began to sound eerily like Hitchcock dialogue: “what if The Hound were to have an accident?” The Husband queried.  “Would you be sad?  That was when I absolved The Husband of dog duty.  Lest there be an accident.

It wasn’t until The Hound, The Boy and I began our daily constitutionals that I realized there was a schism on Capitol Hill.  Upon our arrival at Marion Park the Dog People would comment on how heavy The Boy looked and how uncomfortable it must be to carry him in “that baby carrier thingy.”  The Baby People would coo and blow kisses at The Boy but sneer and fuss when The Hound came by.  They would comment on his “high-spiritedness” and how exhausting it must be to have the additional burden of “that dog.”

When I ran into my park acquaintances on the street and I only had one of my charges I would be addressed with opinions disguised as questions.  The Dog People would inquire on the whereabouts of The Hound and comment on how, wherever he was, he must be lonely.  And The Baby People, should they see me without The Boy, would panic: “Where’s The Boy?!”  I love to tell them he’s in the car.  “What,” I say blondely, “I cracked the window.”

As The Husband has vacillated between Dog Person to Baby Person and I’ve struggled to maintain control of my pack, an interesting thing has happened: The Boy and The Hound have formed a brotherhood.  A mutual admiration society based on the exchange of toys and curiosity of “adult people food” and an appreciation for their shared perspective (2 feet above floor level).  The Boy thinks The Hound is a rock star, his tail a miracle.  The Hound adores The Boy’s delicious fragrance of mushy foods, excrement and drool.  Plus, The Boy’s no cheapskate with a Cheerio.

So, as our mixed family takes shape, it turns out The Boy is a Dog Person and The Hound is a Baby Person.  Their relationship is an achievement of their own doing.  In Eden, animals and mankind frolicked together.  And so shall it be in my house.

Dancing With Myself

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, June 2008.

True fact: Mommy Loves Disco.   Daddy?  He can tolerate disco if someone else takes the bullet and dances with me.  But baby?  Well…  To quote Amy Winehouse, “No, no, no.”

But why should he love disco?  He’s a baby.  He likes car keys and putting his foot in his mouth.  And yet, on a recent Saturday afternoon, The Husband and I took The Boy over to the Rock n’ Roll Hotel to party.  Old school.

Wait.  No.  I mean, pre-school.

Baby Loves Disco, for those not on the cutting edge of parenting, is the nightclub scene, sans the night.  And while there are plenty of “singles” in attendance, the vast majority are under four feet tall, and under parental supervision. Lined up on the bar: juice boxes and bowls of veggie booty, but the bar’s still there, and I am happy to report it was open for business!  And that was our first stop upon arriving at the Rock n’ Roll Hotel.

As we bellied up, I felt that old familiar sensation of thumping bass in the center of my chest.  A handsome guy bought me a drink and gave me the eye.  We communicated silently, as if we had been married for years, and moved, in sync, onto the dance floor.  Then, as if I were the star of my own 80s romantic comedy, the opening strains of Come On Eileen–my song, my anthem–began to play.  I gazed upward  into the glittering disco ball and saw, instead of my future, my past. What a bizarre collision of worlds this was turning out to be; a vaguely familiar old world and a constantly mystifying new world.

I looked over at The Husband, wearing his celebratory shiny shirt and the baby Bjorn and I thought… is The Boy sleeping?  Yup.  He had passed out entirely.  During “Come On Eileen.”

“This is not my child,” I told The Husband.

Later, in the bathroom, I appraised myself in the mirror.  I didn’t think I looked much older than I had in my clubbing days.  I still felt young.  A cute girl in a fabulous dress strolled up next to me and slicked on some lip gloss.  “I love your outfit,” I told her.  “Thanks,” she said, after deciding it was okay to talk to a stranger, “my grandma bought it for me at Dawn Price.”

When I returned from the restroom The Boy had drooled a large puddle on The Husband’s chest.  “Why are we here?” I demanded.  He smiled and took a sip of his beer. “Because you said we had to.”

We were there, I realized, because I wanted to combine and experiment with two powerful drugs: the prideful, warm, fuzzy feelings of motherhood and the unfettered confidence of a twenty-something shaking her groove thing.  In so doing, I had created an unrealistic expectation that somehow this boogie down memory lane would be fun for The Boy.  I was trying to share a profound nostalgic experience with someone whose idea of nostalgia is the diaper I just changed him out of.

The opening cords of ACDC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” blasted out of the DJ booth and memories of high school dances washed over me.  Then the DJ started calling out “Simon Says” instructions.  Patting our heads and hopping on one foot we left the building, climbed into our Delorean and headed back to the future.

Lest you think I’ve gotten old and soft, I should tell you I’ve already been back to the Rock n’ Roll Hotel.  At night.  With my lady friends.  And did we dance?  Hells yeah.  I only wish I could’ve brought my twenty-something ass with me.  Man, did that thing LOVE to disco.

Another Fine Mess You’ve Gotten Us Into, Stanley

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, May 2008.

As parents, we naturally want the best for our children.  Each of us thinks our kids are the pinnacles of human existence, and we’ll do anything for them.  I used to sleep until ten, stay up ‘til one and the food I wore on my clothing was mine.  Exclusively.  This all changed when my water broke at eight-thirty one fine Saturday morning and The Boy arrived on the scene.  I’m smart enough to know that these early lifestyle changes are small potatoes in comparison to the grand acts of love I will perform in his honor.  But I recently learned there are lines that, quite frankly, we shouldn’t cross.

I was sitting on the lower mezzanine of the Capitol steps considering my identity, my “to-do” list, and when I might be able throw my maternity underwear away, when the shouts of a Capitol Hill police officer pierced my reverie.

“Take the shot!  Take the shot if necessary!”

A feisty cop sprinted by me, continuing to spit orders into his walkie as he leapt the barricade and raced up the steps.  Above me, a sniper was poised to strike.  A cluster of Capitol Hill’s finest swarmed the interloper who was quickly secured and corralled down the stairs.

All civilian eyes expectantly awaited a peek at this threatening personage.  Only, not so threatening.  It was a rather innocuous-looking blonde woman in her late thirties.  But she was holding something.  A bomb? A vial of Anthrax? A banner inciting revolt?

Nope.  A crayon and paper replication of Flat Stanley.

Stanley is a children’s book character who has risen to international fame as a teaching tool.  Children draw their own Flat Stanleys and mail them to friends and family all over the globe to participate in “where in the world is Flat Stanley?” photo shoots.

It was such a photo op this woman planned to capture.  Finding the public mezzanine uninspiring she had set her sights beyond the barricade.

The Capitol Hill Police wasted no time, vigorously interrogating her as if she were juggling hand grenades and wearing Osama Bin Laden as a hat.

Yes, she noticed the “do not enter” signs. Yes, English was her primary language.  No, she wasn’t stupid.  No, she didn’t have a criminal record.  She was a mom; a mom trying to get an Annie Leibowitz caliber picture for her kid’s school project.  Trying to get the shot, she had almost gotten shot herself.

More cruisers arrived, lights flashing, and I wondered if an actual arrest was in her future.  I thought of her being photographed with Flat Stanley in Capitol Hill prison.  Unique and educational.  Far more impressive than a generic postcard shot of the dome.  However, not to be.  They let her go after sternly informing her she would not be touring the White House.  Ever.

While her actions were misguided, I know many a parent who would jump the barricade.  I don’t mean the literal Capitol Hill barricade.  Any Capitol Hill parent worth their salt could get Stanley behind the podium with Pelosi or riding along with Larry Craig on the Senate subway.  The barricade is different for everyone, but it represents the same thing.  It is The Sacred Line.

I could see myself stupidly hopping over the rules and weaving around guidelines and feigning ignorance as I wandered into the Red Zone to perform some Maternal Miracle for The Boy.

Whether this woman was wrong or right wasn’t what vexed me.  She was wrong, and had she been fallen into a certain aesthetic profile, the sniper may well have taken the shot.  It was her motivation.  The need to say, “yes, I am aware of the barricade, but My Child is special.  This rule clearly wasn’t meant for him.”

If we teach our children that there’s nothing we won’t do for them; nothing they can’t have; no rule to which they’re not an exception, we’re asking for it.  We’re raising a bunch of spoiled barricade jumpers who will make the selfish little boy in The Giving Tree look like Tiny freakin’ Tim.

Parents, do you want your parental epitaph to read “She died honorably, clutching a paper drawing, trying to get the awesomest photo for her son’s class project?”

Intense moms, let it go.  Do it or die dads, chill-lax.

The barricade exists for your protection.

My Hill Is My Village

Originally published in Hill Rag, April ’08

Within the city of Washington, Capitol Hill is a village.  And that’s a good thing. But in certain rare, uncomfortable occasions anonymity would be a welcome friend.

The other day I popped down to the local drugstore, affectionately referred to in our home as “The Epicenter of Evil,” because every time we set foot inside it’s like being trapped in the retail version of the Hotel California. The stock looks as though it’s been sampled and returned, and the people who work there stare at me in a confused and indignant manner whenever I ask them something crazy like, “can I buy these things?”

But sometimes The Boy has an eye infection, or he’s out of Similac (not that they ever have it) or one absolutely must know what Britney is up to. These visits are necessary.

Thanks to an ongoing battle of “I don’t like condoms” (The Husband) and “I don’t want to be fat and on the pill anymore” (guess who?), I loaded up The Boy and schlepped down to the E of E to purchase a pregnancy test.

Stressed about the concept of Irish twins, I decided not to leave without a fancy new pack of condoms.   Because, I suppose, people shoplift condoms (illegal, yes, but responsible!) they are safely locked in a Lucite case.  A prophylactic for prophylactics. How meta. 

In theory, one can press a simple red button to release one single pack to the sexually active, or optimistic, consumer.  Not unlike birth control itself, the machine is not 100% effective. I pressed and pressed as The Boy began to grouse. Pushing the stroller back and forth to soothe him, I swore at the machine and continued to press.

“Hi, Hill Mom,” I heard behind me. I turned and waved, forgetting the pregnancy test in my hand. It was Scooter’s dad from the dog park. Super. His eyes quickly darted from baby to pee-stick to condoms. I smiled, wanting to say, “There is SO much sex happening at our house!” Instead I said, “Hey, Scooter’s dad.”

Not wanting to prolong this experience, I peeked over the pharmacy counter and discreetly asked for assistance. “What’s that?” The Pharmacist fired back. “The condom machine.  It isn’t working.” He turned to his white-jacketed peer and reported, “It’s the condom machine again.  She says it’s not working.”

“Who needs condoms?” the other one demanded. “She does,” the pharmacist said, pointing at me.  “The one with the baby.” Lord.  Help.  Me.

He came around the counter.  And pushed the button. “Thanks,” I said.  “I’ve tried that.” He informed me, and the entire store, that we needed a manager’s key.

Manager and key arrived and didn’t she have one heck of a time figuring out which ones I wanted.  “Ribbed for her pleasure?” I squirmed, “No, the purple-ish box.” Two nannies skulking in the greeting card section watched me like I was their favorite daytime drama.

“Flavored?” she asked. “No.  Purple-ish with the green stripe.”

“Oh, extra sensitive?”  She may have screamed it.  I nodded.  She handed me the box and I sped The Boy to the front of the store. I set my pregnancy test and condoms down on the counter: my purchases and progeny, a small drama in three acts, climaxing there at the register.

Later that afternoon The Boy and I took The Hound out for a romp. As we joined the afternoon dog park posse I couldn’t help but notice all eyes were on me. “So?” the brazen one with the rolled cigarette and quick wit asked me. “You knocked up?”

For a second I fantasized about being lost in a throng of anonymous Manhattanites. Then I realized that Manhattanites don’t make you lasagnas when you’re sick, or walk your dog when motherhood is kicking your ass. These people were my villagers. My business had become theirs.

“No, I’m not” I replied. “But I am feeling a spell of abstinence coming on.”